Lotte listened to him with undisguised fright.
“Oh, no—no, sir, no—no,” she replied hurriedly; “it cannot possibly be.”
“No!” he echoed. “Why not?—explain.”
“Pray, pardon my not answering that question. Do not ask me, sir!” she exclaimed, appealingly. “I mean not my refusal offensively; but, in truth, sir, it cannot be.”
“Not in that capacity, perhaps,” he said, rising up, and speaking with grave earnestness; “but will you not come back as—as—as my daughter?”
“Sir!” exclaimed Lotte, clutching at the table in her deep emotion.
“As the wife of my son, Mark Wilton,” he replied, with energy, “and my beloved, esteemed daughter.” He caught her in his arms, and pressed her to his breast. “I know all now; I honour you, my child,” he said, warmly; “the details of your past history have been made known to me, and I blush when I think how nobly you, an unassisted helpless girl, have sustained your integrity, your virtuous truthfulness, your self-respect, against all temptations and assaults, against which I, more fortified to withstand them, have fallen back. I should, my child, now be proud of you as a friend—I shall be prouder still of you as a daughter; ever, ever glad of your sweet presence in my household, recording few happier days in my past history than that which sees you wedded to my son.”
Poor Lotte! all her trials and her griefs were nothing to this. They needed courage to meet and firmness to bear them. This announcement by Wilton was the very bursting of a white cloud of happiness, and she could only sob passionately on his shoulder, without uttering one word in reply.
As soon as the old man, who was much affected, could recover his voice, he summoned an individual who was waiting without with most feverish impatience.
Mark entered, and pronounced her name; and she lifted her weeping face from his father’s shoulder, and, with a faint effort at a smile, tendered him her hand.