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A HASTY MARRIAGE. 45 is assured and clear, and by my hurried yielding to a moment’s impulse I shall have done you no wrong. If you justly refuse to regard its consequences as binding, the old friend at your side, to whose kindness I owe this interview, will take you to her house, which will be yours until a happier one shall open to receive you, and your girlish heart be given to a better mate than mine. Choose then, Sylvia, unencumbered by thoughts of the past, or fears for the future in this crisis of your fate. Pray heaven to guide you, and decide the happiness or the misery of your life.”

Walter Drummond came to my side as Mr. Harter ceased—his face was flushed, his manner excited and eager. He, too, spoke with an absolute oblivion of the presence of others, but how differently!

“Accept his offer, Sylvia,” he urged. “Take the reparation he tenders, and which he owes you, for thus, in your ignorance and helplessness, linking your name with his; repudiate that hasty action—let him repay you and re- lease you.”

I saw Mr. Harter’s lip curl, but he listened patiently.

“It was wholly my fault,” I said, “and I will take nothing.”

“You will take my advice,” he insisted, “for I love you, Sylvia, and I know that you love me— our interests are one. The claims of our long friendship, and our constant associations—often sought by you—our community of tastes, feelings, and sympathies; our congeniality in youth, even in personal attributes, prove it impossible that you should submit willingly to the fate that threatens you. Had I feared such weakness on your part, such daring on that of others, I would have spoken before and set your heart at rest. Come with me, then, and trust your case in my hands; a little time and patience will set you free, and you shall be my wife, the daughter of my parents!”

Strangely enough, this bright prospect could not move me; I was growing cold and dull, and his sharp sentences fell faintly on my ears. Torn and weakened by long excitement; always unequal to the crisis through which I had to pass; swayed by many conflicting emotions, and hardly understanding the wish of my own heart, which Mr. Harter had generously besought me to follow, much less the arguments by which Walter Drummond appealed to my reason, I was incapable of answering either. I only knew that the younger man had been my friend, possibly my lover; but that I could never wish him to be dearer or more near—his friendship sufficed me, perhaps, even less—for since he claimed me so boldly, I shrank from him with an invincible repugnance. His rapacity and want of delicacy, albeit for my sake, disgusted and mortified me deeply; his reading of my thoughtless encouragement in times past was humiliating to hear; his judgment of his rival’s forbearance and generosity, of his noble motives and deeds— both narrow and mean. Although I could not have put my hurried thoughts, my confused sensations into words, I felt an instinct of aversion so strong, that if my choice must lie between the two men, I knew now that he, at least, could never be my husband.

“Do you consent, Sylvia?” he impatiently demanded, annoyed, I suppose, at my silence and stolidity. “Will you do as I have said?”

“I cannot,” I faltered.

“Ah!” he sneered, “then wealth and luxury are, indeed, as powerful with you as I had thought them. I know the temptation is strong; with a million of money, what a setting might not your beauty receive! Truly, it would be pleasant to reign like a queen in this charming little palace, and to find every whim gratified as soon as formed, like the Beast’s fair bride in the fairy tale. Better, no doubt, to you than to be the wife of a poor professional man, absorbed in the struggle of the world. Forgive the error, but I thought your nature impassioned, not frivolous, and fancied love might be something to you!”

I could have answered his sarcasm with tears; his anger with passionate avowal: my heart ached with such an empty, longing pain under his words. “It is much,” I could have said; “it should be all, if you but offered anything so sweet and so divine. But this that you bring me is not love; pique or admiration it may be, vanity and self-interest it surely is. No pure or gentle feeling so dictated softens your hard glance, or speaks in the milder modulation of your tones. Even your friendship, once so prized, I doubt, if it wears this form and holds this language. True love is modest, genérous, and gentle; I have seen it to-night for the first time, and recognized it by those attributes in the man you so despise. If it is this you would have me seek, how can I turn from him and follow you?”

I could have said all this, I mean, could I have had strength to pronounce it, or even to arrange my thoughts in collected form—but the words remained unspoken, the meaning unexplained, for, in truth, I was fast sinking into insensibility. I heard Walter’s voice impetuously, almost angrily, urging me to answer, and