Rosalind lacks, then, the love
That teaches thee that thou and I am one:
Shall we he sunder’d? Shall we part, sweet girl?
No; let my father seek another heir.
Therefore devise with me how we may fly,
Whither to go, and what to bear with us:
For by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,
Say what thou canst, I’ll go along with thee.
--Shakspere.
Mark Wilton, during his last interviews with Lotte Clinton, and in the
intervals that occurred between them, passed through a severe trial of
his love. All the unfavourable points in the circumstances revolving
round Lotte served, instead of cooling the ardent flame kindled in
his breast, to make it burn more fiercely. They were so many small
impediments which, apparently calculated to stop the progress of his
passion, actually extended its area, and added to its depth.
Mark determined after the last interview with her to marry her.
He made his way down to Harleydale, absorbed in the purpose of bringing
his father round to his way of thinking. He expected a very angry
opposition, and he left London in a state of preparation for it. He
commenced with a fierce altercation with a cab-driver, quarrelled
with the money-taker at the railway station, and with fiery eyes and
spluttering words informed the guard of the train that he would report
him, because that functionary refused to admit him into a carriage
already filled.
Fortunately the compartment into which he did defiantly thrust himself
had no other passenger, and he was solus all the way to the station
nearest to Harley-dale. He consequently, quite undisturbed, vehemently
argued the case, every inch of the way, with an imaginary obstinate,
obdurate parent, who was most absurdly hostile to his views.
By the time he reached Harleydale he had exhausted the discussion,
triumphantly defeated the arguments of the phantom father, extorted from
him a consent to the union between himself and Lotte, and had got so far
as to hear the village bells ringing a joyous peal.
He was awakened to the reality of the case by ascending to the library
at the Hall, and meeting his father just as he was issuing from it to
place himself unconsciously within the reach and power of Mr. Chewkle.
Mark Wilton’s impetuous nature would brook no delay in bringing the
subject nearest to his heart to an issue. The life he had passed on the
islands of the South Pacific and in other wild regions, amid unlettered,
impulsive men, had communicated to his character much of that hasty
decision and impatience of delay peculiar to those who mix in the
exciting scenes which abound in the warm climes of the tropics. He could
not have endured to pass the day patiently away; dined with an appetite;
discoursed on different topics with his father, and ultimately parted
with him for the night with a formal notice that in the morning he
wished to confer with and consult him upon an important subject
connected with his settlement in life.
No. He had quite made up his mind to marry Lotte Clinton, whether his
father consented or not; and, therefore, the sooner he knew what side
his father ranged himself on--and adhered to--the better.
Mr. Wilton, having just parted with Flora, was most complacent. He, too,
had been indulging in imaginary conversations, and a vision, wherein his
daughter, overpowered by his affectionate conduct and his honeyed words,
gave, at his suggestion, with graceful sweetness, her hand and heart to
the Honorable Lester Vane. As he was mentally bestowing his benediction
upon the kneeling pair, his eyes fell upon his son, Mark.
With a face radiant with smiles, and with a lofty air which suited the
rather windy eloquence in which he indulged, he exclaimed--
“Ah! my dear boy, back from the great metropolis so soon; I am glad
to see you, none the less because you are wearied of its turmoil,
its driving, rushing, selfish careering, its hollowness and its
heartlessness.”
“Nothing of the sort, sir,” said Mark, bluntly and a little eagerly, “I
had an object in coming back; certainly, not one of those sentiments you
have suggested induced me to leave London, of which, if I must speak the
truth, I am infinitely more fond than of the country. But I see you are
going out--anywhere particular?”
“No, Mark,” returned Wilton, with a mild, patronising manner, “merely
for a stroll and the air. I have not stirred abroad for some days, and
pedestrian exercise is necessary for health.”
“Very true, sir; I will accompany you if you will allow me; we can talk
in the broad, free, fresh air as well as beneath the carved roof of
your library!” said Mark, with some little force in his tone, as though
urging a point.
“With all my heart,” said Mr. Wilton.
So together they left Harley dale Hall, and pursued their way to the
woods, where Mr. Chewkle lay hidden.
