CHAPTER VI.

Miss Dodan came more and more frequently to see me.  The thought of my physical depression, the revulsion of hopelessness over my changing lineaments made the love I bore her more painful and enervating.  I tried hard to conceal my fears over my condition.  But Miss Dodan had been observant.  Her developing affections became daily more tender and delicate, and her solicitude evinced itself in many charming, thoughtful ways that added only a more poignant sadness to my sufferings.

I was, indeed, tortured by the conflicting aims life seemed to furnish me.  On the one hand was the necessity of continuing, if I could, my communications with my father; on the other, the duty I owed myself to abandon all for the woman I truly loved, and to renovate and establish my health so that I might woo and win, and marry her.

It was, in a sense, an ethical question, but it was quite as hard to determine by ordinary arguments whether I could have any permission to violate my promise to my father, as it was to estimate the exact measure of my obligations to myself and Miss Dodan.  An incident occurred that dissipated this dilemma, sent Miss Dodan to England, and left me at Christ Church to receive the last message from my father before the sickness had fully developed that now has laid its searching and remorseless veto upon any further life or happiness for me in this world.

Miss Dodan and myself were seated together upon a bench drawn up in the sunshine at the foot of the Observatory, watching with delight the distinct changing sea, the plumes of smoke from diminished steamers, and the white glory of full-rigged ships.  It was the autumn of the southern country, and the dreamy spell of the declining days fell softly upon the material tissues of nature, as well as on the acquiescent spirit of man.

“Father,” said Miss Dodan, uncertainly, while she formed her hand into an improvised tube, and looked through it on the peaceful scene at our feet, “has been telling me of my birthplace in Devonshire.  It must be very beautiful, more beautiful than it is here.  But there is no sea, and it seems to me now that I should die without it; it is the very soul and voice, too, of all this picture!” She spread out her arms, and half willfully threw back the one nearest me, until it swept over my head, and I caught and kissed the opened palm.

“Yes,” I replied, “the sea relieves everything about or near it, from the humiliation of commonness.  The stamp of distinction rests on its printless waves.  It was the first surface of the earth, and its primal regency has never been lost or forfeited;” a suspicion crossed my mind:  “How was it your father spoke of Devonshire.  I never knew before that you came from that pearl of the countries of England.  Would you like to see it?”