“But, Dora, is it possible that with such sentiments, such feelings, you can be really going to marry? oh, think before you take an irrevocable step; before you deceive yourself and him, too far!”
“I am not deceiving him, Hilary; he knows what he is about; come, I will tell you all, only listen.”
She threw herself on the ground at her friend’s feet, her favorite attitude, and poured out her story.
“We parted coldly, I was offended, vain, foolish thing! I misunderstood the very devotion of his heart; then came Charles Huyton, tempting me with wily words. I knew he did
not love me. I knew it was you he worshiped; I saw through his motive, and trusting that he would himself weary of so unsuitable a union, I said yes! I was mad—provoked; but I did not mean it, I thought I should have escaped. But I knew not his resolution in evil; his stern purpose, his dark determination; day after day have the toils closed round me; the net in which I wound myself has entangled me more. I can not shake myself free; he will marry me; and I can not, dare not, say no. Oh, Hilary! do you know his dark expression, did you ever see how his eyes can glow and sparkle with gloomy fire? Once I did not dislike him; now I dread him beyond measure, and compared with Maurice! don’t tell him how miserable I am, it would make him sad; at least, not till it is over! when I am dead, then, then, tell him that my heart was broken. Ah, Hilary!”
“Dear Dora! what can I say to you? do not go on with this; not for Maurice, not for his sake, but for your own. For your conscience, your honor, your virtue, do not risk all by such a fatal step. Think, pray—pray for strength, for light, for guidance, and stop before it is too late.”
“Pray! what, when about to do what is so wrong?” murmured Dora; “would such prayers be heard?”
“Yes; prayer to do better, to have grace to repent! prayer is always heard.”
“Nay, then, I will pray for death! that would be the greatest boon to me.”
“Dora, if you had stood as I so recently did by a death-bed, if you had witnessed how solemn a thing it is to prepare to render up the soul, how the weakness of the body prostrates the powers of the mind, and how even the humblest, truest faith, does not exclude bitter penitence for failings long past and errors known besides only to the Great Creator, you would not, you could not, wish to rush unprepared to such a solemn work as dying. Think, Dora, if after such a life as my father’s, there was so much regret for misspent moments, such humble acknowledgment of unfulfilled duties, think what it would be to face our end, because we are too weak to suffer for the