As they sauntered slowly across the park, the old man replied to some
questions respecting Flora which Mark put to him in so cheery a strain
that the latter augured favourably of his cause. Because he perceived
that a reconciliation had ensued between his sister and his father, and
as he had the strongest faith in Flora’s adhesion to the choice of her
heart, he concluded his father had made the necessary concession, and
that his own path to Lotte’s hand was half-freed from the impediments he
had conjectured he would place in it.
He at once cast about for an opening to broach the delicate subject; but
his father saved him the trouble by plumply introducing it.
Mr. Wilton felt slightly hilarious; brightened hopes of his daughter’s
marriage, assisted by the healthful fresh air playing round his brow,
disposed him to be sprightly.
How perfectly unconscious he was of the bombardment he was about to
receive, or of the animation with which he should return the fire!
He threw the first rocket into Mark’s entrenchment; it was returned
with a live shell, which exploded the instant it reached Wilton’s faery
fabric, and demolished it with one fatal crash.
“Well, Mark,” exclaimed the old man, as they went on, “pray what is the
special, object which has brought you down to Harleydale post-haste from
gay London--something important, of course?”
Mark nodded with an air of one who is impatient to communicate some
weighty affair.
Old Wilton chuckled.
“A wife, Mark, eh?” he said, in a light, jesting tone, simply because it
was the most improbable thing that occurred to him.
“Yes,” said Mark, with emphasis, surprised that his father should come
to the point of their anticipated discussion without being, so far as he
knew, prepared for it.
At first Wilton laughed, for he accepted the answer as one returned in
the same spirit as that in which he put the question.
Then it struck him that there was a remarkable and decided emphasis in
the tone of the affirmative which Mark had uttered. He gave an uneasy
glance at his son’s features. He felt a cold perspiration steal slowly
over him. His heart suddenly leaped, jumped, and ached so painfully that
he stopped. What was coming?
Mark walked on thoughtfully; presently he missed his father from his
side.
“Why do you pause?” he turned round and said; “you are not already
tired--shall we go back?”
Old Wilton waved his hand impatiently--
“I am not tired,” he said, sharply, but rather huskily. “We will go
on--but--a-hem--but, I quite presume that you understand my question to
you, Mark, was put jestingly?”
“Jestingly!” echoed Mark. “Ah! but, father, I am very desirous that you
should understand I replied in serious earnestness.”
“Explain!” exclaimed Mr. Wilton, his visage contracting, and wearing
that hard expression which so chilled Flora’s warm affection for him.
“You remember the old house in Clerkenwell, where we lived in a very
different state of things to this,” said Mark, and paused as he pointed
around him.
“Go on,” responded his father, coldly.
“In that house”--he cleared his throat and raised his voice--“I say in
that house, from whose burning ruins young Vivian saved my sister, your
only daughter---saved, too, the document by which alone you were enabled
to enter on the possession of this property and leap from destitution
into prosperity--correct me if I mistake aught.” He paused again.
Mr. Wilton maintained a grim silence.
Mark proceeded--
“In that house there dwelt a young girl, a tenant of yours--saved also
by Hal from the flames--you remember her, father, do you not?”
Mr. Wilton bowed stiffly.
“Ah! how would it be possible to forget her charming face, having once
seen it?” cried Mark, ardently.
“Proceed!” said Mr. Wilton, in a grating voice, with difficulty
enunciating the word.
“What more need I say, sir?--she is my choice!” returned Mark plumply.
and with a firm decision of manner.
The expression upon his father’s face was not lost upon him. He saw the
opposition brewing, and he gathered his strength to meet the storm.
A kind of spasmodic yell burst from his father’s lips.
“Preposterous!” he cried, vehemently; “frantically, deliriously
preposterous!”
“You are opposed, sir, to my making Lotte Clinton my wife?” exclaimed
Mark, with a falling brow.
“Opposed!” echoed Wilton, with a sardonic grin; “opposed! Don’t talk of
opposition, boy; the thing cannot be entertained for one moment.”
“Upon what grounds?” asked Mark, firmly.
Mr. Wilton waved his hand contemptuously, as though the subject
altogether was beyond discussion. Mark was not so to be put off.
“You found her honest, sir!” exclaimed Mark, as he perceived his father
declined to give his reasons for so strongly objecting to her.
“A beggar!” gasped the old man.
“Chaste!” persisted Mark, “A beggar!” screamed his father. “Industrious,
willing, cheerful!” continued Mark, with stern emphasis and heightened
colour.
