“All I have, certainly, at present, Mrs Clyde,”—I said, abashed at the sarcasm thus directed against my miserable income, which she did not take the slightest pains to conceal.—“But I shall have more by-and-by. We are both young; and, if you will only give me some hope of gaining your consent, when I have achieved what you may consider sufficient for the purpose, I will work for her and win her. O Mrs Clyde!”—I pleaded,—“let me only have the assurance that you will allow her to wait for me. I will work most nobly that I may deserve her!”
“All this is mere rhapsody, Mr Lorton,”—she said in her icy accents, throwing a shower of metaphorical cold water on my earnest enthusiasm.—“Do you seriously think for a moment that I would give my consent to my daughter’s engagement to you in your present position?”
“I hoped so, Mrs Clyde,” I replied, timidly.
I did not know what else to say.
“Then you hoped wrongly,” she said. “You are really very young, Mr Lorton! I do not mean merely in years, but in knowledge of the world! You positively wish me to sacrifice all my daughter’s prospects, and let her be bound to a wearisome engagement, on the mere chance of your being able at some distant period to marry her! Do I understand you aright? I certainly gave you credit for possessing more good sense, Mr Lorton, or I should never have admitted you to my house.”
“O, Mrs Clyde,” I said, “be considerate! Be merciful! Remember, that you were young once.”
“I am considerate,” she answered—“still, I must think of my daughter’s welfare, before regarding the foolish wishes of a comparative stranger!”
Throughout the interview, she invariably alluded to Min as “her daughter,” never mentioning her name.
It seemed as if she wished to avoid even the idea of our intimacy, and to make me understand how great a gulf lay between us.
“But I love her so, Mrs Clyde!” I pleaded again, in one last effort. “I love her dearly, and she loves me, I know. Do not, oh! do not part us so cruelly!”