"You dread his opposition—so do I; but I would not have him ashamed of me, if you are not—my own love!"
"Derval—we leave this for Paris to-morrow morning. In the joy of seeing you, I almost forgot it," she continued, sobbing heavily.
"To-morrow—oh heavens, Clara! And I! next day for a ship—a few days whole seas will be between us! We sail for the Cape."
"It is awful to think, Derval, that we may pass out of each others' lives, and be as if we never met—never known each other!"
"Why—how?" he asked regarding her anxiously.
"What can such a secret and forbidden love as ours, with such a separation, lead to? a separation without a place or period for meeting again, and without a means of hearing of each others' lives, safety, or happiness."
As she spake her pearly teeth were set, and there came into her face something of the expression that Derval had seen it wear in the boat on the last occasion, force of character and strength of resolution, young though she was.
As the reader may conjecture, the sketch of the famous Nutcracking rock was never finished.
"I shall ever thank heaven for the impulse that sent me to meet you to-day, darling Clara," said he, as they reached the spot at which they would be compelled to separate. "We must, and shall, meet again when I return, for I shall seek you out, wherever you are, and we must think of each other every day and every hour. Till then—oh, my love, till then!"
Much more was said, brokenly and incoherently, and they lingered so long, that at last she had to leave him, blinded in tears, and with one long and clinging kiss they parted, as so many lovers have done before, and will do so again.