“Never,” cried Flora, emphatically.
“I say, yes,” responded Mr. Wilton, with sharp emphasis. “‘Dropping water wears away stone.’ You will receive him on probation; you cannot remain ice-cold to many and constant kindnesses—it is not your nature to do so; and when you find yourself growing grateful, you will find love creeping into your heart to keep it company.”
She had found it.
“I implore you, sir, to spare me from an ordeal agonising to me, and utterly useless and hopeless in its result to the person for whom it is appointed,” she rejoined, with extreme earnestness; “I never can love Mr. Vane.”
“Why not?” cried her father, in a more excited tone than he had yet used; and now regarding the expression on her face with startled wonder. He had never before seen it so aroused, or such a strange gleam flashing from her eye.
She spoke not in answer to this question.
“Why not, I ask?” he cried, loudly and harshly. “I see by your manner that you imply a motive for that assertion. Again, I ask you, why not?”
She struggled passionately with her emotions. She wrung her hands, and looked about her almost piteously for some aid or help by which she might escape from answering this question.
“Speak!” he thundered, animated by a rage she had never yet seen him display. It seemed gradually to change her to stone. She drew herself gently up, crossed her hands over her breast, closed her eyes, and said in a low, but clear, firm voice. “I love already—another!”
Wilton, who in his excitement, had risen angrily from his feet, now staggered back, and sank into his chair, like one smitten with paralysis.