“Your father is also acquainted with my present situation,” said Theodore; and how did he receive the intelligence?
“With deep regret,” replied Alida.
Has he forbidden you to admit my addresses any longer? if even in an unqualified or indirect manner, it is proper I should know it.
“It certainly is,” said Alida. Soon after we received the intelligence of your family misfortunes, my father came into the room where I was sitting: ‘Alida,’ said he, ‘your conduct has ever been that of a dutiful child,—mine, of an indulgent parent. My ultimate wish is to see my children, when settled in life, happy and honourably respected. For this purpose I have bestowed on them a proper education, and design suitably to apportion my property among them. On their part, it is expected they will act prudently and discreetly, especially in those things which concern materially their future peace and welfare: the principal requisite to insure this is a proper connexion in marriage.’ Here my father paused a considerable time, and then continued: ‘I know, my child, that your situation is a very delicate one. Your marriage-day is appointed; it was named under the fairest prospects. By the failure of Theodore’s father, those prospects have become deeply darkened, if not totally obliterated. To commit your fortune through life to a person in his present circumstances, would be hazardous in the extreme. The day named can at least be suspended; perhaps something more favourable may appear. At any rate, I have too much confidence in your discretion to suppose that you will, by any rash act, bring reproach either upon yourself or your connexions.’ Thus spake my father, and immediately withdrew.
“In our present dilemma,” said Theodore, “what is proper to be done?”
“It is difficult to determine,” answered Alida. “Should my father expressly forbid our union, or to see each other at present, it is probable he will carry his commands into effect. I would advise you to call on him to-morrow with your usual freedom. Whatever may be the event, I shall deal sincerely with you. Mrs. Raymond has been my friend and associate from my earliest years—Raymond you know. In them we can place the utmost confidence. From them you will be enabled to obtain information should I be prevented from seeing you. My reliance on Providence, I trust, will never be shaken, but my future prospects, at present, are dark and gloomy.”
“Let us not despair,” said Theodore; “perhaps those gloomy clouds which now hover around us, may yet be dissipated by the bright beams of joy. Worth and innocence are the care of Heaven,—there rests my hope. To-morrow, as you propose, I will call at your father’s. If I should be debarred in future from seeing you, I will write as formerly, and direct the letters to Raymond.”
Alida now returned home, attended by Theodore. A whip-poor-will tuned its nightly song at a distance; but the sound which had so late appeared to them cheerful and sprightly, now passed heavily over their hearts.
[CHAPTER XII.]
“O, happiness, deceitful in thy dream,”