“A beggar!” reiterated Wilton, foaming at the mouth.
“Handsome, intelligent, and good!” shouted Mark, elevating his voice to
a pitch which o’er topped his father’s excited tone.
“Had she all the cardinal virtues and the beauty of a seraph, she is
still a low-born beggar, and, therefore, cannot be admitted into my
family, to mingle with its blood, to take her place by my children’s
side as their equal!” cried Wilton, vehemently. “If she is in want, I
will assist her cheerfully, gladly. If she wishes to be settled in life,
choosing some honest young man, her equal, for her life-companion, I
will present her with a dowry. Beyond that limit it is the most insane
folly to expect me to move.”
“Am I to understand, sir, that virtue and truth, industry, purity,
and integrity weigh nothing in the scale when placed against birth and
station?” asked Mark, sternly.
“In such a case as this to which you would apply it, I say certainly
not. The veriest rag-collector may possess all these qualifications,
but, therefore, am I to admit her into my family as my daughter.”
“Yet your objection springs only from a sense of worldly distinctions.”
“A most refined sense, boy.”
“But after death, sir, at the great Judgment Day, what will weigh
against the virtues I have named?--_will birth and station cope with
them then?_”
Mark spoke with startling emphasis, for he wished that his words should
have a strong effect upon his father.
For an instant the old man was staggered, but the next moment the idea
that he was called upon to accept for his son’s bride a poor needlework
girl, banished the sharp impression Mark’s suggestion had made, and he
exclaimed, violently--
“I will not argue the monstrous proposition with you longer. I command
you to speak upon it in my hearing no more.”
“We will settle it now, sir, if you please,” said Mark, in a firm,
determined tone. “I hope you don’t quite overlook the fact, in your sense
of your own grandeur, that my future happiness is involved in the event
we are discussing, or that I am, therefore, entitled to a voice in the
disposal of my own person; and while you are taking upon yourself to
decide who shall not become a member of your family, you do not, I
trust, forget that your decision may help to diminish its number.”
Old Wilton turned a fierce and angry glance upon his son.
“I do not forget that you are my son, and, while I live, dependent upon
me,” he exclaimed, with enraged bitterness. “While such a condition of
your affairs remains unchanged, I will control such suicidal acts as you
meditate. I will compel you to obey me so long as I am master of your
purse-strings.”
“Sir, sir!” cried Mark, with strong emotion, “the lesson of poverty
and wretchedness has been lost upon you. You have passed through the
furnace, yet your old dross clings to you. Listen to me--I am not
dependent upon you; this strong right arm and Heaven’s bounteous
generosity enabled me to wrest from the earth’s bosom a sum which to
men with moderate wishes is an ample fortune. This money I brought to
England to lift you and my sister out of your beggary, if you had needed
its aid. You have not required it, and it yet stands in my name; I will
henceforth use it for myself, leaving you to enjoy what you possess,
but taking care to reap from my own wealth that happiness which you so
selfishly deny me.”
He turned to move away, but the old man called to him, sharply--
“Mark, Mark, what is it you would do?”
Mark, faced round and gazed upon him with steadfast eyes. With
unfaltering voice, he said--
“Make Lotte Clinton my wife.”
“Know you at what cost?” cried the old man, with inflamed eyes and
clenched hands.
“Your favour, and my stipend,” replied Mark, firmly, “I sacrifice the
two, but I regain my independence, and take to my heart the only woman I
shall ever love.”
“You have omitted one thing, one tremendous item,” ejaculated old
Wilton, with heaving chest--“my curse!”
“No,” cried Mark, in a clear firm tone, “that will never leave your
lips. Sir, I have seen in my short life that curses, like birds, come
home to roost. Do not you try the experiment.”
Mark once more turned to quit the spot.
“Mark, boy, wretch!” shrieked his father, “pause--you--you will
not--dare--dare not marry the artful, designing, infamous creature who
had infatuated--cozened you--”
“When you speak of her, use gentler terms, sir,” fiercely interrupted
Mark. “She is entitled to the profoundest respect of the noblest
man alive, and I will suffer no one to breathe a contumelious word
respecting her in my hearing.”
“If you persist, my bitterest curse shall cling to your footsteps, and
drag you down through palsying vice and debasing misery to perdition!”
almost yelled Wilton.
