Her face, brilliant with blushes, sank upon his shoulder.
Mr. Wilton waved his hand.
“My proposition was to Mr. Vivian, and not to you!” he exclaimed. “Answer me, Mr. Vivian.”
“I cannot, sir, now do this,” replied Hal, firmly.
“Then how, sir, can you call your love for my daughter other than selfish?” cried Wilton, with apparent triumph. “Out of your exaggerated liking for her, you would remove her from a sphere in which she enjoys all the luxuries of comparative wealth into one in which they are all denied to her. You would transplant her from competence and ease, to surround her with wants, privations, and care. This is disinterested love, indeed, to sacrifice the everyday peace and comfort of the woman for whom you profess attachment in order that you may call her your own. Go to, sir, true love seeks to secure the entire happiness of the object of affection, it sacrifices its own wishes and aspirations, rather than a cloud should hang upon the loved one’s brow, a tear dim her eye, or the smile fade from her cheek. It elevates, sir—never seeks to reduce her chances of happiness; and rather frets itself out in silence and secrecy, than it would, by the gratification of its inclinations, jeopardise her future peace and contentment.”
“I admit, sir,” replied Hal, “the force of your argument, but I deny the truth of its intended conclusion. I yield to no being in the world in the disinterestedness of my passion for Miss Wilton. I would sacrifice my love and myself a thousand times rather than occasion her one moment’s care or privation. It is not, sir, because I cannot at first place her in the sphere she now so fairly and brightly adorns, that I must necessarily conduct her to a hovel in a bye-street. Something is due to my own sense of her worth and my own pride in preparing for her—if I were to be so blessed as to call her mine—a home as fitting to her beauty and goodness, as to the station she quitted to pass her life with me. I should, indeed, be wanting in true love if I did not endeavour to make the change as slight as indomitable perseverance and unflagging industry could accomplish. I agree, sir, that true love seeks to elevate the being it worships; but requited love will make a palace of a prison and gild the roof of a humble cottage, as though it were the fretted ceiling of a palace. Love sees through love’s eyes and with love’s urgings, and it seldom finds room for discontent if the heart it prizes remains true, faithful, and devoted to it. The great secret of a loving woman’s happiness, sir, consists not in the halls she treads, the terraced flower-garden she may pace, the high sphere in which she may have been born and lived, the accessories of wealth, its gaieties, or its pleasures. It is the discovery that the idol she was first induced to worship is not molten brass, but the pure gold for which she first accepted it. That her trusting faith has not been abused, that the ardent manner of him who won her heart has not waned, that the beaming look of fond affection remains unchanged, that the soft word has not grown harsh, and that the ever-watchful solicitude for her happiness remains as intact as when it first moved her gentle heart to respond to its generous tenderness. That loving, trusting heart that you would chain to its own sphere, would pine itself into the grave if, upon such a plea, it were confined to its halls, its gardens, parks, and extended landscape; but, believe me, it would not grieve if its lot, though cast in a lower sphere, rested on a manly, faithful, truthful nature, which never swerved from the deep and passionate affection it once professed. However, sir, at best we are but theorizing—I am content to abide the issue. I will not, I pledge my honour—my dearest possession—ask your permission to woo Miss Wilton until I am fairly in a social position which will give me some title to do so. Further, sir, if it be your wish, great as may be the pain and privation to me, I will not attempt to visit, or to see, or to speak with her in any manner which may infringe upon the relation in which we now stand to each other in the eyes of the world—acquaintances. I will not, if unprepared to urge my own claim, interfere with any offer which may be made for the honour of Miss Wilton’s hand, if that offer is in accordance with your wishes and not opposed to her future happiness. More I scarcely expect you will wish me to say; less, sir, I feel would be inconsistent with my own sense of what is just and honourable.”
Mr. Wilton extended his hand to Hal, saying—
“You have spoken frankly, and—and—a—I may as well say it as think it—nobly, Mr. Vivian. I am well satisfied and fully appreciate those sentiments which you have just uttered, and which I shall test, I honestly tell you. The result is for the future. Take, at present, your farewell of Flora; when we next meet, it will be as friends. Heaven shall decide whether it will be by a nearer and dearer title.”
Hal shook the extended hand warmly.
“I will not abuse any confidence you may be pleased to place in me, sir,” he replied. “But I, too, honestly tell you, that it will be the object of my most incessant perseverance and ardent ambition to change the title of friend into one nearer and dearer.”