“So you upbraid me. This is most wicked. I durst not trust myself here any longer. But oh, Theresa, you have been for ever uppermost in my thoughts, and I could no longer remain away—hence it is I am here now. You will not—you cannot—find it in your heart to censure me—me who would lay down my life for you.”
“Ah, sir, these are but words—idle words—the past cannot be recalled, but the actual present is absolute, and the future is terrible.”
“Why terrible, Theresa?”
“Do not ask me such a question, my lord. It comes with ill grace from you.”
Lord Ethalwood was puzzled, as well he might be. He did not very well know how to construe the meaning of the young girl’s words. He remained silent and thoughtful for some little time, and then said in a low tone—
“Possibly I may be mistaken. This young man who has caused us all so much anxiety may not be after all the one you would have chosen for a husband of your own free will, but your mother——”
“He is her choice—not mine,” cried Theresa, with sudden energy.
“Tell me frankly, dearest,” said Lord Ethalwood, bending fondly over her—“do you love him?”
“No—a thousand times no!” she answered. “I should have thought that was self-evident.”
“Theresa,” said he, taking her hand within his own, “I thank you for this candid avowal. I have no desire to see you sacrificed on the altar of filial duty or affection. Be bold and resolute—discard him, dearest, send him adrift.”