“Pause!” interposed Mark, in a loud tone. “If you _will_ curse me,
wait until you return to your library. There, sir, alone with that
exquisitely truthful representative of my sainted mother, sink upon your
knees, and, with your eyes bent on her soft, loving, tender orbs, call
down your curse upon me--if you have the heart to do it. Farewell, sir!
When we meet again, you shall yourself appoint the interview.”
Once more he quitted him, with a rapid step, and Wilton staggered
almost senseless back against the stem of a tree. The old man gasped for
breath, and wrung his hands.
What! was there no condition in life exempt from disappointed hopes,
from harassing cares? What! did not ample estates and a large income
secure uninterrupted happiness?
In his dreams over his toiling labour, in the poverty-stricken home at
Clerkenwell, memories of the past and anticipations of the future had
built up for him a visionary state of untroubled serenity, should he
ever again resume the position he had lost. With what pride he had,
after his return to Harleydale, believed that it was secured to him.
Where was it now?
How he had gloated over the knowledge that a worm, was eating up the
very heart of Grahame’s happiness. Lo! a canker had commenced to corrode
his own. Was this visitation the retributive wrath of an offended Deity
at his towering pride of position and his selfish paternal despotism?
He felt his temples throb and ache, and his breast burn as he tried to
thrust back the answer which sought to present itself.
He folded his arms, and plunged deeper into the wood.
He dared not face the portrait of his wife hanging in the library. It
seemed to him that a voice would issue from those small lips and demand
of him how he had kept his promise given to her in her dying moments to
do his utmost to secure the happiness of his children.
As he struck into a bye-path a pistol-shot was fired; he uttered a cry
of mortal agony and fell bleeding to the ground.
The next instant a figure emerged from the copse; it proved to be Mr.
Chewkle. He bent over the prostrate form of Wilton.
“Only winged him arter all!” he exclaimed; “thought I’d covered him,
too. Never mind, I’ll do the trick this time. You shall have it through
the head and no mistake, old gel’man.”
He pointed the muzzle of a revolver to the temple of Wilton, but at the
instant his finger pressed the trigger a pair of powerful hands seized
him by the throat and dragged him back. The pistol was discharged, but
the bullet, missing its destination, buried itself in the earth, a foot
from Mr. Wilton’s head.
Chewkle uttered a yell of terror, startled by the suddenness of the
attack upon him. His first impression was that he had been pounced upon
by Nathan Gomer, and that his were the fingers--of solid, burnished
gold, cold as death--which now clutched him by the throat, and his heart
beat violently.
But his antagonist was certainly taller; and then it flashed through
the mind of Mr. Chewkle that he was in the hands of one of Mr. Wilton’s
gamekeepers.
The gallows, in an atmosphere of flame, presented itself before his
eyes.
With a violent, enormous exertion of strength, under the influence of a
sudden and maddening excitement, he flung off his captor and faced him.
It was no gamekeeper--no other than young Mr. Vivian.
Chewkle gave a growl of rage, and, with a fierce oath, fired his pistol
suddenly at his youthful antagonist. The ball grazed Hal’s ear and
caused him to stagger; but before Chewkle could repeat his shot, as
he intended, Hal closed again with him and a deadly struggle once more
commenced.
Twice did Chewkle, in the fearful wrestle between him and Hal, contrive
to fire off the revolver, but without success; and at length Vivian’s
youth, courage and skill prevailed over Chewkle’s powers, wasted by
debauchery and his recent illness. Hal flung him with violence to the
ground; and, kneeling on his chest, twisted, with a sudden wrench, the
pistol out of his hand.
Almost at the same moment the head-gamekeeper and his assistant, with a
couple of dogs, came crashing through the foliage, and took part in the
proceedings. A few hasty words from Hal Vivian, and Chewkle was raised
to his feet, his arms were strongly bound behind him, and he was given
into the custody of the assistant-keeper, a tall, powerful fellow, who,
with a strong grip upon Chewkle’s collar, and some very profane words in
his mouth, dragged him, sullen and half-resisting, to the police-station
in the village.
Hal Vivian and the head-keeper then raised old Wilton, and bore him to
the Hall, still senseless and bleeding from the wound inflicted by the
scoundrel Chewkle.
