“Some think the lowliest flowers are the sweetest,” replied Mordaunt, “and in that faith will I live and die.”
“You dare not tell me so!” answered Norna, fiercely; then, instantly changing her tone, and taking his hand in the most affectionate manner, she proceeded:—“You must not—you will not tell me so, my dear son—you will not break a mother’s heart in the very first hour in which she has embraced her child!—Nay, do not answer, but hear me. You must wed Minna—I have bound around her neck a fatal amulet, on which the happiness of both depends. The labours of my life have for years had this direction. Thus it must be, and not otherwise—Minna must be the bride of my son!”
“But is not Brenda equally near, equally dear to you?” replied Mordaunt.
“As near in blood,” said Norna, “but not so dear, no not half so dear, in affection. Minna’s mild, yet high and contemplative spirit, renders her a companion meet for one, whose ways, like mine, are beyond the ordinary paths of this world. Brenda is a thing of common and ordinary life, an idle laugher and scoffer, who would level art with ignorance, and reduce power to weakness, by disbelieving and turning into ridicule whatever is beyond the grasp of her own shallow intellect.”
“She is, indeed,” answered Mordaunt, “neither superstitious nor enthusiastic, and I love her the better for it. Remember also, my mother, that she returns my affection, and that Minna, if she loves any one, loves the stranger Cleveland.”
“She does not—she dares not,” answered Norna, “nor dares he pursue her farther. I told him, when first he came to Burgh-Westra, that I destined her for you.”
“And to that rash annunciation,” said Mordaunt, “I owe this man’s persevering enmity—my wound, and wellnigh the loss of my life. See, my mother, to what point your intrigues have already conducted us, and, in Heaven’s name, prosecute them no farther!”
It seemed as if this reproach struck Norna with the force, at once, and vivacity of lightning; for she struck her forehead with her hand, and seemed about to drop from her seat. Mordaunt, greatly shocked, hastened to catch her in his arms, and, though scarce knowing what to say, attempted to utter some incoherent expressions.
“Spare me, Heaven, spare me!” were the first words which she muttered; “do not let my crime be avenged by his means!—Yes, young man,” she said, after a pause, “you have dared to tell what I dared not tell myself. You have pressed that upon me, which, if it be truth, I cannot believe, and yet continue to live!”
Mordaunt in vain endeavoured to interrupt her with protestations of his ignorance how he had offended or grieved her, and of his extreme regret that he had unintentionally done either. She proceeded, while her voice trembled wildly, with vehemence.