“Do you mean, then, to marry him?” said her sister.
“Some day—if he wishes it—yes!”
From this time, I myself hardly remember what passed; I can only see her standing there, her sweet face white as death, making no moan, and answering nothing to any accusations that were heaped upon her, except when she was commanded to give me up, entirely and for ever and ever.
“I cannot, father. I have no right to do it. I belong to him; he is my husband.”
At last, Miss Johnston said to me—rather gently than not, for her: “I think, Doctor Urquhart, you had better go.”
My love looked towards me, and afterwards at her poor father; she too said, “Yes, Max, go.” And then they wanted her to promise she would never see me, nor write to me; but she refused.
“Father, I will not marry him for ever so long, if you choose—but I cannot forsake him. I must write to him. I am his very own, and he has only me. Oh, papa, think of yourself and my mother.” And she sobbed at his knees.
He must have thought of Harry's mother, not hers, for this exclamation only hardened him.
Then Theodora rose, and gave me her little hand.—“It can hold firm, you will find. You have my promise. But whether or no, it would have been all the same. No love is worth having that could not, with or without a promise, keep true till death. You may trust me. Now, goodbye. Good-bye, my Max.”
With that one clasp of the hand, that one look into her fond, faithful eyes, we parted. I have never seen her since.