“To blame!” cried Dora. “And pray how—and why—and for what did you think me to blame, sir?”
The impossibility of explanation, the impropriety of what he had said flashed suddenly on his mind; and in a few moments a rapid succession of ideas followed. “Was Dora to blame for obeying her father, for being ready to marry the man to whom her father had destined—promised her hand; and was he, Harry Ormond, the adopted child, the trusted friend of the family, to suggest to the daughter the idea of rebelling against her father’s will, or disputing the propriety of his choice?”
Ormond’s imagination took a rapid flight on Dora’s side of the question, and he finished with the conviction that she was “a sacrifice, a martyr, and a miracle of perfection!” “Blame you, Dora!” cried he, “blame you! No—I admire, I esteem, I respect you. Did I say that I blamed you? I did not know what I said, or what I meant.”
“And are you sure you know any better what you say or what you mean, now?” said Dora.
The altered look and tone of tartness in which this question was asked produced as sudden a change in Harry’s conviction. He hesitatingly answered, “I am—”
“He is,” said Sheelah, confidently.
“I did not ask your opinion, Sheelah: I can judge for myself,” said Dora. “Your words tell me one thing, sir, and your looks another,” said she, turning to Ormond; “which am I to believe, pray?”
“Oh! believe the young man any way, sure,” said Sheelah; “silence speaks best for him.”
“Best against him, in my opinion,” said Dora.
“Dora, will you hear me?” Ormond began.