In his dire extremity, Hal called upon Flora, and unfolded the conflict going on within his heart to her view. He asked her for counsel and for argument to combat the incentives tugging at his heart-strings, urging him to do with her free consent what Colonel Mires had sought to do without it.
She could only weep and tremble; and alas!—for she, too, could not bear to think that they must part for ever—leave in his hands the momentous decision.
His honour was, however, of stubborn material; it continued its exertion in spite of the formidable antagonists it had to contend with, and there stepped to its aid at an opportune moment the remembrance of the wound inflicted on old Wilton by Chewkle.
Hal at once broke to Flora the event of the morning.
It saved them both.
They continued their journey to Harleydale, scarce a word passing between them.
When at the Hall they met Mark, Flora flung herself upon her brother’s neck, and sobbed—from more causes than one.
“Be not alarmed, Flo’, dear,” whispered Mark; “the surgeon says there is no danger. He only wants good nursing; you will do all that, I know.”
Flora almost sank to the earth.
“If I had left him!” she thought, and, only waving her hand to Hal, tottered to her father’s room.