Hatchie, the Guardian Slave | Page 7

Point, and was about abandoning
his chosen profession, for the want of means, when Colonel Dumont
wrote him an affectionate letter, offering all that he required to
complete his studies. This offer, coming from one who had been a
heavy loser by his father's bankruptcy, was highly appreciated, and the
young student had allowed no false delicacy to prevent his acceptance
of the generous proposal, though with a stipulation to repay all sums,
with interest. Colonel Dumont, in his regular summer tour to the North,
never failed to visit his young friend, whose noble bearing and lofty
principle entirely won his heart, and he charged himself with a father's
duty towards him. A regular correspondence was kept up between the
self-constituted guardian and his _protegé_; and the more the former
read the heart of the young man, the more did he rejoice that he had
befriended him. He read with mingled pride and affection the repeated
instances of his daring courage and matchless skill which found their
way into the newspapers; while the record of his humanity to a fallen
foe contributed to swell the tide of the old gentleman's affection.
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