Fortunately the compartment into which he did defiantly thrust himself had no other passenger, and he was solus all the way to the station nearest to Harley-dale. He consequently, quite undisturbed, vehemently argued the case, every inch of the way, with an imaginary obstinate, obdurate parent, who was most absurdly hostile to his views.
By the time he reached Harleydale he had exhausted the discussion, triumphantly defeated the arguments of the phantom father, extorted from him a consent to the union between himself and Lotte, and had got so far as to hear the village bells ringing a joyous peal.
He was awakened to the reality of the case by ascending to the library at the Hall, and meeting his father just as he was issuing from it to place himself unconsciously within the reach and power of Mr. Chewkle.
Mark Wilton’s impetuous nature would brook no delay in bringing the subject nearest to his heart to an issue. The life he had passed on the islands of the South Pacific and in other wild regions, amid unlettered, impulsive men, had communicated to his character much of that hasty decision and impatience of delay peculiar to those who mix in the exciting scenes which abound in the warm climes of the tropics. He could not have endured to pass the day patiently away; dined with an appetite; discoursed on different topics with his father, and ultimately parted with him for the night with a formal notice that in the morning he wished to confer with and consult him upon an important subject connected with his settlement in life.
No. He had quite made up his mind to marry Lotte Clinton, whether his father consented or not; and, therefore, the sooner he knew what side his father ranged himself on—and adhered to—the better.
Mr. Wilton, having just parted with Flora, was most complacent. He, too, had been indulging in imaginary conversations, and a vision, wherein his daughter, overpowered by his affectionate conduct and his honeyed words, gave, at his suggestion, with graceful sweetness, her hand and heart to the Honorable Lester Vane. As he was mentally bestowing his benediction upon the kneeling pair, his eyes fell upon his son, Mark.
With a face radiant with smiles, and with a lofty air which suited the rather windy eloquence in which he indulged, he exclaimed—
“Ah! my dear boy, back from the great metropolis so soon; I am glad to see you, none the less because you are wearied of its turmoil, its driving, rushing, selfish careering, its hollowness and its heartlessness.”
“Nothing of the sort, sir,” said Mark, bluntly and a little eagerly, “I had an object in coming back; certainly, not one of those sentiments you have suggested induced me to leave London, of which, if I must speak the truth, I am infinitely more fond than of the country. But I see you are going out—anywhere particular?”
“No, Mark,” returned Wilton, with a mild, patronising manner, “merely for a stroll and the air. I have not stirred abroad for some days, and pedestrian exercise is necessary for health.”