“It is of that I wished to speak to you, father,” she said, in a dreary quiescence that filled him with hope.
“Come, this promises well. My dear girl is reasonable.”
“He sent me those,” she said, pointing to a small stack of roses, jonquils and heliotrope, that lay a neglected litter, upon the table, and appealed to her senses in revolt with a nauseating sweetness. “And this letter. He is giving a fancy ball, and wishes me to attend publicly as his bride.”
“The wish does him honour, and is but natural and manly. You must get over this fancied repugnance, my girl. You will have to marry him. It is my resolution.”
He spoke with a harshness quite foreign to him, but its adoption nerved him to show her a front of adamant.
“Father, I will not,” she cried—screamed nearly.
“Will not?” he asked, his brows shooting into a significant arch, and his eyes, for the first time in the interview, holding hers in question.
“Cannot,” she breathed, in a lower tone, with an air of weakness that touched him horribly.
“You see your position. It is for you to obey.”
She caught her breath in a sound held between a sob and a hiss, rebellion gathering ominously about the dark brows.