“It cannot be, Mark!” exclaimed Lotte, with a deep sigh.
“It cannot be?” echoed Mark, as though he had not heard aright.
“No; it must not be,” she said plaintively, but yet very firmly. “We must part, Mark. Oh! believe me grateful for your kindly expressed thoughts, and for the tender preference so dear, so very dear to my heart, which you have evinced for me. Believe that to have been your wife, Mark, would to me have proved the greatest felicity I can imagine on earth. Yet I cannot consent, even to secure my own happiness, to sow dissension in the hearts of others. I could not look at times, Mark, upon your brow, clouded sometimes by thoughts of home and those dwelling there, without feeling how deeply I have erred in causing strife to rise up between you and them.”
“Lotte, Lotte, do not drive me to distraction and despair!” cried Mark, passionately. “The world is wide: we will remove from the scene of my father’s pride and selfishness to some brighter land. I know many spots; surrounded by the clear blue waters of the vast Pacific, where we can settle down unfettered by the paltry worldly distinctions which agitate my father’s breast, and mindful only of that love which makes each to the other a world of treasure.”
Lotte’s eyes swam in tears.
“It may not be, Mark,” she said, decidedly, and then added with agonized earnestness: “I am so grateful, so deeply grateful for your affection. I will never, never suffer that gratitude to abate, nor will I ever cease to love you as now—most fervently for that I am parting with you; but, great as the grief I feel at our separation, Mark, it is less than the consciousness of what I had done in consenting to wed you in the face of the hostility of your father—nearest and dearest to you in blood and affection—would make me eternally suffer; for well I know that his peace of mind, yours, and that of the other members of your family, would all, more or less, be injured by my act. No, Mark, I will bear my trial—as—as—well as I can—all the lighter, because I have spared those who fondly love you, and you who love them, from tearing asunder those ties which bind you so closely together now.”
How her poor bosom heaved and her lips quivered as she said this.
“Lotte,” exclaimed Mark, with intense earnestness, “is my love for you— my future happiness—to weigh nothing in the considerations by which you are influenced to this harsh step?”
“Harsh, Mark; mostly to myself. I love you, Mark; let that be your solace. No other man; I swear, shall ever receive the hand you have kissed. You; after we have parted; you—will not forget me—no—no, I do not believe that—but you will meet with others in a higher sphere, beautiful, accomplished, and engaging, more than I can ever hope to be, and you——”
“Do not finish your sentence, Lotte,” cried Mark huskily. “You do not love me, or you would not permit such a thought to enter your brain,” he added reproachfully.