style="font-size:15px;"> One very hot afternoon, shortly after the ball, Captain Morville walked to Hollywell, accelerating his pace under the influence of anxious reflections.
He could not determine whether Charles had spoken in jest; but in spite of Guy’s extreme youth, he feared there was ground for the suspicion excited by the hint, and was persuaded that such an attachment could produce nothing but unhappiness to his cousin, considering how little confidence could be placed in Guy. He perceived that there was much to inspire affection—attractive qualities, amiable disposition, the talent for music, and now this recently discovered power of versifying, all were in Guy’s favour, besides the ancient name and long ancestry, which conferred a romantic interest, and caused even Philip to look up to him with a feudal feeling as head of the family. There was also the familiar intercourse to increase the danger; and Philip, as he reflected on these things, trembled for Laura, and felt himself her only protector; for his uncle was nobody, Mrs. Edmonstone was infatuated, and Charles would not listen to reason. To make everything worse, he had that morning heard that there was to be a grand inspection of the regiment, and a presentation of colours; Colonel Deane was very anxious; and it was plain that in the interval the officers would be allowed little leisure. The whole affair was to end with a ball, which would lead to a repetition of what had already disturbed him.
Thus meditating, Philip, heated and dusty, walked into the smooth green enclosure of Hollywell. Everything, save the dancing clouds of insect youth which whirled in his face, was drooping in the heat. The house—every door and window opened—seemed gasping for breath; the cows sought refuge in the shade; the pony drooped its head drowsily; the leaves hung wearily; the flowers were faint and thirsty; and Bustle was stretched on the stone steps, mouth open, tongue out, only his tail now and then moving, till he put back his ears and crested his head to greet the arrival. Philip heard the sounds that had caused the motion of the sympathizing tail—the rich tones of Guy’s voice. Stepping over the dog, he entered, and heard more clearly—
‘Two loving hearts may sever,
For sorrow fails them never.’
And then another voice—
‘Who knows not love in sorrow’s night,
He knows not love in light.’
In the drawing-room, cool and comfortable in the green shade of the Venetian blinds of the bay window, stood Laura, leaning on the piano, close to Guy, who sat on the music-stool, looking thoroughly at home in his brown shooting-coat, and loosely-tied handkerchief.
Any one but Philip would have been out of temper, but he shook hands as cordially as usual, and would not even be the first to remark on the heat.
Laura told him he looked hot and tired, and invited him to come out to the others, and cool himself on the lawn. She went for her parasol, Guy ran for her camp stool, and Philip, going to the piano, read what they had been singing. The lines were in Laura’s writing, corrected, here and there, in Guy’s hand.
Two loving hearts may sever,
Yet love shall fail them never.
Love brightest beams in sorrow’s night,
Love is of life the light.
Two loving hearts may sever,
Yet hope shall fail them never.
Hope is a star in sorrow’s night,
Forget-me-not of light.
Two loving hearts may sever,
Yet faith may fail them never.
Trust on through sorrow’s night,
Faith is of love and hope the light.
Two loving hearts may sever,
For sorrow fails them never.
Who knows not love in sorrow’s night,
He knows not love in light.
Philip was by no means pleased. However, it was in anything but a sentimental manner that Guy, looking over him, said, ‘For sever, read, be separated, but “a” wouldn’t rhyme.’
‘I translated it into prose, and Guy made it verse,’ said Laura; ‘I hope you approve of our performance.’
‘It is that thing of Helmine von Chezy, “Beharre”, is it not?’ said Philip, particularly civil, because he was so much annoyed. ‘You have rendered the spirit very well’, but you have sacrificed a good deal to your double rhymes.’
‘Yes; those last lines are not troubled with any equality of feet,’ said Guy; ‘but the repetition is half the beauty. It put me in mind of those lines of Burns—
“Had we never loved so kindly,
Had we never loved so blindly,
Never met and never parted,
We had ne’er been broken hearted;”
but there is a trust in these that is more touching than that despair.’
‘Yes; the despair is ready, to wish the love had never been,’ said Laura. ‘It does not see the star of trust. Why did you use that word “trust” only once, Guy?’
‘I did not want to lose the three—faith, hope, love,—faith keeping the other two alive.’
‘My doubt was whether it was right to have that analogy.’
‘Surely,’ said Guy, eagerly, ‘that analogy must be the best part of earthly love.’
Here Charlotte came to see if Guy and Laura meant to sing all the afternoon; and they went out. They found the others in the arbour, and Charlotte’s histories of its construction, gave Philip little satisfaction. They next proceeded to talk over the ball.
‘Ah!’ said Philip, ‘balls are the fashion just now. What do you say, Amy, [he was more inclined to patronize her than any one else] to the gaieties we are going to provide for you?’
‘You! Are you going to have your new colours? Oh! you are not going to give us a ball?’
‘Well! that is fun!’ cried Guy. ‘What glory Maurice de Courcy must be in!’
‘He is gone to Allonby,’ said Philip, ‘to announce it; saying, he must persuade his father to put off their going to Brighton. Do you think he will succeed?’
‘Hardly,’ said Laura; ‘poor Lady Kilcoran was so knocked up by their ball, that she is the more in want of sea air. Oh, mamma, Eva must come and stay here.’
‘That she must,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone; ‘that will make it easy. She is the only one who will care about the ball.’
Philip was obliged to conceal his vexation, and to answer the many eager questions about the arrangements. He stayed to dinner, and as the others went in-doors to dress, he lingered near Charlotte, assuming, with some difficulty,
