She received the information as she might have received a blow,—staggering backward, and whitening, and losing her breath; but almost immediately afterward she uttered a sad cry of disbelief and anguish.
“No, no,” she said, “it—it isn't true! I won't believe it—I mustn't. There's half the world between us. Oh, don't try to make me believe it,—when it can't be true!”
“Come with me,” replied Clélie.
Never—never in my life has it been my fate to see, before or since, a sight so touching as the meeting of these two young hearts. When the door of the cold, bare room opened, and Mademoiselle Esmeralda entered, the lover held out his weak arms with a sob,—a sob of rapture, and yet terrible to hear.
“I thought you'd gone back on me, Esmeraldy,” he cried. “I thought you'd gone back on me.”
Clélie and I turned away and left them as the girl fell upon her knees at his side.
The effect produced upon the father—who had followed Mademoiselle as usual, and whom we found patiently seated upon the bottom step of the flight of stairs, awaiting our arrival—was almost indescribable.
He sank back upon his seat with a gasp, clutching at his hat with both hands. He also disbelieved.
“Wash!” he exclaimed weakly. “Lord, no! Lord, no! Not Wash! Wash, he's in North Cal-lina. Lord, no!”
“He is up-stairs,” returned Clélie, “and Mademoiselle is with him.”