“This must not be, whatever shall happen,” said he. “She shall not go seek her fortune over the seas, while I remain here to enjoy her heritage. To-morrow—to-day, I mean,” muttered he, “I will lead her to talk of what is to come, and then———” As to the “then,” he could not form any notion to himself. It meant everything. It meant his whole happiness, his very life; for so was it, she had won his heart just as completely as though by the work of years.
Where love steals into the nature day by day, infiltrating its sentiments, as it were, through every crevice of the being, it will enlist every selfish trait into the service, so that he who loves is half enamoured of himself; but where the passion comes with the overwhelming force of a sudden conviction, where the whole heart is captivated at once, self is forgotten, and the image of the loved one is all that presents itself. This was Harry Luttrell’s case, and if life be capable of ecstasy, it is when lost in such a dream.
CHAPTER LXV. THE LUTTRELL BLOOD
“Look at this, Harry,” said Kate, as he came into the room where she was preparing breakfast. “Read that note; it bears upon what I was telling you about last night.”
“What a scoundrel!” cried Harry, as his eye ran over the lines. “He scarcely seems to know whether the better game will be menace or entreaty.”
“He inclines to menace, however,” for he says, “The shame of an exposure, which certainly you would not be willing to incur.’”
“What may that mean?”
“To connect my name, perhaps, with that of my poor old grand-father; to talk of me as the felon’s granddaughter. I am not going to disown the relationship.”
“And this fellow says he will arrive to-night to take your answer. He has courage, certainly!”