"Have I, then, your lordship's permission to propose?"
"Yes," said Lord Oakhampton, huskily, as he thought of his last communication from Mr. De Murrer of Gray's Inn, and felt himself, for the first time, the slave of circumstances, and between the horns of a dilemma. Indeed, life—save for the few monetary troubles that sent him to Bermuda—had gone so smoothly with his lordship that, until now, when the claim to his coronet began to take a tangible and legal form, he had no reason to suspect Fate of having the least intention of treating him scurvily.
And with that invincible effrontery and coolness which were a part of his nature, Rookleigh, feeling that to a certain extent both father and daughter were in his power, went at once to the latter, whom he found in the drawing-room alone; and, no longer abashed as he had been at first by her rare beauty and stately presence—for stately and patrician was the presence of Clara, even in her girlhood—he seated himself by her side, and endeavouring to take and retain her hand, said, with a nervousness which we thoroughly believe was assumed:
"Miss Hampton, I have your father's permission to drop the mask I have worn so long.
"What do you mean?" she asked, with unfeigned surprise.
"To learn, if I can, from your own lips, my fate."
"Your fate, Sir!"
"The fate of the love I bear you. Miss Hampton—Clara, I love you, as you must have known ere now—I love you; and in return for mine will you give me back truth for truth, love for love, trust for trust, your heart, your life, as fully and freely as I give you mine?"
How glibly he rattled it all out! He had, probably, learned it out of some novel, for one might have thought he was in the habit of proposing every day.
Clara was, at first, astonished and startled, and a thousand things that she had taken no heed of, or entirely misunderstood, rushed clearly on her memory now. Already insulted, mocked, and deluded by one brother, was she to endure the deliberate and insolent lovemaking of another?