"Then you hoped wrongly," she said. "You are really _very_ young, Mr
Lorton! I do not mean merely in years, but in knowledge of the world!
You positively wish me to sacrifice all my daughter's prospects, and let
her be bound to a wearisome engagement, on the mere chance of your being
able at some distant period to marry her! Do I understand you aright?
I certainly gave you credit for possessing more good sense, Mr Lorton,
or I should never have admitted you to my house."
"O, Mrs Clyde," I said, "be considerate! Be merciful! Remember, that
_you_ were young once."
"I am considerate," she answered--"still, I must think of my daughter's
welfare, before regarding the foolish wishes of a comparative stranger!"
Throughout the interview, she invariably alluded to Min as "her
daughter," never mentioning her name.
It seemed as if she wished to avoid even the idea of our intimacy, and
to make me understand how great a gulf lay between us.
"But I love her so, Mrs Clyde!" I pleaded again, in one last effort.
"I love her dearly, and she loves me, I know. Do not, oh! do not part
us so cruelly!"
"This is very foolish, Mr Lorton,"--she replied, coldly;--"and there is
not much use, I think, in our prolonging the conversation; for, none of
your arguments would convince me to give my consent to any such hair-
brained scheme. Even if your offer had otherwise my approval, which it
has not, I could not bear the idea of a long engagement for my daughter.
You yourself ought to be more generous than to wish to tie a girl down
to an arrangement which would waste her best years, blight her life;
and, probably, end in her being a sour, disappointed woman--as I have
known hundreds of such cases to end!"
"I do not wish to bind her," I said. "I only want your provisional
consent, Mrs Clyde. I will diligently try to deserve it; and you will
never regret it, you may be assured."
"I cannot give it, Mr Lorton,"--she replied in a decisive way.--"And if
you meet my daughter again, you must promise me that it shall be only as
a friend."
"And, what if I refuse to do so?"--I said defiantly.
"I should leave the neighbourhood," she said promptly.--"And, if you
were so very ungentlemanlike, as still to persecute her with your
attentions, I should soon take measures to put a stop to them."
What could I say or do? She was armed at all points, and I was
powerless!
"Will you let me see your daughter; and, learn from her own lips if she
be of the same opinion as yourself?" I asked.
I was longing to see Min. I wanted to know whether she had been
convinced by her mother's worldly policy, or no.
"It is impossible for me to grant your request," said Mrs Clyde. "My
daughter is not at home. She went down to the country this morning on a
visit to her aunt; and the date of her return depends mainly on your
decision now."
This was the finishing blow.
I succumbed completely before this master-stroke of policy, which my
wary antagonist had not disclosed until the last.
"Oh! Mrs Clyde," I said; "how very hard you are to me!"
"Pardon me, Mr Lorton," she replied, as suave as ever.--"But, you will
think differently by-and-by, and thank me for acting as I have done!
Your foolish fancy for my daughter will soon wear off; and you will live
to laugh at your present folly!"
"Never!" I said, determinedly, with a full heart.
"But you will promise not to speak to my daughter otherwise than as a
friend, when you see her again?" she urged:--not at all eagerly, but,
quite coolly, as she had spoken all along.
I would have preferred her having been angry, to that calm, irritating
impassiveness she displayed. She appeared to be a patent condenser of
all emotion.
"I suppose I must consent to your terms!"--I said,
despairingly.--"Although, Mrs Clyde, I give you fair warning that, when
I am in a position to renew my suit under better auspices, I will not
hold myself bound by this promise."
"Very well, Mr Lorton," she said, "I accept your proviso; but, when you
make your fortune it will be time enough to talk about it! In the
meanwhile, relying upon your solemn word as a gentleman not to renew
your offer to my daughter, or single her out with your attentions--which
might seriously interfere with her future prospects--I shall still be
pleased to welcome you _occasionally_"--with a marked emphasis on the
word--"at my house. What we have spoken about had, now, better be
forgotten by all parties as soon as possible, excepting your promise, of
course, _mind_!" and she bowed me out triumphantly--she victorious, I
thoroughly defeated.
What a sad, sad change had occurred since happy last night!
All my bright hopes were obscured, my ardent longings quenched by
fashionable matter-of-fact; and, Min herself had gone from me, without
one single parting word!
I was born to be unlucky, I think; everything went wrong with me now.
Like the lonely, hopeless hero in Longfellow's translation of Min's
favourite _Coplas de Manrique_, I might well exclaim in my misery--
"Let no one fondly dream again,
That Hope and all her shadowy train
Will not decay;
Fleeting as were the dreams of old,
Remembered like a tale that's told,
They pass away!"
How did I know, too, but, that, ere I saw my darling again, months might
elapse, during which time all thoughts of me might be banished from her
heart?
One proverb tells us that "absence makes the heart grow fonder;"
another, equally entitled to belief, warns anxious lovers that "out of
sight" is to be "out of mind."
Which of the two could I credit?
Besides, even if she were constant and true to me, Mrs Clyde would
certainly never give her consent to our engagement, I was confident--no,
not if we both lived and loved until doomsday!
All these bitter thoughts flashed through my mind in a moment, one after
the other.