‘Esther,’ he said, ‘have pity on me. What have I done? Can you not forgive me? Esther, you loved me once—can you not love me still?’
‘How can I tell you? How am I to know?’ she answered. ‘You are all a lie to me—all a lie from first to last. You were laughing at my folly, playing with me like a child, at the very time when you declared you loved me. Which was true? was any of it true? or was it all, all a mockery? I am weary trying to find out. And you say I loved you; I loved my father’s friend. I never loved, I never heard of, you, until that man came home and I began to find myself deceived. Give me back my father, be what you were before, and you may talk of love indeed!’
‘Then you cannot forgive me—cannot?’ he asked.
‘I have nothing to forgive,’ she answered. ‘You do not understand.’
‘Is that your last word, Esther?’ said he, very white, and biting his lip to keep it still.
‘Yes, that is my last word,’ replied she.
‘Then we are here on false pretences, and we stay here no longer,’ he said. ‘Had you still loved me, right or wrong, I should have taken you away, because then I could have made you happy. But as it is—I must speak plainly—what you propose is degrading to you, and an insult to me, and a rank unkindness to your father. Your father may be this or that, but you should use him like a fellow-creature.’
‘What do you mean?’ she flashed. ‘I leave him my house and all my money; it is more than he deserves. I wonder you dare speak to me about that man. And besides, it is all he cares for; let him take it, and let me never hear from him again.’
‘I thought you romantic about fathers,’ he said.
‘Is that a taunt?’ she demanded.