“Yes; my aunt Kate. Father sent me up to her, for he knew it would distress me to see all our things moved from our dear old home—all my mother’s things. And father would have been distressed to see me grieved, and I to see him. It was kind of him; he is always so good to me.”
“He is a good man, Norah—I know that; I only hope he won’t hate me.”
“Why?”—This was said very faintly.
“For wanting to carry off his daughter. Don’t go, Norah. For God’s sake, don’t go! I shall not say anything you do not wish; but if you only knew the agony I have been in since I saw you last—when I thought I had lost you—you would pity me—indeed you would! Norah, I love you! No! you must listen to me—you must! I want you to be my wife—I shall love and honour you all my life! Don’t refuse me, dear; don’t draw back—for I love you!—I love you!”
There, it was all out. The pent-up waters find their own course.
For a minute, at least, Norah sat still. Then she turned to me very gravely, and there were tears in her eyes:—
“Oh, why did you speak like that, sir?—why did you speak like that? Let me go!—let me go! You must not try to detain me!”—I stood back, for we had both risen—“I am conscious of your good intention—of the honour you do me—but I must have time to think. Good-bye!”
She held out her hand. I pressed it gently—I dared not do more—true love is very timid at times!—She bowed to me, and moved off.
A sudden flood of despair rushed over me—the pain of the days when I thought I had lost her could not be soon forgotten, and I feared that I might lose her again.
“Stay, Norah!—stay one moment!” She stopped and turned round. “I may see you again, may I not? Do not be cruel!—may I not see you again?”