“I should have told anyone who hinted such a thing that it was a lie.”
“Then,” he cried hoarsely, “there is some one else; you have seen some one you like better!”
“John! Mr Lister! You hurt my wrist.”
“You do not answer me,” he cried, his voice growing more hoarse and intense, while I stood there with my heart palpitating, feeling as if I ought to run to Miss Carr’s help.
“I will not answer such a question,” she said angrily; “but I will tell you this: that I have looked upon myself as your betrothed wife; do not make me think upon our engagement with regret.”
“Forgive me, Miriam, pray forgive me,” he said in a low, pleading voice. “It is my wretched temper that has got the better of me. Say you forgive me, Miriam, or I shall be ready to make an end of myself. There, there, don’t take away this little hand.”
“Leave me now, I beg of you,” she said in a low, pained voice.
“Yes, directly, sweet,” he whispered; “but let there be an end of this, my darling. Say—in a month’s time—you will be my wife, and then I shall know I am forgiven.”
“I forgive you your cruel, passionate words, John,” she said, in such a tone that I began once more to look out of the window, wondering whether Mrs John Lister would be as kind to me as Miss Carr.
“And, in a month to-day, you will make me a happy man?”