Never before had her father spoken with such severity of tone, and the soft eyes of Clara filled with unseen tears.
"Ours is a levelling age certainly; but this intimacy carries the game rather far. It is outrageous!" he continued, nursing his annoyance, and warming with it.
"But he bears our name, and why may we not know him? If he is a kinsman——"
"Kinsman!" exclaimed her father, with growing anger, as he recalled the visit of Mr. De Murrer; "the devil! don't speak thus; and as for the mere matter of a name, one would think you were an old Scotsman of a hundred years ago, rather than an English girl of the nineteenth century!"
"I only think of what I owe him, Papa," urged Clara, greatly apprehensive that Derval's name would now be struck off the visitor's list—but prudence forbade such an order as yet.
"It is possible you may think too much," continued Lord Oakhampton, greatly ruffled; "but remember, Clara, that this young man is as much out of your world as one of yonder boatmen in the bay!"
"Do not suppose, dear Papa, that I will ever do aught unbecoming your daughter. I have always done my best to please you," she added, as her graceful figure bent over him, and a white arm stole round his neck, while her sweet face grew almost softer in expression, as she caressed him.
But she now discovered the truth of the German proverb, "Speech is silver, silence is gold," and knew to her infinite mortification, that by her first remark on Derval's appearance, and her attempted defence of their friendship, she had thoroughly awakened the suspicions of her father, of whose old hostility to the Hamptons of Finglecombe she knew nothing; and the results were that her liberty was much more circumscribed than it had been. There was no more boating on the bay, and Miss Sampler was for ever on duty now. Forbidden to think of him, she cherished the idea all the more. To her, Derval, honest, manly, straightforward, and single-hearted, seemed worth all "the white-handed glittering youth" she had yet met with; and thus it was in vain that her father urged that he did not and never would belong to her class in society—even by thought, culture, and education; but, in some of the latter premises, his lordship was in error. Yet, too keenly aware of what the claims were that Derval, or interfering friends for him, might urge to the title he held, he could neither forbid him his house nor request that he would cease to address Miss Hampton.
To Derval the idea of these claims never occurred; he felt that there was a change now, that he saw Clara more seldom, and never alone. Whether this was her own desire, or that of her father, he could not tell; he only knew that the first stirrings of a deeply-absorbing love were quickening his pulses and thrilling in his veins. He had heard of the desire of the moth for the star, and felt himself somewhat akin to that foolish insect indeed. She was the daughter of a peer, and in the fulness of that thought, and the greatness of his passion, he forgot that he might yet be a peer himself!
Time was passing on—day followed day, and he missed the sweet companionship sorely. Her face was ever before him in all its soft beauty and variety of expression; her voice seemed ever in his ear, as he conned over her utterances, and recalled her attractive and pretty little modes of manner. He was never weary of watching the roof that covered her, the windows she might be looking from, or the walks where he might chance to meet, even to see her; and he resolved, that come what might, he would not go away without declaring how he loved her, without telling her the old, old story, that was first told in Eden; and that he would never forget her, and never love another.