“Then ask uncle when he wakes,” cried the girl, flushing up angrily, as she snatched her hand away.
“No, thanks; don’t want a bottle or jug thrown at my head. But I don’t believe you, you artful little jade. It’s all your cunning way to lead me on. He has left you all his money, darling, and you’ve played your cards splendidly; but it would not make any difference to me if you hadn’t a penny. You are going to be my little wife.”
“Never!” cried Gertrude, with a hurried glance at the sunken features on the pillow.
They both spoke in a low, quick, subdued whisper, and as if under the influence of the same dread lest the old man should awake.
“Don’t talk stuff, my darling. Think of your position.”
“I tell you I am penniless,” cried Gertrude excitedly, as she felt that Saul’s advances were mainly due to his belief in her future wealth.
“All the more need for you to listen to me, darling,” whispered Saul, as he threw his arm round the girl’s waist, and held her in spite of her struggles. “When the old man dies, if you are as you say, what’s to become of you?”
“I shall not tell you,” cried Gertrude, striving to escape.
“Then I’ll tell you. There’s that nice little idea in your head that my beloved cousin—that Yankee vagabond—is coming back to marry you, so that all is to be happy ever after. But suppose he does not come?”
“He will come; your uncle has sent for him.”