"Edmond, your words affright me," said she, fixing her eyes full upon him with imploring earnestness: "you look sadder—paler than you did yesterday; something has happened since then. What—what is it, Edmond? tell me—ah, tell me!"
"Yes, Mary, much has happened," answered he, taking her hand between both of his, and meeting her gaze with a look of passionate sorrow and tenderness—"yes, Mary, without my knowledge, the friend of whom I told you had arrived, and this morning saw your father, told him all, and was repulsed with sternness—almost with insult. Sir Richard has resolved that it shall never be; there is no more hope of bending him—none—none—none."
While O'Connor spoke, the colour in Mary's cheeks came and fled in turn with quick alternations, in answer to every throb and flutter of the poor heart within.
"See him—speak to him—yourself, Edmond, yourself. Oh! do not despair—see him—speak to him," she almost whispered, for agitation had well-nigh deprived her of voice—"see him, Edmond—yourself—for God's sake, dear Edmond—yourself—yourself"—and she grasped his arm in her tiny hand, and gazed in his pale face with such a look of agonized entreaty as cut him to the very heart.
"Yes, Mary, if it seems good to you, I will speak to him myself," said O'Connor, with deep melancholy. "I will, Mary, though my own heart—my reason—tells me it is all—all utterly in vain; but, Mary," continued he, suddenly changing his tone to one of more alacrity, "if he should still reject me—if he shall forbid our ever meeting more—if he shall declare himself unalterably resolved against our union—Mary, in such a case, would you, too, tell me to see you no more—would you, too, tell me to depart without hope, and never come again? or would you, Mary—could you—dare you—dear, dear Mary, for once—once only—disobey your stern and haughty father—dare you trust yourself with me—fly with me to France, and be at last, and after all, my own—my bride?"
"No, Edmond," said she, solemnly and sadly, while her eyes again filled with tears; and though she trembled like the leaf on the tree, yet he knew by the sound of her sad voice that her purpose could not alter—"that can never be—never, Edmond—no—no."
"Then, Mary, can it be," he answered, with an accent so desolate that despair itself seemed breathing in its tone—"can it be, after all—all we have passed and proved—all our love and constancy, and all our bright hopes, so long and fondly cherished—cherished in the midst of grief and difficulty—when we had no other stay but hope alone—are we, after all—at last, to part for ever?—is it, indeed, Mary, all—all over?"
As the two lovers stood thus in deep and melancholy converse by the ivy-grown and ruined gateway, beneath the airy shadow of the old beech-trees, they were recalled to other thoughts by the hurried patter of footsteps, and the rustling of the branches among the underwood which skirted the avenue. As fortune willed it, however, the intruder was no other than the honest dog, Rover, Mary's companion in many a silent and melancholy ramble; he came sniffing and bounding with boisterous greeting to hail his young mistress and her companion. The interruption, harmless as it was, startled Mary Ashwoode.
"Were my father to find us here, Edmond," said she, "it were fatal to all our hopes. You know his temper well. Let us then part here. Follow the by-path leading to the house. Go and see him—speak with him for my sake—for my sake, Edmond—and so—and so—farewell."
"And farewell, Mary, since it must be," said O'Connor, with a bitter struggle. "Farewell, but only for a time—only for a little time, Mary; and whatever befalls, remember—remember me. Farewell, Mary."