“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.
“No,” he replied, “it is an argument. No one can make you like him, but don’t disgrace him in his own eyes. He is old, Esther, old and broken down. Even I am sorry for him, and he has been the loss of all I cared for. Write to your aunt; when I see her answer you can leave quietly and naturally, and I will take you to your aunt’s door. But in the meantime you must go home. You have no money, and so you are helpless, and must do as I tell you; and believe me, Esther, I do all for your good, and your good only, so God help me.”
She had put her hand into her pocket and withdrawn it empty.