“You speak in riddles, Gerald.  If you love this Miss Montgomerie to madness, and are, as you seem to intimate loved by her in return, why not, as I have urged, marry her?”

“Because,” replied the sailor, turning paler than before, and almost gasping for breath, “there is a condition attached to the possession of her hand.”

“And that is?” pursued Henry inquiringly, after another long and painful pause.

“My secret,” and Gerald pointed significantly to his breast.

“True,” returned Henry, slightly coloring; “I had forgotten—­but what condition, Gerald, (and here he spoke as if piqued at the abrupt manner in which his brother had concluded his half confidence), what condition, I ask, may a woman entitled to our respect, as well as to our love, propose, which should be held of more account than that severest of offences against the Divine will—­ self murder—­nay, look not thus surprised, for have you not admitted that you had guiltily attempted to throw away your life—­to commit suicide in short—­rather than comply with an earthly condition?”

“What if in this,” returned Gerald, with a smile of bitterness, “I have preferred the lesser guilt to the greater?”

“I can understand no condition, my brother, a woman worthy of your esteem could impose, which should one moment weigh in the same scale against the inexpiable crime of self destruction.  But, really, all this mystery so startles and confounds me, that I know not what to think—­what inference to draw.”

“Henry,” observed the sailor, with some show of impatience —­“considering your promise not to urge it further, it seems to me you push the matter to an extremity.”

The youth made no reply, but, raising himself from his knees, moved towards the door, which he again unbolted.  He then walked to the window at the further end of the apartment.

Gerald saw that he was deeply pained; and impatient, and angry with himself, he also rose and paced the room with hurried steps.  At length he stopped, and putting one hand upon the shoulder of his brother, who stood gazing vacantly from the window, pointed with the other towards that part of the apartment in which both their parents had breathed their last.

“Henry, my kind, good, Henry,” he said, with a voice faltering with emotion, “do you recollect the morning, when, on our return from school, we found our young holiday joy changed into heart-breaking and mourning by the sight of our dying mother?”

“Remember it, Gerald! aye, even as though it had been yesterday.  Oh, my brother, little did I think at the moment, when, with hands closely clasped together, we sank, overcome with grief, upon our bended knees, to receive that mother’s blessing, a day would ever arrive when the joy or sorrow of the one, should form no portion of the joy or sorrow of the other.”

“It was there,” pursued Gerald, and without noticing the interruption, “that we solemnly pledged ourselves to do the will and bidding of our father in all things.”