She returned the pressure of his hands, then she said to him, with downcast eyes and a slightly lowered tone—
“You have seen your father, Mark, and you have told him how much you have honoured me in selecting me to be your wife.”
“How much I am honoured by your consent to have me, my sweet Lotte,” interposed Mark, almost fiercely.
“Yes, Lotte, I told him all. I told him that my heart and happiness were bound up in you; that if I did not have you, neither wealth nor station would ever compensate me for your loss; that, in fact, they would only heighten my anguish and unhappiness, so I had determined to marry you—having your consent—and there was an end of the matter. So, in solemn truth and honour, I have; and here I am, Lotte, darling, for you to name the day.”
“But what said Mr. Wilton in reply?” asked Lotte, looking him steadfastly in the face.
Mark turned his eyes askance.
“What does it signify, Lotte,” he exclaimed, evasively, “what he said? My happiness is all invested in you; if you love me, yours is equally centred in me. I have enough to keep us both in comfort and happiness, and some day I shall be as wealthy as my father now is. Oh! Lotte, we will live with each other and for each other, you, my dear little wife, thinking of and caring only for your faithful husband, and I—I, Lotte, exhausting every plan to complete and perfect for you a peaceful, happy existence.”
“But, dear Mark, what said Mr. Wilton?” persisted Lotte, looking grave and even sad.
“He is an old man, Lotte, and obstinate,” replied Mark, with some little vehemence; “he is selfish, vain, arrogant, upstart——”
Lotte raised up her soft white hand to his mouth—