"And you have not come to congratulate me?"
"I should have done so. I do own that I have been wrong."
"Wrong;—very wrong! How was I to have any of the enjoyment of my restored rights unless you came to enjoy them with me?"
"They can be nothing to me, Isabel."
"They shall be everything to you, sir."
"No, my dear."
"They are to be everything to me, and they can be nothing to me without you. You know that, I suppose?" Then she waited for his reply. "You know that, do you not? You know what I feel about that, I say. Why do you not tell me? Have you any doubt?"
"Things have been unkind to us, Isabel, and have separated us."
"Nothing shall separate us." Then she paused for a moment. She had thought of it all, and now had to pause before she could execute her purpose. She had got her plan ready, but it required some courage, some steadying of herself to the work before she could do it. Then she came close to him,—close up to him, looking into his face as he stood over her, not moving his feet, but almost retreating with his body from her close presence. "William," she said, "take me in your arms and kiss me. How often have you asked me during the last month! Now I have come for it."
He paused a moment as though it were possible to refuse, as though his collected thoughts and settled courage might enable him so to outrage her in her petition. Then he broke down, and took her in his arms, and pressed her to his bosom, and kissed her lips, and her forehead, and her cheeks,—while she, having once achieved her purpose, attempted in vain to escape from his long embrace.