“Let go, Bernard!” she cried; “you are breaking my arm. Look, you have scraped it against the bars.”
“Why have you intrenched yourself against me?” I said, putting my lips to the little scratch I had made on her arm. “Ah, woe is me! Confound the bars! Edmee, if you would only bend your head down I should be able to kiss you . . . kiss you as my sister. Edmee, what are you afraid of?”
“My good Bernard,” she replied, “in the world in which I live one does not kiss even a sister, and nowhere does one kiss in secret. I will kiss you every day before my father, if you like; but never here.”
“You will never kiss me!” I cried, relapsing into my usual passion. “What of your promise? What of my rights?”
“If we marry,” she said, in an embarrassed tone, “when you have received the education I implore you to receive, . . .”
“Death of my life! Is this a jest? Is there any question of marriage between us? None at all. I don’t want your fortune, as I have told you.”
“My fortune and yours are one,” she replied. “Bernard, between near relations as we are, mine and thine are words without meaning. I should never suspect you of being mercenary. I know that you love me, that you will work to give me proof of this, and that a day will come when your love will no longer make me fear, because I shall be able to accept it in the face of heaven and earth.”
“If that is your idea,” I replied, completely drawn away from my wild passion by the new turn she was giving to my thoughts, “my position is very different; but, to tell you the truth, I must reflect on this; I had not realized that this was your meaning.”
“And how should I have meant otherwise?” she answered. “Is not a woman dishonoured by giving herself to a man who is not her husband? I do not wish to dishonour myself; and, since you love me, you would not wish it either. You would not do me an irreparable wrong. If such were your intention you would be my deadliest enemy.”
“Stay, Edmee, stay!” I answered. “I can tell you nothing about my intentions in regard to you, for I have never had any very definite. I have felt nothing but wild desires, nor have I ever thought of you without going mad. You wish me to marry you? But why—why?”