“I can’t—I can’t; it is utterly impossible!” was the decided answer; and, without another word, Will Gordon rose and passed, with a breaking heart, from the room he had entered so full of hope and pleasing anticipations.
The fire burned just as brightly in the grate at home as it had done the night before; the gas-light fell as softly on the roses in the carpet, and on his mother’s face there was a placid, expectant look, as he came in. But it quickly vanished when she saw how he pale he was, and how he crouched down into his easy chair, as if he fain would hide from every one the pain gnawing at his heart. There had never been a secret between Mrs. Gordon and her son, for in some respects the man of thirty was as much a child as ever; and when his mother, coming to his side, parted the damp hair from his forehead, and looked into his eyes, saying:
“What is it, William? Has Marian Grey refused my boy?” he told her all. How Marian Grey had given her love to another, and that henceforth the world to him would be a dreary blank.
It was, indeed, a terrible disappointment, and as the days wore on, it told fearfully upon William’s health, until at last the mother sought an interview with Marian Grey, beseeching her to think again.
“You can be happy with William,” she said, “and I had prepared myself to love you as a daughter. Do, I beseech of you, give me some hope to carry back to my poor boy?”
“I cannot—I cannot!”
And, laying her head in the motherly lap of Mrs. Gordon, Marian wept bitterly—half tempted, more than once, to tell her the whole truth.
But this she did not do, and she wept on, while Mrs. Gordon’s tears kept company with her own.
“Don’t you like my William?” she asked, unconsciously playing with the bright hair resting on her lap.
“Yes—very, very much; but I loved another first.” And this was all the satisfaction Marian could give.