Everett followed Clarence and got into the phÆton with him.

“My dear brother,” said Clarence, in a hoarse voice that sounded unnatural, as if coming from a great depth, “I would like to have your company, but as I am not coming back, I can't take you with me.”

“No matter; drive off. I'll go with you a little ways, and will walk back,” said Everett. Clarence turned his horses and drove away through the middle drive in the front lawn, and was out of the gate before he fully realized that he himself was driven away from the paternal roof.

“Retty, you did not tell me that my father had insulted my darling so grossly. I wish you had, for I would not have gone inside the house,” Clarence said, with a sigh.

“It was so horrible, I couldn't. Forgive me, dear Clary.”

“Certainly; I can't blame you.”

“Are you going to Don Mariano's?”

“Yes. I will ask Tano to give me a place to sleep; that is, if DoÑa Josefa is not too disgusted to tolerate a Darrell under her roof.”

“I am sure they feel nothing but kindness for you.”

“I hope so; but should she wish to break the engagement, I will not stay. I'll drive to town to-night and take the boat for San Francisco, which is not to leave until to-morrow at daylight. I'll have time, I think.”

“Don't do that. Wait for the Don, if he is not in now.”

“I may, but I don't know. I dread to see Mercedes. I feel so humiliated, so ashamed. What can I say to her?”

At the foot of the hill Clarence stopped his horses to send to his mother and sisters—especially to Alice—loving messages. He also said if he should miss seeing Don Mariano, Everett would say that he would write from San Francisco, and would return at any moment, if Mercedes called him.

“But you will see her yourself,” Everett said.

“I hope so,” said the disheartened Clarence, driving up toward the house in which he felt his fate would be decided. Victoriano had heard the phÆton's wheels and came out to meet it.

“I am so glad to see you, old fellow,” said he to Clarence; “it seems an age since sundown.”

“I was detained in town about that business of Don Gabriel, but it is all arranged. He can take his place at the bank now, whenever he wishes, or wait until the 1st of October; it will be kept for him. Then I had my own business about the mine. That is all right, too. I only wish that things had gone on as well at home.”

“So do I, but it has been awful. Retty told you.”

“Yes, I know it all now.”

“Unfortunately I did not tell him father's insulting remarks about Miss Mercedes,” sadly observed Everett.

“Yes, had I known that, I would not have gone into the house. But I went, and father had the satisfaction of saying it to me himself; and on my telling him what I thought about it, he expressed himself willing that I should take myself off. So here I am, driven from home, and I came to ask you for a bed to-night, as I am very tired.”

“And hungry, too. Father spoiled his supper with his courteous remarks,” added Everett.

“Come, my dear boy; no one is more welcome to this whole house,” Victoriano said, with true Spanish hospitality, much intensified by present circumstances. “Come; father will soon be here. At present, Mercedes, Madame Halier Milord and myself only are at home. Mother and the rest are at the Mechlins. Come in; come, Retty.”

“No. I'll say good-by to Clary now and walk home.”

“But this is awful,” Victoriano said, as if beginning to realize the situation. “For Heaven's sake, where are you going? And why must you go?”

“I will not if Mercedes does not send me away. If she does, I shall go first to San Francisco, and thence God only knows where,” was Clarence's reply.

“She won't send you away; she shan't. If you only knew how the poor little thing cried, so that this morning literally she could not see out of her eyes, you would then know how she feels. She told me that if she lost all hope of being your wife she would lie down and die. She felt better this morning when father left, as he told her he would arrange everything with you so that the wedding should not be postponed. Then she was comforted and went to sleep. But—” And Victoriano stopped.

“But what? Better tell me all, dear Tano,” said Clarence.

“Well, I was going to say that she is again unhappy because Lotte and Rosy told her what your father said. She had not heard that part of the trouble before.”

Clarence stood silent with one foot upon the first step. He was calculating the chances against him. He turned to Victoriano, and, with a sickly smile that was truly painful to see, said:

“My heart misgives me, dear Tano; I cannot blame her if she considers my father's words unpardonable.”

“But they were not your words,” Everett interposed. “You are not to blame if your father forgets himself and makes a brute of himself. I almost hate him. Courage, dear Clary.”

“Yes, remember, ‘Faint heart never won fair lady,’” Victoriano added, and the quotation brought such sweet recollections to poor Clarence's troubled mind, that he staggered as he went up the steps. But, with a renewed effort over himself, he managed to stand firmly, and to say to Everett:

“I suppose we must part now, dear brother.”

Everett threw his arms around him, and for a few moments both brothers held each other in close, silent embrace.

“Cheer up, boys. Don't think you are to part,” said Victoriano, with assumed cheerfulness. “You must come to breakfast with us to-morrow Retty. When father comes he and Clary will concoct some plan so as not to postpone the wedding. Come, I'll take you home. I'll let Mercedes know first that Clarence is here.” So saying he walked into the house. Returning in a few moments, he said:

“Walk in, Clary. Mercedes will be in the parlor in a minute. Now, Retty, I'll take you home.”

While both drove to the Darrells, Clarence went in the parlor to wait with beating heart Mercedes' coming. He walked about the room looking at every object in it without seeing anything. When he heard the rustle of her dress, he stood by the piano with his arms crossed over his breast as if trying to compress the wild throbbing of his heart. He was pale to the lips and his eyes had an expression of longing, of beseeching tenderness, that was far more sad and eloquent than tears would have been. Mercedes came in, followed by her faithful Milord, who, seeing that Clarence paid no attention to him, turned up his nose in mild resentment and went to lie down upon the rug in front of the fire-place. She offered to Clarence her hand in silence. In silence he took it, kissed it and led her to a sofa, sitting down by her side. She was the first to speak. Looking into his eyes, she said:

“Clarence, must we part? I have such, faith in your truth that I believe you will candidly tell me your opinion, even if it kills both of us. Am I right?”

“My darling, what is it? Do not put me to a test that may be too hard, for I tell you frankly I can give up my life, but not my love. Not you! my own! Oh, no; anything but that. Not that.” So saying, he took both her hands—the beauty of which he so loved—and kissed them warmly, all the time fearing that if she said to him that she must break off their engagement, he must submit, as he could not blame her if she considered him beneath her love. “What is it you wish to ask me? Oh, my angel! be merciful!”

“I wish to ask you what must I do when your father has said such frightful things to my papa? Am I obliged and in duty bound to decline a tie which will create any relationship with him?”

Clarence was silent, still holding the dear little hands. His face flushed with shame, but became pale again as he replied:

“It would have been more difficult to solve that problem if my father himself had not done so by driving me off. I am exiled now—driven away from home. I doubt whether he would consider you related to him by being my wife now.”

“I am glad of that,” said she, quickly, but then checking herself, and a little abashed by what she thought the hasty expression of a selfish feeling, she said: “Forgive me; I don't mean I am glad he should drive you away, but that since he has cut you off—and yet—he cannot do that. How can he?”

“He has done so. That proves he can, doesn't it?”

“No, Clarence. No matter what he does he is still your father.”

Clarence leaned his head back on the sofa and looked at the chandelier in silence for some moments, then said:

“Yes, he is my father, but not the father he used to be. There are different kinds of fathers. Some are kind and good, others are most unnatural and cruel. Are they entitled to the same love and respect?”

“But was he ever cruel to you before?”

“Never. He has been always most kind and indulgent to all his children, but especially so to Alice and myself.”

“Then, Clarence, for this one fault, all his life of kindness and devotion must not be forgotten.”

“Oh, my darling! are you going to plead for him and forget my misery? My heart is bleeding yet with the pain of leaving home, and if your indulgence to him means that I must bear the burden of his fault, I then—I must suffer alone!”

“I do not wish you to suffer at all. If there is to be any suffering, I shall share it with you. No. All I say is that if Mr. Darrell is so angry at my papa and myself, we had better postpone our wedding until—”

Clarence sprang to his feet, and with hands pressed to his forehead, began pacing the room, greatly agitated, but without speaking a word.

“Clarence, hear me. It will only be for a little while.”

He shook his head, and continued his walk—his mind a prey to the wildest despair.

“Would it not be very unbecoming for us to marry now, and your family not be present at the wedding?”

“Why shouldn't they be present? All would be but father, and in the furious state of his feelings he had better be away—a great deal better—far, far away.”

“Since he is so furious, I don't think he would like his wife and children to be at our wedding.”

“Mercedes, tell me frankly,” said he, resuming his place at her side: “tell me, has my father's outrageous conduct made me lose caste in your estimation? If so, I shall not blame you, because when a man acts so ungentlemanly, so ruffianly, it is fair to suppose that his sons might do the same.”

“Never! Such an idea never entered my mind. How could it?” said Mercedes, with great earnestness.

“If it did not, it is because you are good and generous. Still, perhaps, it is selfish in me to keep you to your engagement with the son of such a rough. I release you, Mercedes. You are free,” he said, and he closed his eyes and leaned his head again on the back of the sofa. A sensation of icy coldness came over him, and he thought that death must come like that. But for all that mental agony, he still thought Mercedes would be right in rejecting him.

The whole scene as described to him by Everett, when his father was uttering those low insults to Don Mariano, came vividly before him, and he thought it would be impossible for Mercedes not to feel a sense of humiliation in uniting herself to him—he, the son of that brutish fellow—that rough. He arose, and his pallor was so great that Mercedes thought he must be ill.

“Mercedes, we part now. Heaven bless you.”

“Clarence, you are ill. What do you mean? Will you not wait for papa?”

“No. I had better go now.”

“You misunderstood me, I think, else how could you think of going?”

“Did you not say that our wedding had better be postponed? And does that not mean that it may never, never be?”

“Why should it mean that?”

“Because, how can we measure the duration of an anger so senseless? It might last years. No, Mercedes, I feel that you have the right to reject me. I shall be so very wretched without you, that I would beg and entreat, but—”

“Clarence, I do not reject you, and I have no right, no wish, to do so. Please do not say that.”

“Will you be mine—my wife—after all the ruffianly words my father has said?”

“Certainly. Why should I blame you?”

“My own, my sweet wife. Oh! how dearly I love you! The strength of my love makes my heart ache. Will you call me when you think you can consent to our wedding?”

“What do you mean by asking if I will call you?”

“I mean that if our marriage is to be postponed, I shall leave you, but shall be ready to obey your call, and I pray I may not wait for it a long time. And I say this, also, that if upon reflection you decide to cast me off, I shall not complain, because—because my father has lowered me. I am not the same Clarence I was two days ago. You cannot feel proud of me now.”

“But I do. Please do not say those dreadful things. Why should you go away?”

“Because it is best, as long as our marriage is to be postponed. My presence here will be a cause of irritation to my father, and goodness knows what he might not do in his angry mood. If you would not feel humiliated by marrying me, the best thing would be to have a quiet wedding immediately, with only the members of your family present, and not invite guests at all, and then we would take the steamer to San Francisco, and go to our home there.”

“I don't think mamma would consent to that.”

“Then, my darling, I must leave you now. I will return to town, and take the steamer which leaves at daylight, I shall abide implicitly by what you decide. Make known your wishes, and I shall obey.”

“You are offended, Clarence, and I do not know how I have incurred your displeasure,” she said in those tones of her voice which were the most thrilling to him—most sure of going straight to his heart.

Silently he approached her, and kneeling at her feet, he put his arms around the slender and graceful form he idolized so fervently. He rested his head on her shoulder for a few moments, then with a sigh, that seemed to come from his very soul, he said:

“I am not offended, my sweet rosebud, but I am very miserable. Pity me. You see, on my knees I beg you to marry me now—immediately—in two days. If not, I must go now—to-night. Say, will you marry me, as I beg of you?”

“Oh, Clarence, why do you ask me? How can I tell? You will have to ask papa and mamma.”

