The German's Daughter [pp. 737-760]

1840.] The German's Daughr.'751
an artful fortune-huntress. In conclusion, he declared that if Mr. Brunfels should permit this marriage to occur, it would be at the price of my total
separation from my family; as my mother and
himself were equally determined never to receive
as their daughter a woman who could force herself
upon them, in a manner so little indicative of proper
pride. For the rest, it was true that I was independent of himself, and that he could not prevent
my acting as I pleased. This was therefore the
only mode he could adopt, by which he had even a
chance of arresting a step which he dreaded beyond
expression. Were there any means open to him
whereby he could more effectually oppose it, Mr.
Brunfels might rest assured he would prefer any
course to an appeal which, even in making it, lihe
felt to be hopeless. The tenor of this precious
epistle I long afterwards extracted from my mother.
It was not long after the departure of these letters before I received one in reply from Mr. Brunfels. See, I have it here. Do listen to it, Mrs.
Vere, and tell me what you conceive to have been
my feelings, when I had first a comprehension of
its contents.
" Oh! no-of course I'm not! But, father, I am
engaged-that is-sir, I assure you she is the love liest creature in the world" " In love, Henry!" said my parents. There was
'an awful pause.'
"Is she rich i" asked mv father at last, in a tone
which meant-I could not guess exactly what, but
it was much too deliberate to please me.
"N- not unless in beauty and excellence."
"May be then she is poor, sir {" in a voice of
dry contempt.
I was too much nettled to reply.
" W hat is he r family." asked mamma. " That
is a mor e wei ghty c onsider a tion."
"Good heavens! my d ear onadaep, what a ques -
tion! Sd e is the d augh ter of a most respectable
German gentleman."
" Of a foreign pauper!" cried my father, " that's
well for your discretion!"
" Of some low-born foreigner!" exclaimed my
mother, with all the emphasis of scorn.
"What nonsense!" continued my f ather.
" This is a pretty story to bring home, after all our
indulgence-all our hopes!" observed my mother.
"Don't expect me to consent to your throwing your self away in this ridiculous manner. I assure you I
never will receive such a person into my family."
" Nor I, by heaven!" added my father.
I tried the effect of representations, arguments,
even entreaties. I begged them only to see-to
know her before they should decide. As well might
I have indeed offered my eloquence to the ear of
'the deaf adder.' They treated my reasoning
with derision, and my prayers with excessive
indignation.
" They should never lend themselves to aid in
bringing into their family a vulgar set of artful
foreigners."
" Then," cried I, flushing high at this last speech,
"in a month more I shall be of age, and without
the sanction I have so vainly sought, I will then
unite my fate with that of the beautiful creature
you reject so blindly!"
" Do," said my father, contemptuously. " It
will be so heroic."
"But do not bring her here, I beg of you," added
my mother.
I left the room in a perfect rage. Never was
family meeting- so inharmoniously interrupted. I
immediately wrote to Julie, communicating this
prostration of my hopes, but declaring my resolve
to return as soon as I should. be of age, and receive my sentence only from herself.
My father also wrote to Mr. Brunfels by the
same post, though at the time I was not aware of
his having taken this step. He did not hesitate to
express the most decided repugnance to my union
with Julie, nor, indeed, to give his reasons for the
dislike. He more than insinuated, as I afterwards
found, his suspicions that I had been the dupe of
" When my dear young friend first communica ted to me his wish to unite himself to my daughter,
the opinion I had formed of his character, and the
affection I had conceived for himself, alike ren dered me happy in the prospect of his alliance.
' Let well alone,' said I to myself, is one of
those proverbs, which, replete with wisdom, con tain in themselves such a weight of experience,
and are indeed'multum in parvo.' Even then,
however, I told my young friend that I foresaw a
difficulty, and the event has proved my foresight
only too accurate. I am glad that I then warned
him not to be too sanguine of success-for this has
probably tended to reconcile him to the decision
which I must now with pain pronounce. Mr. Pem broke and my daughter must never meet again.
To the objections interposed by his father I have
nothing to reply. I have not, I trust, so little dignity of feeling as to desire to remove them, and for
my daughter I can proudly say, that she would
shudder at the idea of an alliance to which it could
be imagined that she brought only humiliation. I
shall decline all communication with the elder Mr.
Pembroke. The tone and substance of his recent
letter preclude the possibility of my exchanging
with him even the most formal epistles But I must,
notwithstanding, recognize the claims of a father
upon an only son, and this cause must prevent the
happiness for which I had hoped in the society of
Mr. Henry Pembroke. I trust he will do justice
to my feelings, nevertheless. I hope he will not
wholly forget our friendship, but even more earnestly do I desire that hlie will never again attempt
to see my daughter. Our determination is sincere,
and therefore immutable. Let not pain and unne
1840.]
The German's Daughter.
751