“And what of yourself, Willy?” he asked.
“I think I care for her, too,—I think so.”
How sure was the other of a more absolute affection than the most positive words could express! Ralph sat silent for a moment, as was his wont when under the influence of strong feeling. His head inclined downwards, and his eyes were fixed on the floor. A great struggle was going on within him. Should he forthwith make declaration of his own passion? Love said, Yes! love should be above all ties of kindred, all claims of blood. But the many tongues of an unselfish nature said, No! If this thing were wrong, it would of itself come to nought; if right, it would be useless to oppose it. The struggle was soon over, and the impulse of self-sacrifice had conquered. But at what a cost—at what a cost!
“Yet there is her father, you know,” Willy added. “One dreads the thought of such a match. There may be something in the blood—at least, one fears—”
“You need have no fear of Rotha that comes of her relation to Simeon Stagg. Sim is an innocent man.”
“So you say—so you say. Let us hope so. It's a terrible thought-that of marriage with the flesh and blood of—of a murderer.”
“Rotha is as free from taint of crime as—you are. She is a noble girl, and worthy of you, worthy of any man, whatever her father may be,” said Ralph.
“Yes, yes, I know; I thought you'd say so. I'm glad, Ralph—I can't tell you how glad I am—to hear you say so. And if I'm right—if Rotha really loves me—I know you'll be as glad as I am.”
Ralph's face trembled slightly at this, but he nodded his head and smiled.
“Not that I could think of it for a long time,” Willy continued. “This dreadful occurrence must banish all such thoughts for a very long time.”