“And was it me, dearest papa?”
“No, Mary,” said he, with a lower and more meaning tone, “it was another, one whom I never saw before. She came to tell me that—that”—he faltered, and wiping a tear from his eyes, made an effort to seem calm—“that I had lost you, darling! lost by a separation darker and more terrible than even the iron bars of a nunnery can make. And although I bethought me that you had but gone there, whither I myself was hastening, I felt sorrow-struck by the tidings. I had clung so long to the hope of leaving you behind me here, to enjoy that world of which all your affectionate care has denied you enjoyment—to know how, amidst its troubles and reverses, there are healing springs of love that recompense its heaviest inflictions—I cherished this wish so long, so ardently, that I could not face the conviction which told me it should never be.”
“Dearest papa, remember this was but a dream; bethink you, for an instant, that it was all unreal; that I am beside you, my hand in yours, my head upon your shoulder; that we are not parted, nor ever shall be.”
The tone of deep fervor in which she spoke drew tears from the old man's eyes, and he turned away to hide them.
“It was but a dream, as you say, Mary; but do not my waking thoughts conjure up a future to the full as gloomy? A few months, at furthest, a year or so more—less sanguine prophets would perhaps say weeks—and where shall I be? and where you, Mary?”
The old man's grief could no longer be restrained, and it was in a perfect burst of sorrow the last words came forth. She would have spoken, but she knew not from what source to draw consolation. The future, which to his eyes looked dark and lowering, presented an aspect no less gloomy to her own; and her only remedy against its depressing influence was to make her present cares occupy her mind, to the exclusion of every other thought.
“And yet, Mary,” said he, recovering something of his habitual tone, “there is an alternative—one which, if we could accept of it from choice as freely as we might adopt it from convenience, would solve our difficulties at once. My heart misgives me, dearest, as I approach it. I tremble to think how far my selfishness may bias you—how thoughts of me old and worthless as I am, may rise uppermost in your breast and gain the mastery, where other and very different feelings should prevail. I have ever been candid with you, my child, and I have reaped all the benefit of my frankness; let me then tell you all. An offer has been made for your hand, Mary, by one who, while professing the utmost devotion to you, has not forgotten your old grandfather. He asks that he should be one of us, Mary—a new partner in our firm—a new member in the little group around our hearth. He speaks like one who knew the ties that bind us most closely—he talks of our home here as we ourselves might do—he has promised that we shall never leave it, too. Does your heart tell you whom I mean, Mary? If not, if you have not already gone before me in all I have been saying, his visions of happiness are baseless fabrics. Be candid with me, as I have ever been with you. It is a question on which everything of the future hangs; say if you guess of whom I speak.”
Mary Leicester's cheek grew scarlet; she tried to speak, but could not; but with a look far more eloquent than words, she pressed the old man's hand to her lips, and was silent.
“I was right then, Mary; you have guessed him. Now, my sweet child, there is one other confession you must make me, or leave me to divine it from that crimson cheek. Have his words found an echo in your heart?”
The old man drew her more closely to his side, and passed his arm around her as he spoke; while she, with heaving bosom and bent-down head, seemed struggling with an agitation she could not master. At last she said,—