The light lay softly on the pale and kindled features of Harrington, and the fragrance of the garden floated through his brain like incense.
“It was a manly way to leave the world,” he said. “Life is sweet to me with the memory of such a father.”
“You think of him often, John,” murmured the Captain.
“Often, Eldad, often. Never as one dead. Always as one alive and well.”
The Captain moved his head up and down, two or three times, in token of assent, and moved away to the door.
“Well, good bye, John,” he said, suddenly.
“Good bye, Eldad,” returned the young man, rising and following him to the door.
The Captain departed, and Harrington, closing the door after him, folded his arms, and began to pace to and fro in deep musing. The sweet and solemn feeling which the anniversary of his father’s death brought him, gradually melted away in feelings of sadness and pain, as the torturing thought came into his mind, that in his free and frank friendship for Emily he might have won her to love him. The more he reflected upon it, the more terrible grew the confirmations. His conviction of a fortnight before, that she and Wentworth were lovers—how could he have been so deceived!
The spell of the magic moment that had filled his soul with morning, was disenchanted now, and darkness gathered upon him. Darkness that was not without light, for he again believed that Wentworth and Muriel loved each other, and he felt a sorrowful and generous gladness in their happiness. His heart yearned to Wentworth—yearned to make him rejoice with the assurance that he was not his rival—yearned to them both in love and blessing.