A medical man was summoned, and quickly made his appearance. He examined
his patient, and relieved the minds of those gathered round him by
informing them that Mr. Wilton’s arm had been broken by a bullet, but
there was no immediate or probably real danger. The old man was placed
in his bed, and the doctor proceeded to dress the wound.
In the meantime Flora Wilton was sent for, searched for, but the
messenger, after half-an-hour’s absence, returned by saying he could not
find her; she had been seen to enter the little glen skirting the park,
but she was not there now.
Mark Wilton, too, had not returned to the Hall. He had been observed to
hurry away towards the railway station, as if on his way back to London.
Young Vivian heard with a grave and anxious face that Flora was nowhere
to be found; and as soon as he saw that old Wilton was in charge of
persons who would pay him every attention and nurse him with care, he
left his name and address in the charge of the housekeeper, proceeded to
the police-station and there made a statement, fixing the crime of the
attempted murder of Mr. Wilton on Chewke. He then hurried to a cottage
in the village, where a paper was given to him by an old woman, and,
having perused it with no little excitement, he ran to the village inn,
where a sound, serviceable and swift horse was ready saddled awaiting
his commands.
He had him brought out, and, after a few words to the landlord, he
sprang into the saddle, and clapping spurs to the animal gallopped away,
as if engaged upon a mission of life and death.
In the meanwhile, Mark Wilton, with a mind much perturbed and intent
on rash proceedings, hastened to the railway station, without again
entering his father’s house, even to see his sister. It happened that
on reaching it, before there was time to reason or for his thoughts to
cool, a train for London drew up at the station; he entered it, and was
borne swiftly from Harleydale, having no knowledge or conception of the
act of Mr. Chewkle, the condition in which it placed his father, or of
what had happened to his sister.
That same evening he presented himself before Lotte Clinton. She was
not a little astonished to see him. He had prepared her for a longer
separation, but one glance at his handsome and expressive face informed
her that something had happened unfavourable to his wishes.
She did not for an instant assume that he had been to Harleydale, but
she rapidly concluded that some event had arisen which had shown him the
disparity of their positions, and he had now come to break off the match
he had so hurriedly and so impetuously desired to form.
A feeling of pain and disappointment gave her a sudden heartache, but
she would not let her emotion become visible, for fear that it might
deepen the gloom already heavy on his brow.
Mark laid down his hat, and silently gazed in Lotte’s inquiring eyes.
Then he said--
“I am soon back, you see, Lotte.”
“Surely you have not been to Harleydale!” she exclaimed.
“Indeed, but I have,” he replied. “I have seen my father, too, and have
fully discussed with him our intended marriage.”
Lotte looked at him with a sad and serious expression.
“He has forbidden it!” she exclaimed, with a countenance which grew
gradually pale in spite of her effort to control her emotion.
“Forbidden it!” echoed Mark, evasively; “he has not the power to forbid
it. I am my own master, Lotte, and am independent of him.”
“Oh! Mark, do not let there be any reserves or concealments between us;
let me know the truth,” she urged; “indeed I am not afraid to hear it,
if you will only speak it.”
“To you, Lotte,”’ responded Mark, “I am desirous of speaking and acting
always only truthfully.”
“I do believe it!” she exclaimed, earnestly.
He took both her hands in his, and pressed them.
“When I do other,” he said, with emphasis, “turn your face from me, and
speak to me never more.”
She returned the pressure of his hands, then she said to him, with
downcast eyes and a slightly lowered tone--
“You have seen your father, Mark, and you have told him how much you
have honoured me in selecting me to be your wife.”
“How much I am honoured by your consent to have me, my sweet Lotte,”
interposed Mark, almost fiercely.
“Yes, Lotte, I told him all. I told him that my heart and happiness were
bound up in you; that if I did not have you, neither wealth nor station
would ever compensate me for your loss; that, in fact, they would
only heighten my anguish and unhappiness, so I had determined to marry
you--having your consent--and there was an end of the matter. So, in
solemn truth and honour, I have; and here I am, Lotte, darling, for you
to name the day.”
“But what said Mr. Wilton in reply?” asked Lotte, looking him
steadfastly in the face.
Mark turned his eyes askance.
“What does it signify, Lotte,” he exclaimed, evasively, “what _he_ said?
