“Then, my beloved, what I wish you to do is to become my wife in reality and immediately,” he whispered.
“But my father, dear Eastworth! My father would not consent. And besides, he is not here, and will not be here until late to-night,” she answered, when at last she was able to reply.
“No, my beloved, your father would not consent. It would be quite useless to ask him even if he were here; and he is not here. We must act, Erminie, without consulting your father!”
“Oh, Eastworth, not without my dear father’s consent. I could not—I could not strike such a blow at my father’s heart,” she pleaded, plaintively, not as if she could persistently resist his wishes, but as if she were imploring him to spare her the trial. He saw that and took an ungenerous advantage of it.
“You do not love me,” he said, coldly and bitterly.
He had never spoken to her so roughly before. She looked up at him in surprise and affright.
“No, you do not love me, or you would not answer me so,” he repeated, with cruel emphasis.
“Oh, I do, I do! Heaven knows how truly and how much!” she said, clasping her hands in the fervor of her feelings.
“Erminie,” he said, changing his tone from bitter severity to tender earnestness, “Erminie, I would not ask you to do this were there not the gravest reasons for it. Shall I tell you what these reasons are, my beloved girl?”
She dropped her head upon her bosom. Her gesture might have meant assent or despondency. He took it as an assent and he continued: