“And, dearest Marian, we are both of age, both free—­we should neither displease God nor wrong man, by such a step—­while it would at the same time secure our union, and save us from injustice and oppression! do you not see?”

Such was his argument, which he pleaded and enforced with all the powers of passion and eloquence.  In vain.  Though every interview increased his power over the maiden—­though her affections and her will were both subjected, the domain of conscience was unconquered.  And Marian still answered: 

“Though a secret marriage would break no law of God or man, nor positively wrong any human creature, yet it might be the cause of misunderstanding and suspicion—­and perhaps calumny, causing much distress to those who love and respect me.  Therefore it would be wrong.  And I must do no wrong, even for your dear sake.”

CHAPTER XIV.

CLOUDY.

It was Christmas Eve and a fierce snow-storm was raging.

Old Mr. Willcoxen sat half doubled up in his leather-covered elbow chair, in the chimney corner of his bedroom, occupied with smoking his clay pipe, and thinking about his money bags.

Fanny was in the cold, bleak upper rooms of the house, looking out of the windows upon the wide desolation of winter, the waste of snow, the bare forest, the cold, dark waters of the bay—­listening to the driving tempest, and singing, full of glee as she always was when the elements were in an uproar.

Thurston was the sole and surly occupant of the sitting-room, where he had thrown himself at full length upon the sofa, to lie and yawn over the newspaper, which he vowed was as stale as last year’s almanac.

Suddenly the front door was thrown open, and some one came, followed by the driving wind and snow, into the hall.

Thurston threw aside his paper, started up, and went out.

What was his surprise to see Cloudesley Mornington standing there, with a face so haggard, with eyes so wild and despairing, that, in alarm, he exclaimed: 

“Good heaven, Cloudesley.  What is the matter?  Has anything happened at home?”

“Home! home!  What home?  I have no home upon this earth now, and never shall have!” exclaimed the poor youth, distractedly.

“My dear fellow, never speak so despondently.  What is it now? a difficulty with the commodore?”

“God’s judgment light upon him!” cried Cloudy, pushing past and hurrying up the stairs.

Thurston could not resume his former composure; something in Cloudy’s face had left a feeling of uneasiness in his mind, and the oftener he recalled the expression the more troubled he became.

Until at length he could bear the anxiety no longer, and quietly leaving his room, he went up-stairs in search of the youth, and paused before the boy’s door.  By the clicking, metallic sounds within, he suspected him to be engaged in loading a pistol; for what purpose!  Not an instant was to be risked in rapping or questioning.