My happiness is all invested in you; if you love me, yours is equally
centred in me. I have enough to keep us both in comfort and happiness,
and some day I shall be as wealthy as my father now is. Oh! Lotte, we
will live with each other and for each other, you, my dear little wife,
thinking of and caring only for your faithful husband, and I--I, Lotte,
exhausting every plan to complete and perfect for you a peaceful, happy
existence.”
“But, dear Mark, what said Mr. Wilton?” persisted Lotte, looking grave
and even sad.
“He is an old man, Lotte, and obstinate,” replied Mark, with some little
vehemence; “he is selfish, vain, arrogant, upstart----”
Lotte raised up her soft white hand to his mouth--
“Your father,” she said--“still your father.”
“Even so, Lotte; yet he, too, should remember that I am his son,”
exclaimed Mark, with some excitement, “his son, Lotte, not his serf, his
slave, his dog. He should recollect, Lotte, that my happiness is of as
much importance to me as pride of position to him; and he should not
overlook the fact that I don’t care a--that I don’t care that”--he
snapped his fingers--“to be great and grande if I am to be unhappy in my
elevation.”
“I am to understand by this,” said Lotte, very calmly, though sadly,
“that he has refused to give his consent to receive me into his family,
as your wife--you will not trifle with my feelings, Mark, on this point,
I am sure.”
Mark remained silent.
She laid her hand upon his arm softly.
“Answer me, Mark!” she said, gently.
He looked into her soft appealing eyes, he passed his arm round her
waist, and pressed her to his bosom.
“I will do or say aught you wish me, Lotte, but do not ask me to wound
your feelings,” he said, in a low, earnest tone.
“Nay, it will pain me so much not to know the truth, for you know, Mark,
I may conjecture much that was never said,” she responded; adding, “tell
me, did he not decline to receive me as his daughter-in-law.”
Mark set his teeth.
In an almost inaudible voice, after some hesitation, he replied--
“He did.”
“His objection, Mark--fear not for me--my bruised heart has been too
much accustomed to such trials, to faint under learning all he could say
of me.”
“I cannot repeat his words!” cried Mark, with a burst of feeling.
Lotte still urged him.
“It is needful Mark, indeed, that I should know,” she said.
“Lotte,” exclaimed Mark, taking her hand and pressing it passionately
to his lips, “remember, the words I may repeat have had--and never can
have--any influence on me.”
“Of that I am sure,” she observed.
“His objection was that you were poor----”
“Yes,” said Lotte, as he paused. .
“And low-born,” added Mark, as though the words scorched his throat
while finding utterance.
A flush of scarlet spread itself over Lotte’s features. She threw up her
head with a haughty and indignant air, and her short upper lip trembled
with an expression of offended pride.
She was about to utter a hasty reply, but she checked herself,
disengaged herself from Mark’s encircling arms, and walked in silence to
the further end of the room. She hid her face in her handkerchief; for a
minute her whole frame seemed convulsed.
Mark watched her with eyes half-blinded by scalding tears, and it
was only the endeavour to recover the power of speaking clearly that
prevented him at once catching her in his arms, bid her banish from her
mind all she had heard, and to consent, in spite of what his father had
said, to become his bride at the earliest moment possible.
He knew not Lotte yet.
She was the first to recover calmness, and she returned to where he was
standing.
“I understand your father’s weakness by my own.” she said. “I pardon the
pain it has given me, for I am reminded, by my own poor indignation at
being termed low-born, how natural his anger would be at the thought of
one so humble as myself being elevated to his side, and made a member of
his family, in opposition to all those prejudices of which station and
affluence are so fruitful. Well, Heaven knows best. I bow to its decree.
The dream, only too glorious to be realised, was sweet, very, very
sweet, while it lasted, and I wake once more to be plain Lotte Clinton,
the needle-worker----”
“To be my wife, Lotte,” cried Mark, passionately; “my wife, my adored,
my honoured wife, Lotte----”
“Oh! Mark,” she said, in pleading earnestness, “remember our contract.”
“I remember, Lotte,” he said, “that I am human, that I have my passions
and my failings, as others of my sex; but I hope I have, too, that
broader view of life that makes virtue and worth the true nobility,
and that I can appreciate it when it comes before me, as it has in you,
Lotte. I have all my life--at least so long as I remember--lived in a
sphere in which worth, and amiability, and virtue, shine most because
they are surrounded by the worst temptations to which the higher
qualifications can be subjected, and when they maintain themselves
unsullied they are, in my eyes, the true and most fitting emblems of
a real nobility. All I hope to find in woman I believe dwells in your
clear soul, Lotte. I, feeling how rich you are in sterling virtues, ask
no more, for you are wealthy enough in that. Well, what influence can
the intemperate words of my father have hereafter upon my happiness?
