“It cannot be just yet,” he said, impatiently, and not heeding her interrupted sentence. “My business must be attended to, and our secret can wait a little longer.”
“You are sure you love me only for my very self, George?” she asked, nestling in his arms, and winding her own around his neck.
“What else should I love you for, little one?” he returned; and well it was for her peace of mind that she could not see the smile of scorn that curled his lips at her question.
She laughed a merry, happy laugh, thinking how proud she should be when he returned to her, and she should tell him that she was the child of a marquis and heiress to almost unlimited wealth.
“And you do not regret what we have done?” she asked, laying her golden head upon his breast, with a gesture so full of confidence and love that a feeling of startled fear stole over him for the moment.
“What is there to regret, my little one? Have we not been happy as the day is long?” he asked, evasively.
“You are sure you do not regret, George?” she persisted; and now the blue eyes were lifted anxiously to read his face.
“No, I do not regret,” he said; and the sickening horror with which she afterward remembered those words she never forgot as long as she lived.
He would write to her often until he could come to her, he said, when she wept at parting, and agreed with her that their marriage must be kept a secret until he could come himself and tell her father.
As his letters would arouse suspicion if sent directly to Wycliffe in her name, and as he was not known at Richmond, he would direct them to Mrs. George Sumner, and she could get them herself at the office.