"No," was the firm reply, given with the most positive determination.
Reinhold was about to fly into a passion; she saw how he clenched his fist, but he forced himself to be calm.
"I see that I did your late father injustice," said he, bitterly; "I took it to be his work that all news of my boy was withheld from me. Did you read my first letter yourself, and leave it unanswered?"
"Yes."
"And returned the second unopened?"
"Yes."
Reinhold's face changed from red to white; mutely he gazed at his wife, from whose lips he had never heard an expression of her own will, much less any opposition--whom he only knew as humbly and silently obedient, and who now dared to refuse with such decision to grant him what he considered his own right.
"Take care, Ella," said he, firmly, "whatever may have taken place between us, whatever you may have to reproach me with, this tone of scorn I will not endure; and above all, I will not tolerate being refused the sight of my boy. I will see my child."
The demand sounded almost threatening. The young wife's pale cheeks began to colour slightly, but she did not move from her place.
"Your child?" asked she, slowly; "the boy belongs to me, me only; you lost every right to him when you left him with me."