“Or Miss Wilton—that name, sir, is more fitting from your lips now.”
“Do I dream?” cried Wilton, pressing the palms of his hands to his temples.
“No, sir!” she continued, in the same firm tone as before. “You are broad awake, the morning sun is now, at least, shining upon your eyes. You have seen me always passive and placid, yielding, and perhaps even, as the writer of yon well-dissembled epistle has flattered me by saying, displaying an amiable sweetness of disposition. In poverty, sir, you were gentle, yielding—oh, most amiable; but there you had an inner nature which has developed itself here at Harley-dale. I, too, sir, have an inner nature; it is developing itself now.”
“It is, indeed,” almost groaned Wilton, and then added, sternly, “to what end?”
“To this, sir,” replied Flora, as decisively as before.
“In this house, on these estates, you are the lordly patrician, lofty to me as to the beater of your game. I am received by you, addressed by you, retire from your presence as from that of the supreme head of the household alone.”
“Am I not?” he demanded.
“You are, sir; as such, I pay you homage,” she responded, “but you are my father no less, and in that capacity you have thought it proper to treat me as a stranger—would dispose of me as a lord of old would give in marriage the daughter of one of his serfs to a neighbour’s vassal.”
“Girl—girl, you are insane!” he cried, stamping his foot.
“If I were, sir, I should not see the change in you—-the bitter—bitter alteration. Oh, I have loved you so dearly, so truly, so fondly, when there were no trappings and riches to step in between our loving hearts. How I loathe this state which freezes our affections into ceremonious greetings; how I fling back Miss Wilton to your lips, sir, and how gladly would I take up poverty again, to be once more your own darling Flo’!”