She repeated, as far as she could, the particulars of her visit while he, drawing a little away from her, leaned his head on his hand, and so concealed his face in the deep shadow which the fingers made in the moonbeams. She could not read the expression of pain, of disappointment in his eyes; he did not mean she should—she had suffered enough for him without that; but she knew what he was feeling, by the innate sympathy which love and experience give, and she grieved afresh. He was silent for a while, when she ceased speaking, and they sat together that calm summer night, as still and grave as two carved figures, except when the soft night breeze, blowing through the open window, rustled in her dress, or lifted the long brown curl from her neck.
“Oh, Hilary! why did I ever know her?” was at last his exclamation. “Only to make her unhappy! dear, darling Dora!”
“And what will be the end?” whispered Hilary; “what will you do?”
“Hope! hope! hope! love on and love ever, while she remains single. We may not meet, but who knows what patience, perseverance, time, love, constancy, fortune may do! who can foresee what may happen? No, I will never despair, while there is room to hope!”
“Dear Maurice!” was at once her most eloquent and consolatory interjection.
“And, Hilary, if I sacrifice love to duty, if I deny myself now every opportunity of intercourse, every gratification of my affection until I may ask it fairly, honorably, justly, surely I may hope for brighter and better times. Only if Dora did not suffer!”
He fell into a reverie, which he ended by abruptly exclaiming,
“You do not love Charles Huyton, Hilary?”
“No, and never shall. Would you wish it, Maurice?”
“I don’t know; no, I think not, I would rather—”