198
WYLDER'S H.iJVD
"Poor Dorcas," said Rachel, very softly, fixing her
eyes upon her with a look of inexpressible sadness and
pity.
"Rachel," said Dorcas, "I am a changeable being —
violent, self-willed. My fate may be quite a different one
from that which / suppose or you imagine. I may yet
have to retract my secret."
"Oh! would it were so — would to Heaven it were
so."
"Suppose, Rachel, that I had been deceiving you —
perhaps deceiving myself—time will show."
There was a wild smile on beautiful Dorcas's face as she
said this., which faded soon into the proud serenity that was
its usual character.
"Oh! Dorcas, if your good angel is near, listen to his
warnings."
"We have no good angels, my poor Rachel; what
modern necromancers, conversing with tables, call " mock-
ing spirits," have always usurped their place with us.
"Dorcas, dear," said Rachel, after both had been silent,
for a time, speaking suddenly, and with a look of pale and
keen entreaty — "Beware of Stanley — oh! beware.
I think I am beginning to grow afraid of him myself."
Dorcas was not given to sighing — but she sighed —
gazing sadly across the wide, bleak moor, with her proud,
apathetic look, which seemed passively to defy futurity —
and then, for awhile, they were silent.
Each understood that the conversation on that theme
was ended, and somehow each was relieved.