“My little tender flower! Oh! oh! it is too cruel. But I am here—here, waiting to press her to my heart once more. You shall take me to her now.”
“It would be impossible. I could not. It would kill her. No, you must wait till to-morrow.”
“No, no; I could not wait,” he cried excitedly. “I love her. I am here. I must see her now.”
Claire felt beside herself, and her hands dropped helplessly to her side, as if she despaired of averting the catastrophe that was to come. What was she to do?—say something to deceive this man and keep him waiting until she had seen and prepared her sister?
The task was hateful to her in the extreme; and it seemed as if her life was to be made up of subterfuges and concealments, all of which caused reflections upon her.
“You love May still?” she said at last.
“Love her still!” he cried, with all the impassioned manner of a young Italian. “I tell you it has been desolation to be separated from her all this time; but it was our hard fate, and I have suffered, as she has, poor child. But the thought of seeing her again has comforted me, and I have waited, oh, so patiently, till I could come to her again. Now, tell me, good sister, I must see her—quick—at once.”
“No,” cried Claire, “it is impossible. You must wait.”
“Wait?—I?—wait?”
“Yes,” said Claire desperately; and there was so much firmness and decision in her tone that the weak, impassioned young Italian was mastered, and yielded to her will.