And well she might. Here, in the presence of men, in the presence of her father and her lover, she was making admissions, the lightest one of which, unexplained, was sufficient to brand her woman’s brow with ineffaceable and eternal dishonor!
Her lover’s head had sunk upon his breast, and he stood with folded arms, set lips, downcast eyes and impassable brow, upon which none could read his thoughts.
Her father’s face had grown darker and sterner, as he questioned and she answered, until now it was terrible to look upon.
A pause had followed her last words, and was broken at length by Major Helmstedt, who, in a voice, awful in the stillness and depth of suppressed passion, said:
“Wretched girl! why do you linger here? Begone! and never let me see you more!”
“Father, father! have mercy, have mercy on your poor child!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands and dropping at his feet.
“Minion! never dare to desecrate my name, or pollute my sight again. Begone!” he exclaimed, spurning her kneeling form and turning away.
“Oh, father, father! for the sweet love of the Saviour!” she cried, throwing her arms around his knees and clinging to him.
“Wretch! outcast! release me, avoid my presence, or I shall be driven to destroy you, wanton!” he thundered, giving way to fury, and shaking her as a viper from her clinging hold upon his feet; “wanton! courtez——”
But ere that word of last reproach could be completed, swift as lightning she flew to his bosom, clung about his neck, placed her hand over his lips to arrest his further speech, and gazing intensely, fiercely into his eyes—into his soul, exclaimed: