She only answered with tears, and continued to repeat, as if mechanically, "I dare not; no, no, I cannot." Morton was silent a few moments, when a sudden ray of hope enlivened his gloomy reverie.
"Hear me, dearest; there is one, and only one, chance left yet. If your uncle urges you to marry, entreat him for one year's delay. Before that time expires, I trust to be here again. Vessels are constantly fitting out from the United States to this part of the world—if such a thing can be effected by mere human agency, I will be on board one of them, if not, I both can and will purchase and fit out a vessel myself. Promise me then, my love, that you will use all possible means to defer any matrimonial schemes your uncle may form for at least two years. But I trust, if my life and health are spared, that, before half that time has expired, I shall be here, to claim your first promise."
"I will, I will, dear Charles; I will not deceive you. I know my uncle loves me, and will grant me that delay. And now we must part; I shall be missed, and I dare not stay a moment longer. For heaven's sake, keep out of sight of—you can guess who I mean."
A parting scene between two lovers had always better be left to the imagination of the readers; because the author, unless he is gifted with the power of a Scott, a James, an Edgeworth, or a Sedgwick, is sure to disappoint the reader, and himself besides. My reader must therefore draw the picture, and color it, to his or her own peculiar taste, and fancy an interchange of kisses, locks of hair, rings, crooked sixpences, garters, or any thing else that constitutes circulating medium or stock in Love's exchange market.
The Orion had dropped out to the roads, and, with her anchor a short stay-peak, her topsails sheeted home but not hoisted, and her whole crew on deck, waited only for her first officer. Between nine and ten o'clock the sound of approaching oars was heard, but in a moment the practised ears of Captain Hazard and his second officer perceived that the advancing boat pulled very leisurely.
"Poor Charlie is coming off empty-handed," said Coffin.
"Yes, I was afraid the bird had flown, or the enemy was alarmed. I am sorry for it from my very heart, for he will be low spirited all the passage home."
"Well, I aint so sure about that—I've always found salt water a sartain cure for love."
"I dare say you have, Mr. Coffin; but love is like strong grog, it operates differently upon different constitutions and dispositions."
"Well, I s'pose that's pretty nigh the case. A good, stiff glass of grog, in a cold, rainy night, makes me feel as bright as a new dollar for a while, but then it soon passes off."