I attempted to speak, but my throat was parched and my faculties all lay dead for the moment; but struggling courageously with myself, I took her hand, pressing it between my own cold palms; “Cora,” I said, still in a whisper, for my voice would not come, “have you thought all this over? will you go with me to your father? Remember, love, he is ill and may not live.”
The hand began to tremble in mine, but she turned her face away.
“Let the subject drop,” she said, in a voice low and full of pain, like mine; “it is of no use talking, I will not leave him. It would kill us both; I should perish on the way.”
Now my voice returned—my heart swelled—words of persuasion, of reason, rose eloquently to my lips. I reasoned, I entreated, I portrayed the disgrace of her present position, prophesied the deeper shame and anguish sure to follow. I described the condition of her father in words that melted my own heart and flooded my face with tears. I prostrated myself before her, covering her dimpled and trembling hands with my tears, but all in vain. My passion was answered with silence or smothered monosyllables. She suffered greatly; even in the excitement of my own feelings I was sure of that. At length she broke from me, and rushed off toward the beach, evidently determined to protect herself from my importunity by the presence of Chaleco.
I had no heart to follow her, but went away in another direction, walking rapidly toward the opposite extremity of the island.
CHAPTER LI.
THE ISLAND COVE.
As I neared a tiny cove that shot up like a silver arrow into the green turf, I was surprised to find the gay streamers of a pleasure boat floating over the rushes that edged the cove. With my tearful eyes and flushed countenance, I was in no condition to meet strangers, and turned to retrace my steps, heart-sick, and at the moment recoiling from the sight of anything human. Scarcely had I walked twenty paces, when footsteps followed me, and some one called me by name. I looked around and saw Mr. Upham coming up from the boat. I would not appear to fly from this man, though my heart rose against him in detestation.
“Zana,” he said, approaching me more slowly after I paused, and speaking with forced cheerfulness, “how came you here, of all places in the world; are you the goddess of this little island—a fairy? In the name of everything beautiful, explain this meeting?”
I did not at first reply; indeed it was difficult to account for my presence thus alone on a remote spot never visited perhaps once a year. Important, as I felt secrecy to be, I could not speak of Chaleco or explain anything regarding Cora, whose position, above all things, must be kept from a man so intimate with the Clares. I attempted to answer in his own light way.
“The spirits of air and water do not offer themselves so readily, sir; I came from the little public house yonder, in a very common-place boat.”