"And why—" I exclaimed, seizing him in my arms, and gently raising his head, so that our gaze met,—"and why can you not be my husband? I am rich; you have genius. My wealth,—enough for us both,—shall be linked with your genius, and both shall the more firmly cement our love. Say, Herman, why can you not be my husband?"
He turned pale, and avoided my gaze.
"You are ashamed of me,—ashamed, because I have given you the last proof which a woman can give to the man she loves."
"Ashamed! O, no, no,—by all that is sacred, no,—but Marion——"
And bending nearer to me, in faltering accents, he whispered the secret to my ears. He was betrothed to Fanny Lansdale, the daughter of the wealthiest and most influential member of his congregation. He had been betrothed long before he met me. To Mr. Lansdale, the father, he owed all that he had acquired in life, both in position and fame. That gentleman had taken him when a friendless orphan boy, had educated him, and after his ordination, had obtained for him the pastoral charge of his large and wealthy congregation. Thus, he was bound to the father by every tie of gratitude; to the daughter by an engagement that he could not break, without ingratitude and disgrace. My heart died within me at this revelation. At once I saw that Herman could never be lawfully mine. Between him and myself stood Fanny Lansdale, and every tie of gratitude, and every emotion of self-respect and honor.
[CHAPTER XII.]
MARION AND FANNY.
Not long after this interview, I saw Fanny Lansdale at church; made the acquaintance of her father—a grave citizen, who regarded me as a sincere devotee—and induced Fanny to become a frequent visitor at my house. She confided all to me. She loved Herman devotedly, and looked forward to their marriage as the most certain event in the world. She was a very pretty child, with clear blue eyes, luxuriant hair, and a look of bewitching archness. I do not step aside from the truth, when I state that I sincerely loved her; although it is also true, that I never suffered myself to think of her marriage with Herman as anything but an impossible dream. An incident took place one summer evening, about a year after Herman's first visit to my house, which, slight as it was, it is just as well to relate. It is such slight incidents which often decide the fate of a lifetime, and strike down the barrier between innocence and crime.
I was sitting on the sofa at the back window of the parlor, and Fanny sat on the stool at my feet. The light of the setting sun shone over my shoulders, and lighted up her face, as her clasped hands rested on my knees, and her happy, guileless look, was centered on my countenance. As I gazed upon that innocent face, full of youth and hope, I was reminded of my own early days; and at the memory, a tear rolled down my cheek.