Hatchie, the Guardian Slave | Page 9

brother, something troubles you. You cannot deny it. You look so gloomy and sad, and must leave us so suddenly."
"Nay, my sweet sister,--since sister I am permitted to call you,--you must forgive me if I am obstinate just this once."
"I will forgive your obstinacy because you desire it, and not because I am satisfied. Do you know, brother," said she, with a playful smile, "that I suspect you are in love?"
This raillery was intended to have been uttered with a pert archness; but the crimson cheek and tremulous lips entirely defeated the intention.
"Fie, sister! You are jesting now, yourself," replied Henry, with what was intended for a smile, but which, like his assailant's archness, was a signal failure.
Both parties were now in the most unfortunate position imaginable. Neither dared to speak, for fear of disclosing their emotions. Both felt the awkwardness of the silence, and both felt the danger of breaking it. Henry twirled the tassel of the window drapery, and Emily twisted her pocket-handkerchief into every conceivable shape. Henry was the first to gather fortitude enough to venture a remark.
"I must leave you, sister, now that, for the first time, the relation is acknowledged. I assure you, however, that I appreciate the sisterly kindness you have always lavished upon me. And I shall always remember this visit as the happiest period of my life."
"Then I may hope you will often repeat it," replied Emily, sadly.
"However pleasant it would be for me to do so, I fear my duty will be a barrier to my inclination. My future post, you are aware, is Newport."
"And you depart so suddenly, and then seem inclined to make your absence perpetual! But we shall see you where-ever you are. We go to Newport this season, if father's health will permit," returned Emily, with a playful pout.
"I would stay by you,--that is, I would stay at Bellevue forever,--if my duty to your father--I mean to my country--would permit," stammered Henry, much agitated, as he rose to depart.
"I must go and bid farewell to your father," continued he, taking her hand, which he perceived trembled violently, in his own; "and I trust you will remember your absent brother--" kindly, he was about to say, but Emily, attempting to rise, was overpowered by the emotions which she had vainly striven to suppress, and sunk back in a swoon.
Henry summoned assistance, and applied the usual restoratives, but he did not again venture to address her; and, as her pale features exhibited signs of returning consciousness, he hurried from the room.
As the hour of his departure drew near, he bade an affectionate farewell to Colonel Dumont, who was confined to his room by illness. His kind friend used many entreaties for him to prolong his stay, but Henry pleaded his duty, and that the dying request of a brother officer required him to take a journey into Georgia, which would consume some three or four weeks' time. He intended to go to his future station by the way of the Mississippi, and promised that, if any time were left him on his return, he would again visit Bellevue. This, however, he thought was improbable.
Colonel Dumont gave his _protegé_ much good advice, and, as his failing health had infected his usually cheerful spirits, he said that they would probably meet no more in this world. He frankly told him that he should remember him in his will, and wished him ever to regard Emily in the relation of a sister.
This last wish seemed like a positive prohibition of the fond hope he had cherished, of regarding her in a nearer and more tender relation. He congratulated himself on the decision with which he had resisted the temptation to avow his love.
This injunction of Emily's father could be interpreted in two ways,--as a requirement to preserve the present friendly relations, or as a prohibition against his ever making her his wife. The latter method of rendering his meaning seemed to him the most in accordance with their relative positions, and he was compelled to adopt it.
After renewing his thanks to his benefactor, he took his leave with a sad heart, and departed from the mansion which contained his newly-found yet now rejected love.

CHAPTER III.
"Macbeth.--What is 't ye do? Witches.--A deed without a name."
Shakespeare.
In the management of his estates, Colonel Dumont had, for many years, been assisted by an only brother. This brother was directly the opposite of himself in character, in aims, in everything. Even in his childhood this brother had displayed a waywardness of disposition which gave the promise of much evil in his future years. As the seed sown so was the harvest. Parental instruction, counsel and rebuke, were alike unavailing, and he attained the years of manhood morose and unsympathizing in his disposition, avaricious and hard with his