“I think,” returned the girl, in a voice of utter and hopeless despair—a voice which would have rent the heart of any man but this one, “I think, Charles, that your love for me, if it ever existed, is dead and buried. I think, nay, I am quite sure, that you have decided never to make me your wife.”
“This is folly.”
“Charles, it is the truth. If you had any love, any feeling for me, you would not, could not, speak as you have done to-night. If you meant to make me your wife, you would not subject me to such utter shame.”
The clergyman entirely lost his self-command. He uttered an exclamation, and impatiently freed himself from her touch.
“Your shame,” he said; “your disgrace—it is always that. But what of me? Have I no caste to lose? You talk of my love, but what of yours? If it exists, does it fill you with the least consideration for me? If you talk like this, you will make me wish that we had never met.”
“How much better it would have been for me!”
“You think so? Thank God, it is not too late to part.”
“But it is too late!” cried the girl, wildly. “I tell you, it is too late for me!”
“But it is not too late for me,” said. Santley, between his set teeth.
“Charles, what do you mean? Answer me, for God’s sake. Will you not make me your wife?”