It was the father of the maiden who spoke—one who was the arbiter of her destinies, and so much the dictator in his household and over his family, that from his decision and authority there was suffered no appeal. Without pausing for a reply, he proceeded:—
"Our course, Mark must now lie separate. You will take your route, and I mine; we can not take them together. As for my daughter, she can not take up with you, seeing your present condition. Your affairs are not as they were when I consented to your engagement; therefore, the least said and thought about past matters, the better."
"But—" was the beginning of a reply from the sad and discarded lover, in which he was not suffered to proceed. The old man was firm, and settled further controversy in short order.
"No talk, Mark—seeing that it's no use, and there's no occasion for it. It must be as I say. I cannot permit of Kate's connection with a man in your situation, who the very next moment may be brought to the halter and bring shame upon her. Take your parting, and try to forget old times, my good fellow. I think well of, and am sorry for you, Mark, but I can do nothing. The girl is my only child, and I must keep her from harm if I can."
Mark battled the point with considerable warmth and vigor, and the scene was something further protracted, but need not here be prolonged. The father was obdurate, and too much dreaded by the members of his family to admit of much prayer or pleading on their part. Apart from this, his reason, though a stern, was a wise and strong one. The intercession of Colleton, warmly made, proved equally unavailing; and after a brief but painful parting with the maiden, Forrester remounted his horse, and, in company with the youth, departed for the village. But the adieus of the lovers, in this instance, were not destined to be the last. In the narrow passage, in which, removed from all sight and scrutiny, she hung droopingly, like a storm-beaten flower, upon his bosom, he solicited, and not unsuccessfully, a private and a parting interview.
"To-night, then, at the old sycamore, as the moon rises," he whispered in her ear, as sadly and silently she withdrew from his embrace.
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
PARTING AND FLIGHT.
With Ralph, the unhappy woodman, thus even denied to hope, returned, more miserable than before, to the village of Chestatee. The crowd there had been largely diminished. The more obnoxious among the offenders—those who, having taken the most prominent part in the late affair, apprehended the severest treatment—had taken themselves as much out of sight as possible. Even Munro and Rivers, with all their hardihood, were no longer to be seen, and those still lingering in the village were such as under no circumstances might well provoke suspicion of "subtle deed and counter enterprise." They were the fat men, the beef of society—loving long speeches and goodly cheer. The two friends, for so we may call them, were left almost in the exclusive possession of the hotel, and without observation discussed their several plans of departure. Forrester had determined to commence his journey that very night; while Ralph, with what might seem headstrong rashness, chose the ensuing day for a like purpose.