On his return from Mexico, Henry's first care was to see his devoted friend and guardian, and he accepted his pressing invitation to spend a month at Bellevue.
As an inmate of her father's family, he was, of course, a constant companion of Emily. Her radiant beauty had captivated his heart long ere the month had expired; and he saw, or thought he saw, in the heart of the fair girl, indications of a sympathetic sentiment. In the rashness of his warm blood he had allowed himself to cherish a lively hope that his dawning love was not entirely unrequited. He had seen that his bouquet was more fondly cherished than the offerings of others; that his hand, as she alighted from the carriage, was more gladly received than any other; that his conversation never wearied her; in short, there was in all their intercourse an unmistakable exponent of feelings deeper than those of common friendship.
In the midst of this delighted existence—while yet he revelled in the pleasure of loving and being loved—there came to him, like a dark cloud over a clear sky, the unwelcome thought that it was wrong for him to entangle the affections of his benefactor's daughter. He was a beggar—the object of her father's charity. Her prospects were brilliant and certain, and he felt that he had no right to mar or destroy them. He knew that she would love him none the less for his poverty; but, probably, her father had already anticipated something better than a beggar for his future son-in-law.
Poor Captain Carroll! The modesty of true greatness of soul had left unconsidered the genuine nobility of the man. He thought not of the name he had won on the field of battle—of the honorable wounds he bore as testimonials of his devotion to his country. He was poor, and, in the despondency which his position induced, he attributed to wealth a value which to the truly good it never possesses.
He loved Emily, and his poverty seemed to shut him out from the hallowed field to which his heart fondly sought admission.
Henry Carroll was a high-minded man; he felt that to love the daughter while the father's views were unknown to him would be rank ingratitude; and ingratitude towards so good a man, so kind a benefactor, was repugnant to every principle of his nature. There was but one path open to him. If he could not help loving her, he could strive to prevent the loved one from squandering her affections where pain and sorrow might ensue. They had often met; but he strove to believe, in his unwilling zeal, that their intimacy had not yet resulted in an incurable passion. She had as yet shown nothing that could not have resulted from simple friendship. And yet she had—the warm glow that adorned her cheek when she received his flower, the expressive glance of her soft eye as he assisted her to the carriage, the sweet smile with which she had always greeted him—ah, no, these were not friendship! I He could not believe that his affection was unreturned; it was too precious to remain unacknowledged. The will and the heart would not conform to each other. But his duty seemed plain, and he did not hesitate to obey its call, though it demanded a great sacrifice.
The month to which he had limited his visit at Bellevue expired about the period at which our tale begins. Inclination prompted him to accept the pressing invitation of Colonel Dumont to prolong his stay; but, bitter as was the thought of parting from her he loved, his nice sense of honor compelled him to be firm in his purpose.
The announcement of his intended departure to Emily, as they were seated in the drawing-room on the designated day, afforded him another evidence that her heart was not untouched. Her pale cheek grew paler, and the playful smile was instantly dismissed.
"So soon?" said she, scarcely able to conceal the tremulous emotion which agitated her.
"So soon! I have finished the month allotted to me," replied Henry Carroll, with a weak effort to appear gayer than he felt.
"Allotted to you! And pray are you stinted in the length of your visit?"
"My orders will not permit a longer stay, happy as I should be to remain; and I have already trespassed long on your hospitality."
"Indeed, Henry, you have grown sensitive! You were not wont to consider your visits a trespass. Pray, have you not been regarded as one of the family?"
"True, I have. I can never repay the debt of gratitude for the many kindnesses I have received at your good father's hands."
"He has been a thousand times repaid by the honorable life you have led—by feeling that the talents he has encouraged you to foster are now blessing the world," replied Emily, warmly; "so no more of your gratitude, if you please."
"However lightly you, or your father, may regard my obligations to him, I cannot view them coldly."
"Well, then, your presence here will give him more pleasure than any other token of respect you can bestow; and, I am sure, I should be rejoiced—that is to say—that is—I should be glad to have you stay longer, if you can be contented," stammered Emily, as her mantling blushes betrayed her confusion. Deception was not in her nature, and, strive as hard as she might, she must reveal her feelings.
"I should be happier than it is possible for me to express in remaining at Bellevue. My month has passed away like a dream of pleasure—so short it seemed that time had staid his wheels—so joyous that earth seemed shorn of sorrow. You know not how much I have enjoyed the society of your father, and, pardon me, of yourself," returned Henry, scarcely less confused than Emily.
"I am glad to hear you say so," she replied, with some hesitation, and fearful of exposing the sentiment she was conscious of cherishing. "I have thought that, accustomed as you are to the stirring life of the camp, you had grown tired of our quiet home."
"You wrong me, Emily, I should never weary here; but I was fearful that I had already staid too long," said Henry, in a sad tone, for he felt it most deeply, though not in the sense that Emily understood him.
"Too long! Then you are weary of us, and I will not chide you forbidding us adieu," said Emily, with a glance of anxiety at Henry.
"Nay, Miss Dumont, do not misinterpret my words. I am not weary, I cannot be weary, of Bellevue and its fair and good inmates."
"Then what mean you by saying you have staid too long?"
"Pardon me, I cannot tell why I said it; but I feel that I should do wrong to prolong my stay, however congenial to my feelings to do so," replied Henry, with the most evident embarrassment.
"How strange you talk, Henry! What mystery is this?" said Emily, to whom prudential motives were unknown.
"If it be a mystery, pray do not press me to unravel it, for I cannot."
His resolution was fast giving way before the strength of his love. He was sorely tempted to throw himself at her feet and pour forth the acknowledgment of his affection, which, he felt, would be kindly received. It was a difficult position for a man of sensitive feelings to be placed in, and he felt it keenly. But the duty he owed to his benefactor seemed imperative.
Emily, on her part, was sadly bewildered by the strangeness of Henry's words; but she had no suspicion of the truth. If she had, perhaps, with a woman's ingenuity, she had devised some plan to extricate him from the dilemma. She was conscious of the strong interest she felt in the man before her; but the fact that she loved him was yet unrecognized. How should it be? She was unskilled in the subtleties even of her own heart. She know not the meaning of love yet. She was conscious of a grateful sensation in her heart; but she had yet to learn that this sensation was that called love in the great world. She began to fear, in her inability to account for Henry's strangeness in any other way, that some secret sorrow weighed heavily upon him.
"I will not press you," said she, in a tone of affectionate sympathy; "but, if you have any sorrow which oppresses you, reveal it to my father, and take counsel against it. My father's house is your home—at least, we have always endeavored to make it so. Father has always regarded you with the affection of a parent, and taught me to consider you as a brother—"
"A brother!" interrupted Henry, feeling that the relation