“Pardon me, Miss Wilton,” he said, in a voice which actually trembled with excitement, “for appearing thus abruptly before you, as well as for desiring to detain you for a few minutes while I make a communication to you of an important character—at least to my future happiness.”
“Your pardon in return, Colonel Mires,” she interposed, frigidly; “any communication you may desire to make to me must be made at the Hall, and in presence of my father!”
“Ordinarily, Miss Wilton, such would be the proper mode, I confess; but there are occasions which override etiquette, and this is one of them.”
As Colonel Mires had always treated her with a profound and tender respect, no fear of him entered her mind. She disliked him because he had acted so rudely and contemptuously to Hal, and because his attentions to herself had become sufficiently marked to be offensive to her. She would not, therefore, have hesitated to remain if it had been a mere question of reliance upon his gentlemanly conduct; but the instinct of danger so quickly felt by women when there is real danger at hand raised in her a desire to be away from that lonely place, and, without replying to his observation, she moved on to depart. Once more he stayed her by intercepting her progress.
“Excuse me, Miss Wilton,” he said, “you must hear me.”
Her soft eye glittered, an angry expression appeared upon her fair face, so lovely, even in its ruffled aspect, as to make the heart of the Colonel ache with an intensity of passion.
“Colonel Mires,” she said, sternly, “you forget alike what is due to my position and your own.”
“Possibly, Miss Wilton!” he answered, rapidly. “I forget that—all, everything in the world, in your beautiful presence. You must have seen long since, Miss Wilton, how completely you have enslaved my heart, how entirely my whole being is absorbed by a devouring passion for you. In my words—in my looks—-in my manner, you must have observed how ardently I love you—you must perceive and comprehend that I cannot live without you. Oh, Miss Wilton, I am aware your imagination has been ensnared by a generous impulse in favour of another; but believe that he can never—would never perform one tithe of the devotions I will offer up at your shrine. He would not—no other being would so constantly and unceasingly worship you—so persistently consult your happiness and do so much to secure it as I; for, oh, no other can love you with the impetuous soul-worship which burns in my breast for you.”
“This language, in this place, is an insult to me, Colonel Mires. I demand to be allowed to depart,” cried Flora, as soon as she could recover from the bewilderment his torrent of passionate words occasioned her.
“I only ask Miss Wilton for one small word—tell me to hope—one kind look, and the displacement of that offended expression upon your face by a forgiving smile, for I do nought in offence but all in love.”