“For Heaven’s sake,” he whispered, “don’t! I cannot bear to see you suffer. Tell me, why are you in such grief?”
“Mr Elthorne!” she cried in a low voice, as she glanced toward where the patient lay asleep.
“Yes; Neil Elthorne,” he said huskily. “I cannot bear to see you in such distress. I have fought with it; I have struggled and suffered for months and months now. I felt that it was a kind of madness and that it was folly and presumption to think as I did of one who seemed never even to give me a thought. I came down here. It was to flee from you, and try to forget you, but fate brought you here, and I have had to go on from day to day fighting this bitter fight.”
“Mr Elthorne—your father—are you mad?”
“Yes,” he said excitedly. “Mad; and you have made me so. I know that I am not worthy of you, but listen; give me some hope. Elisia, have pity on me—I love you.”
“No, no; hush, hush!” she whispered excitedly. “It is impossible; it is not true.”
“It is not impossible, and it is true,” he said. “You must have known this for long enough. You must have seen the cruel struggle I have had. Are you so cold and heartless that you turn from me like this?”
“Mr Elthorne!” she cried indignantly; “you take advantage of my helplessness here. I ought to look for your respect and protection as a gentleman, and you speak to me like this—here, with your poor father in this state.”
“Don’t reproach me,” he pleaded. “Have I ever failed in respect and reverence for you from the day we met till now?—You are silent. You know I have not. You know how my love for you has grown day by day as we have worked together yonder—here. You know how I have fought against it till now, when I see you suffering, and I can bear no more.”
“You insult me!” she said indignantly.