Hatchie, the Guardian Slave | Page 8

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