To refuse was not, indeed, possible to her; no, even if it cost her that fortune and ease which Helen Riversdale had promised her.
She did not once ask herself—Why? If she would not have answered that question, who else should make the attempt?
She did not dream that Mark Wilton was wholly guiltless of the message Nathan Gomer conveyed to her, or that, in meeting with him, she should have to undergo an ordeal she could not, under the circumstances, have contemplated.
The journey to Harleydale was performed rapidly. Nathan Gomer rendered himself as amiable and as entertaining as he could, until Lotte thought it was a pity he was so short, so extremely yellow, and so ugly, for really he was a cheerful, kind-hearted, dear little old man. On reaching the Hall, Nathan learned that Mark was alone in one of the sitting-rooms, and, forbidding the servant to announce him—his usual custom—he took Lotte by the hand, and pressing it, as if to reassure her, he, with noiseless step, approached the room to which he had been directed.
He found the door ajar, and he peeped in. He raised his finger to Lotte to be silent; and, opening the door without a sound, he advanced with his trembling companion to the shoulder of Mark Wilton, who was seated, gazing abstractedly out of the window upon the lovely landscape which stretched far away into the distance.
Lotte did not like the process, but really Nathan had so much instinctive influence that she took part in the proceedings unresistingly and without remark.
She quickly wished she had not done so.
Mark, who was sitting with his arms folded, suddenly released them, pressed his hands forcibly together, and ejaculated—
“Oh! Lotte, Lotte! cruel girl, you have no faith in my endearing love. You have coldly sacrificed my heart—my life—to a chimera!”
Nathan instantly tapped him on the shoulder; he started up and turned round. Uttering an exclamation of astonishment, he staggered back several paces, for his rapid glance had fallen upon Lotte’s downcast and grave features.