"What an absurd question, John," replied the girl, laughing softly and contentedly. "Why else am I here? Tell me, think you, John, should I be here if I were not willing and eager to—to keep that promise?"
"Will you go with me notwithstanding your father's hatred of my house?" he asked.
"Ah, truly that I will, John," she answered; "surely you know I will go with you."
"Let us go at once. Let us lose not a moment. We have already delayed too long," cried John in eager ecstasy.
"Not to-night, John; I cannot go to-night," she pleaded. "Think of my attire," and she drew my cloak more closely about her. "I cannot go with you this time. My father is angry with me because of you, although he does not know who you are. Is it not famous to have a lover in secret of whom nobody knows? Father is angry with me, and as I told you in my letter, he keeps me a prisoner in my rooms. Aunt Dorothy stands guard over me. The dear, simple old soul! She told me, thinking I was Malcolm, that she was too old to be duped by a girl! Oh, it was too comical!" And she threw back her head and gave forth a peal of laughter that John was reluctantly compelled to silence. "I would so delight to tell you of the scene when I was in Aunt Dorothy's room impersonating Malcolm; but I have so much else to say of more importance that I know I shall not tell the half. When you have left me, I shall remember what I most wished to say but forgot."
"No, John," she continued seriously, "my father has been cruel to me, and I try to make myself think I do not love him; but I fail, for I do love him." Tears were welling up in her eyes and stifling her voice. In a moment she continued: "It would kill him, John, were I to go with you now. I will go with you soon,—I give you my solemn promise to that—but I cannot go now,—not now. I cannot leave him and the others. With all his cruelty to me, I love him, John, next to you. He will not come to see me nor will he speak to me. Think of that." The tears that had welled up to her eyes fell in a piteous stream over her cheeks. "Aunt Dorothy and Madge," she continued, "are so dear to me that the thought of leaving them is torture. But I will go with you some day, John, some day soon, I promise you. They have always been kind and gentle to me, and I love them and my father and my dear home where I was born and where my sweet mother died—and Dolcy—I love them all so dearly that I must prepare myself to leave them, John, even to go with you. The heart strings of my whole life bind me to them. Forgive me, John, forgive me. You must think of the grief and pain I shall yet pass through to go to you. It is as I told you: we women reach heaven only through purgatory. I must forsake all else I love when I go to you. All, all! All that has been dear to me in life I must forsake for—for that which is dearer to me than life itself. I promise, John, to go with you, but—but forgive me. I cannot go to-night."
"Nor can I ask it of you, Dorothy," said John. "The sacrifice would be all on one side. I should forego nothing, and I should receive all. You would forego everything, and God help me, you would receive nothing worth having. I am unworthy—"
"Not that word, John," cried Dorothy, again covering his mouth with—well, not with her hand. "I shall give up a great deal," she continued, "and I know I shall suffer. I suffer even now when I think of it, for you must remember that I am rooted to my home and to the dear ones it shelters; but I will soon make the exchange, John; I shall make it gladly when the time comes, because—because I feel that I could not live if I did not make it."
"My father has already consented to our marriage," said John. "I told him to-day all that had passed between you and me. He, of course, was greatly pained at first; but when I told him of your perfections, he said that if you and I were dear to each other, he would offer no opposition, but would welcome you to his heart."
"Is your father that—that sort of a man?" asked Dorothy, half in revery. "I have always heard—" and she hesitated.