“Darling, you are not that rascal’s wife, except by your sweet will. A forced marriage is no marriage. Look up, Brightie, you are mine yet, and I shall never let you go, until you bid me give you up.”
She looked up, a faint smile for a moment wreathing her pale lips; but it quickly faded, and again releasing herself from his clasp, she said, sorrowfully:
“No, I am not yours—you do not want me, else why did you send me that horrible paper to sign? And that cruel letter——”
“What paper? What letter? I know not what you mean!”
“Oh, don’t you!” she cried, wildly starting to her feet, then said, gravely, looking him full in the eye, “Robert Ellerton, do you indeed speak truly? Oh, I will bless you all the days of my life if you will tell me you did not write them.”
She stretched out her clasped hands to him with such an eager, wistful look, that his heart ached within him, for he knew that, like himself, she must have suffered untold agony, and that in some way she had been led to believe him untrue to her.
He took the little clasped hands tenderly in his own, and said, gazing earnestly in her eyes:
“Dora, my own, I do not understand what you mean; tell me what it is that has caused your love to turn from me?”
“Oh, not my love! That has always been yours; it is yours now and forever,” she sobbed, bowing her head, and resting it upon her clasped hands.
“Well, then, explain what has caused this mistrust in me.”