His brow clouded instantly as he read it. The affair was beginning to assume a more serious look than he liked. He saw it was made out in due form, and signed by “Anson Moulton, clerk.”
He saw through the whole plot immediately—saw that the man whom he knew to be his deadly enemy had intended to do him this great wrong; that he meant to strike a blow where it would tell.
He turned sternly to Robert, and said:
“Well, sir, what have you to say for yourself? You have disobeyed me by going where I have strictly forbidden you, to say nothing of the fix you have got yourself into.”
“I intended no harm, father,” replied Robert, respectfully. “I heard of the squire’s statuary, and you know how fond I am of such things, so I told Dora we would ride out and see it.”
“What put this ridiculous idea into your heads?” he asked, shaking the certificate impatiently at him.
“I don’t know; I always thought Dora was to be my wife, so I thought we might as well be married to-day as any time.”
“Such talk was all very well for a couple of children; but you could not think I would really allow such a thing, either now or in the future. I had other plans for you,” said Mr. Ellerton, an angry flush spreading itself over his face.
“But I did, sir,” replied Robert, firmly, though with a mortified air, for the implied inferiority cast upon the Duponts by his father’s words stung him. “It has been talked of for years,” he went on, “and I, for one, have believed it. I love Dora, and always shall love her; and if we had waited ten years, and she was willing, I would have done the same thing.”
“Bosh!” exclaimed his father, impatiently. “You can sit down again, and hold your peace. Madam,” he continued, turning icily to Mrs. Dupont again, “I think we can fix this little affair. Even if the ceremony proves to be legal, we can easily have them divorced. I suppose it’s your wish as well as mine?”