“Will they consent?”

“Papa, perhaps; but I fear mamma will not approve of such a hasty marriage.”

“That is so. Perhaps I am unreasonable. Good-by, my beloved. Will you call me back soon?”

“Clarence, you are not going? How can you?”

“I must. Do not ask me to remain, under the circumstances, unless it is to make you my wife. I cannot.”

He pressed her to his heart in a long, tender embrace. He arose, and gazed at her sweet face so sadly, that she felt a pang of keen distress and apprehension.

“Clarence, do not look at me so sadly. Please remain until papa comes. Do not go. You might never see him.”

“I must, or I will lose the steamer. Farewell, my own sweet love.”

He clasped her to his heart, and wildly covered her face with kisses. Then, without daring to look back, hurried out of the room into the hall, across the piazza and down the garden-path to the gate, where his phÆton had been left by Victoriano, after having taken Everett home.

“She must naturally hesitate to marry the son of a man who can act and has acted as my father did. I cannot blame her. I ought to respect her for it. Oh, pitying God! how wretched I am! Farewell, happiness for me.”

Muttering this short soliloquy, Clarence drove quickly down the incline leading to the main road.

When the last sound of his footsteps died away, a feeling of utter desolation rushed upon Mercedes. The silence of the house was appalling. In that silence it seemed to her as if a life of lonely misery was suddenly revealed. To lose Clarence, was to lose happiness forevermore. Shocked and terrified at her loneliness, with no hope of seeing him again, she rushed out and ran to the gate, calling him. She saw that he was driving fast, and would soon be crossing the dry bed of the brook to take the main road. Once there he would be too far to hear her voice. She ran out of the gate and turned to the right into a narrow path that also led to the main road, going across the hill through the low bushes and a few elder trees near the house, thus cutting off more than half the distance. Loudly she called his name, again and again, running in the narrow path as fast as her strength allowed. She heard the sound of the phÆton's wheels as they grated harshly on the pebbles of the brook, and then all was silent again.

“Oh, my darling is gone,” said she, and the ground swelled and moved under her feet, and the trees went round in mad circles, and she knew no more. She had fallen down fainting, with no one near her but her faithful Milord, who had followed her, and now nestled by her side.

Clarence had heard her voice call to him, and tried to turn his horses immediately, but they were going down the hill too fast to turn without danger of upsetting; he saw he must first get to the foot of the hill, and turn when he reached the brook. He did so, and with heart-throbs of renewed hope, he re-ascended the hill and hurried to the house. At the door he met Madam Halier, who was blinking at the hall lamp as if just awakened from a sound sleep. Clarence asked for Miss Mercedes.

“I think madamoiselle has just gone down to Madame Mechlin's. I heard her calling Tano, and that woke me up. I had just dropped off into a short nap of five minutes—just five minutes.”

“I thought I heard her voice in this direction,” said Clarence, pointing to the opposite side.

“Oh, no. I think she was afraid to go to Mrs. Mechlin's alone, and she called her brother. But she has been anxious to see you all day. I will send a servant to say you have come. Walk in. Had you a pleasant drive from town?”

“Madam, I have seen Miss Mercedes since my return from town. I had said farewell, and was driving away, when I thought I heard her voice calling me. Perhaps I was mistaken, but I think not. Where has she gone, I wonder?”

“To Madam Mechlin's, monsieur.”

“Be it so. Good-by, madam,” said he, extending his hand.

“But will you not wait for madamoiselle?”

“No, madam; if she did not call me, I need not wait.”

This time Clarence drove slowly down the hill, looking at both sides of the road, peering under the trees and bushes, still impressed with the idea that he might see her form or hear her voice. The moon was just rising, casting long shadows as it arose, but the shadow of that beloved, graceful form was nowhere to be seen. This added disappointment was added bitterness to his cup of misery, and he began to feel sick in body and mind, and he saw in himself a most wretched outcast.

Tano and DoÑa Josefa now came and saw the phÆton ascending the hill on the other side of the brook.