"Dare to attempt violence towards me," she exclaimed, "and I summon your servants. Then—in their presence—I will proclaim their master a forger! Provoke me not—my spirit is roused—and your fate hangs upon a thread!"
"Damnation!" cried Greenwood, grinding his teeth with rage. "Can nothing move you, Ellen?"
"Yes—the one condition that I ere now named," she answered, drawing herself up to her full height, and assuming all the influence of her really queenly beauty.
"Agreed!" ejaculated Greenwood. "Give me the pocket-book—I take God to witness that I will make you my wife within a week from this day."
"You regard an oath no more than a mere promise," replied Ellen, calmly, and with a slightly satirical curl of the lip.
"I will give you the promise in writing, Ellen," persisted Greenwood, urged to desperation.
"Neither will that satisfy me," said the young lady. "When our hands are joined at the altar, I will restore you the proofs of your crime; and God grant," she added solemnly, "that this peril which you have incurred may serve as a warning to you against future risks of the same fearful kind."
"You have no faith in my word—you have no confidence in my written promise, Ellen," cried Greenwood: "how, then, can you be anxious to have me as a husband?"
"That my child may not grow up with the stain of illegitimacy upon him—that he may not learn to despise his mother," answered Ellen, emphatically; "for he need never know the precise date of our union."
"But you know, Ellen," again remonstrated Greenwood, "that there are circumstances which act as an insuperable barrier to this marriage. Could you tell your father that you have espoused the man who ruined him—ruined Richard,—and also admit, at the same time, that this man was the father of your child! Consider, Ellen—reflect——"