Keene started violently, and looked at her with amazement in his face.
Then he went slowly to her, and put his hands on her shoulders.
“My darling, what phantasy is this? Philip Ainslie was my father. I am his eldest son, Francis Ainslie. How has my father wronged you?”
He never forgot the horror and misery that his words brought into her features, nor the pathos with which she recoiled, shuddering in every limb.
“Oh, dear God! You, Francis Ainslie——”
“Keene is my theatrical name. What is it, my child? What is the sin?” he asked, very tenderly. “Come to me and tell me.”
But she shrank from him, pressing her hands to her eyes as though to shut him out from her sight.
“You—you—” she moaned. “I cannot tell you—I cannot——”
With two steps he caught her in his arms, crushing her resistance with unconscious strength, pressing passionate kisses on her pale, quivering lips.
“You love me—you cannot deny that. I will yield you to no other, listen to no reason that can separate you from me. By this kiss I swear that you shall be my wife. Now tell me,” releasing her, “what was the wrong done by my father? What did he do. Tell me, Muriel.”