“Oh!”

“If it had only ended there, Mary.  But they were both in a passion, and must empty their hearts.  Colonel Clifford said he had every respect for you, but had other views for his son.  Mr. Bartley said he was thankful to hear it, for he looked higher for his daughter.  ’Higher in trade, I suppose,’ said my father; ‘the Lord Mayor’s nephew.’  ‘Well,’ said Mr. Bartley, ‘I would rather marry her to money than to mortgages.’  And the end of it was they parted enemies for life.”

“No, no; not for life!”

“For life, Mary.  It is an old grudge revived.  Indeed, the first quarrel was only skinned over.  Don’t deceive yourself.  We have nothing to do but disobey them or part.”

“And you can say that, Walter?  Oh, have a little patience!”

“So I would,” said Walter, “if there was any hope.  But there is none.  There is nothing to wait for but the death of our parents, and by that time I shall be an elderly man, and you will have lost your bloom and wasted your youth—­for what?  No; I feel sometimes this will drive me mad, or make me a villain.  I am beginning to hate my own father, and everybody else that thwarts my love.  How can they earn my hate more surely?  No, Mary; I see the future as plainly as I see your dear face, so pale and shocked.  I can’t help it.  If you will marry me, and so make sure, I will keep it secret as long as you like; I shall have got you, whatever they may say or do; but if you won’t, I’ll leave the country at once, and get peace if I can’t get love.”

“Leave the country?” said Mary, faintly.  “What good would that do?”

“I don’t know.  Perhaps bring my father to his senses for one thing; and—­who knows?—­perhaps you will listen to reason when you see I can’t wait for the consent of two egotists—­for that is what they both are—­that have no real love or pity for you or me.”

“Ah,” said Mary, with a deep sigh, “I see even men have their faults, and I admired them so.  They are impatient, selfish.”

“Yes, if it is selfish to defend one’s self against brutal selfishness, I am selfish; and that is better than to be a slave to egotists, and lie down to be trodden on as you would do.  Come, Mary, for pity’s sake, decide which you love best—­your father, who does not care much for you, or me, who adore you, and will give you a life of gratitude as well as love, if you will only see things as they are and always will be, and trust yourself to me as my dear, dear, blessed, adored wife!”

“I love you best,” said Mary, “and I hope it is not wicked.  But I love him too, though he does say ‘wait.’  And I respect myself, and I dare not defy my parent, and I will not marry secretly; that is degrading.  And, oh, Walter, think how young I am and inexperienced, and you that are so much older, and I hoped would be my guide and make me better; is it you who tempt me to clandestine meetings that I blush for, and a clandestine marriage for which I should despise myself?”