97. XCVII.
THE AWAKING.
We had returned to The Oaks: the young girl had disappeared
upstairs: I was having a “private conversation” with Colonel
Beverley.
A few words will place upon record all that is necessary to a
comprehension of these memoirs.
My host listened in silence and with evident pain to my avowal
and demand of his daughter's hand. When I had finished, he
shook his gray head sadly, and seemed too much moved to
speak. Then he leaned over, took my hand, and said in his
brave and loyal voice:
“My dear young friend—for I am very much older than yourself,
and may call you so—you have given me more pain in the
last ten minutes than words can express. You ask of me what
it is out of my power to grant—my daughter's hand. I appreciate
the sincerity of your feeling, and doubt not that my poor
child is equally in earnest, and would to God I could consent to
your union! To have for my son the son of my oldest and
dearest friend, would be an inexpressible delight to me; it is
almost beyond my power to deny you, but I must. My honor
is pledged. I am bound irrevocably by a promise to the dead—
Frederick Baskerville's father; and I must add that my child is
also bound by her promise to that young man. She must adhere
to her pledge, and I to mine. Our hearts may break, but at
least the honor of the Beverleys will remain untarnished!”
The old man's cheeks flushed, his eyes filled with tears.
“Would to God,” he exclaimed gloomily, “that I had cut out
my tongue, severed my right hand, before I uttered and recorded
that promise! I am no admirer of young Baskerville:
had I known what his character would become—but this is
idle! Do not think hard of me, Major Surry! this marriage
must take place; let us end this painful interview, it is almost
more than I can bear!”
I rose. What is it that a proud man does when his heart is
breaking? I think he remains calm and quiet, resolved not to
shrink or bend, though the thunder smite him.
I went to my chamber to get my arms. On the staircase I
met May Beverley. She glanced at my pale face, and said:
“Papa has refused you?”
“Yes.”
The color mounted to her beautiful face, and her head rose
erect as that of an offended duchess.
“I will never marry that person!” she said haughtily.
Then her head sank, and she burst into tears.
Captain Baskerville would have been displeased had he seen
where the young girl's head then rested; but then, Captain
Baskerville's views or opinions were not important. This woman
was not yet his property.
Her lips were pressed to my own, and this is all that was
said in ten minutes:
“I love you!”
“I will never marry him! no, never, never!”
“And if there is any hope for me?—I shall be far away.”
“I will send you a flower like this!”
And taking from her bosom an autumn primrose, the blushing
girl held it out to me, remained a moment sobbing in my arms,
and then disappeared.
Ten minntes afterward I had left The Oaks.
