“Yes; well, what of Erminie?” he inquired, anxiously.
Colonel Eastworth reflected for a moment, and then plunged headlong into the subject.
“I would submit to you, sir, respectfully, but very earnestly, that an engagement of two years will be intolerably tedious to me. I come to entreat you to shorten the period. There is really no reason why we should not be married at once. I love your daughter devotedly, and I am so blessed as to have won her affections. My means are ample, and I shall be only too happy to make any settlements upon my bride that you may please to name. My character and position, I hope you know, are unimpeachable.”
“All that is true, Eastworth—quite true!” said the old doctor, taking up his pipe and putting it in his mouth, and puffing away leisurely.
“Then, sir, let me hope that you will reconsider your decision, and allow the marriage to take place soon,” pleaded the colonel.
“No, Eastworth. She is much too young to be married yet. Think of it!—she is not yet seventeen! Her youth is an objection to her marriage that cannot be set aside, Eastworth, by any agent except time. You must be patient, my friend.”
Nor could further pleading move the old man.
Colonel Eastworth rejoined Erminie in the drawing-room. She looked up inquiringly as he entered.
“Your father is obdurate, my sweet love! I cannot win his consent to my wishes, upon any terms,” he said, with a profound sigh.
“Then we must be patient. My dear father is very good to us in all other respects; in this also, perhaps, though we do not know it,” replied Erminie, gently.