.

XVIII. HOPE'S VIGIL.

HAD Emilia chosen out of life's whole armory of weapons the means of
disarming Hope, she could have found nothing so effectual as nature
had supplied in her unconsciousness. Helplessness conquers. There was a
quality in Emilia which would have always produced something very like
antagonism in Hope, had she not been her sister. Had the ungoverned girl
now been able to utter one word of reproach, had her eyes flashed one
look of defiance, had her hand made one triumphant or angry gesture,
perhaps all Hope's outraged womanhood would have coldly nerved itself
against her. But it was another thing to see those soft eyes closed,
those delicate hands powerless, those pleading lips sealed; to see her
extended in graceful helplessness, while all the concentrated drama of
emotion revolved around her unheeded, as around Cordelia dead. In what
realms was that child's mind seeking comfort; through what thin air of
dreams did that restless heart beat its pinions; in what other sphere
did that untamed nature wander, while shame and sorrow waited for its
awakening in this?

Hope knelt upon the floor, still too much strained and bewildered for
tears or even prayer, a little way from Emilia. Once having laid down
the unconscious form, it seemed for a moment as if she could no more
touch it than she could lay her hand amid flames. A gap of miles, of
centuries, of solar systems, seemed to separate these two young girls,
alone within the same chamber, with the same stern secret to keep, and
so near that the hem of their garments almost touched each other on the
soft carpet. Hope felt a terrible hardness closing over her heart.
What right had this cruel creature, with her fatal witcheries, to come
between two persons who might have been so wholly happy? What sorrow
would be saved, what shame, perhaps, be averted, should those sweet
beguiling eyes never open, and that perfidious voice never deceive any
more? Why tend the life of one who would leave the whole world happier,
purer, freer, if she were dead?

In a tumult of thought, Hope went and sat half-unconsciously by the
window. There was nothing to be seen except the steady beacon of the
light-house and a pale-green glimmer, like an earthly star, from an
anchored vessel. The night wind came softly in, soothing her with a
touch like a mother's, in its grateful coolness. The air seemed full
of half-vibrations, sub-noises, that crowded it as completely as do