“Because—because—the young lady may have other designs for herself—I can’t marry her for her money—I can’t give up Lally!”
“The—the young person who taught music? I understood you to say that she was a corn-chandler’s daughter. And you prefer a low-born, low-bred creature to a wealthy young lady like Miss Wynde? For a young man educated as you have been, your good taste is remarkable. You have a predilection for high-class society, I must say. What is the charm of this not-to-be-given-up ‘Lally?’ Is she beautiful?”
“She is beautiful to me.”
“Which means that she is beautiful to no one else. The beauty which requires love’s spectacles to distinguish, is ugliness to every one but the lover. Low-born and low-bred,” repeated Mr. Black, dwelling upon the words as if they pleased him, “with a pack of poor and ignorant relations tacked to her skirts, ugly by your own confession, what a brilliant match she would be for the son of the Honorable Craven Black!”
“She has no poor relations,” said Rufus hotly. “She has no relations except a great-aunt, whose name she does not know, and who very likely does not dream of her existence. It is true that Lally’s father was a corn-chandler, but he was an honest one, and more than that, he was an intelligent, upright gentlemen. You arch your brows, as if a man could not be a tradesman and a gentleman. If the word gentleman has any meaning, he was a gentleman.”
“I do not care to discuss the subtle meaning of words; I am willing to accept them at the valuation society puts upon them. The pedigree of ‘Lally’ is of no interest to me. I merely want to know if you mean to marry Neva Wynde and be rich, or marry your ‘Lally’ and starve. And if you are willing to starve yourself, are you willing to have ‘Lally’ starve also? With your fine ideas of honor, I wonder you can wish to drag that girl into a marriage that will be to her but a slow death.”
A groan burst from the youth’s lips. He wrung his hands weakly, while the secret of his marriage trembled on his tongue. But he dared not tell it. He was afraid of his father with a deadly fear, and more than that, he had yet some hope of receiving assistance from his parent.
“I cannot give her up, father,” he said hoarsely. “I beg you to help me in some way, and let me go. You are not rich, I know, but you have influence. You could get me a situation under government, in the Home office, Somerset House, or as secretary to some nobleman. If you will do this for me, I will bless you while I live. Oh, father, be merciful to me. Give me a little help, and let me go my ways.”
“By Heaven, I will not. If you cling to that girl, you shall have not one penny from me, not one word of recommendation. You can drift to the hospital, or the alms-house, and I will not raise a finger to help you! I will not even give one farthing to save you from a pauper’s burial. I swear it!”
Craven Black uttered the oath in a tone of utter implacability, and Rufus knew that the heavens would sooner fall than his father would relent. A despair seized upon him, and again he wrung his hands, as he cried out recklessly: