How could he go to Mr. Huntingdon and acknowledge what he had done? that he, a mere clerk, a poor curate’s son, had dared to aspire to his daughter, to become the rival of Lord Bertie Gower—for Nea had confided to him her father’s ambition. Would he not think him mad? groaned Maurice, or would he turn with that hard, dark look on his face that he knew so well, and give him a curt dismissal?
Maurice remembered George Anderson and trembled, as well he might; and then as the whole hopelessness of the case rushed upon him, he thought that he would tell his darling that he had been mad—dishonorable, but that he would give her up; that he loved her better than himself, and that for her own sweet sake he must give her up.
And so through the long, dark hours Maurice lay and fought out his first fierce battle of life, and morning found him the victor.
The victor, but not for long; for at the first hint, the first whispered word that he must tell her father, or that he must leave her forever, Nea clung to him in a perfect passion of tears.
The self-willed, undisciplined child had grown into the wayward, undisciplined girl. No one but her father had ever thwarted Nea, and now even his will had ceased to govern her; she could not and would not give up the only man whom she loved; nothing on earth should induce her now to marry Lord Bertie—she would rather die first; if he left her she should break her heart, but he loved her too well to leave her.
Poor Maurice! An honorable man would have nerved himself to bear her loving reproaches; would have turned sadly and firmly from her confused, girlish sophistries, and reproved them with a word. He would have told her that he loved her, but that he loved honor more; that he would neither sin himself nor suffer her to tempt him from his sense of right. But Maurice did none of these things; he was young and weak; the temptation was too powerful; he stayed, listened and was lost. Ah! the angels must have wept that day over Maurice’s fall, and Nea’s victory.
She told him what he knew already, that Mr. Huntingdon would turn him out of his office; that he would oppress her cruelly; that he would probably take her abroad or condemn her to solitude, until she had promised to give him up and marry Lord Bertie.
Could he leave her to her father’s tender mercies, or abandon her to that other lover? and she wept so passionately as she said this that a stronger man than Maurice must have felt his strength waver.
And so Nea had the victory, and the days flew by on golden wings, and the stolen moments became sweeter and more precious to the young lovers until the end came.
Mr. Huntingdon was better—he could leave his room and walk up and down the corridor leaning on Sister Teresa’s arm.