I shall ever love you. It shall be my study to retain your attachment;
and, for the rest, it is all empty pomp and pride, which we can be very,
very happy without.”
“It cannot be, Mark!” exclaimed Lotte, with a deep sigh.
“It cannot be?” echoed Mark, as though he had not heard aright.
“No; it must not be,” she said plaintively, but yet very firmly. “We
must part, Mark. Oh! believe me grateful for your kindly expressed
thoughts, and for the tender preference so dear, so very dear to my
heart, which you have evinced for me. Believe that to have been your
wife, Mark, would to me have proved the greatest felicity I can imagine
on earth. Yet I cannot consent, even to secure my own happiness, to sow
dissension in the hearts of others. I could not look at times, Mark,
upon your brow, clouded sometimes by thoughts of home and those dwelling
there, without feeling how deeply I have erred in causing strife to rise
up between you and them.”
“Lotte, Lotte, do not drive me to distraction and despair!” cried Mark,
passionately. “The world is wide: we will remove from the scene of my
father’s pride and selfishness to some brighter land. I know many spots;
surrounded by the clear blue waters of the vast Pacific, where we can
settle down unfettered by the paltry worldly distinctions which agitate
my father’s breast, and mindful only of that love which makes each to
the other a world of treasure.”
Lotte’s eyes swam in tears.
“It may not be, Mark,” she said, decidedly, and then added with agonized
earnestness: “I am so grateful, so deeply grateful for your affection. I
will never, never suffer that gratitude to abate, nor will I ever cease
to love you as now--most fervently for that I am parting with you; but,
great as the grief I feel at our separation, Mark, it is less than the
consciousness of what I had done in consenting to wed you in the face
of the hostility of your father--nearest and dearest to you in blood
and affection--would make me eternally suffer; for well I know that
his peace of mind, yours, and that of the other members of your family,
would all, more or less, be injured by my act. No, Mark, I will bear
my trial--as--as--well as I can--all the lighter, because I have spared
those who fondly love you, and you who love them, from tearing asunder
those ties which bind you so closely together now.”
How her poor bosom heaved and her lips quivered as she said this.
“Lotte,” exclaimed Mark, with intense earnestness, “is my love for you--
my future happiness--to weigh nothing in the considerations by which you
are influenced to this harsh step?”
“Harsh, Mark; mostly to myself. I love you, Mark; let that be your
solace. No other man; I swear, shall ever receive the hand you have
kissed. You; after we have parted; you--will not forget me--no--no, I
do _not_ believe that--but you will meet with others in a higher sphere,
beautiful, accomplished, and engaging, more than I can ever hope to be,
and you----”
“Do not finish your sentence, Lotte,” cried Mark huskily. “You do not
love me, or you would not permit such a thought to enter your brain,” he
added reproachfully.
“Your doubt wounds my heart!” exclaimed Lotte, with evident pain. “I
will not reiterate what I have confessed to you on that point. I will
only add that I would have cheerfully married you, and joined in our
mutual support by my own labour, if such had been needful; I would have
done it with the proudest content, had circumstances been such that I
could have entered your family as an equal. This cannot be. I see the
disparity more strongly now, perhaps, than even he who has forbidden me
to approach his affinity; but, Mark, I could not consent to become your
wife and his daughter on other terms than your continued friendship
with him, without incurring contumely myself. It is wholly impossible
to change my opinions on this point; so Mark, dear Mark, let us bid each
other farewell. I am faint--oppressed--ill. I would part with you at
once----”
“And for ever!” said Mark, with burning eyes, as he forced the words
through his teeth.
She bowed her head.
“For ever!” she repeated.
“Lotte!” he exclaimed, with intense excitement, “I cannot argue this
point with you--I cannot. I will not bid you farewell--I dare not; yet,
girl, we shall never, never meet again!”
He almost shrieked those last words, and rushed out of the room.
She would have followed him, but that she sank gasping and fainting upon
the floor.