"What are yours?"
She hesitated, held at bay, but he waited; and at last with a little of her frank daring breaking out, she said, still in her former soft voice, "I would let things alone."
"Suppose that could not be,—would you send me away, or let me come near to you?"
Eleanor could not send him away; but he would not come near. He stood keeping her hands in a light firm grasp; she felt that he knew his hold of her; her head bowed in confusion.
"Speak, darling," he said. "Are you mine?"
Eleanor shrank lower and lower from his observation; but she answered in a whisper,—"I suppose so."
Her hands were released then, only to have herself taken into more secure possession. She had given herself up; and Mr. Carlisle's manner said that to touch her cheek was his right as well as his pleasure. Eleanor could not dispute it; she knew that Mr. Carlisle loved her, but the certainly thought the sense of power had great charms for him: so, she presently thought, had the exercise of it.
"You are mine now," he said,—"you are mine. You are Eleanor Carlisle.
But you have not said a word to me. What is my name?"
"Your name!" stammered Eleanor,—"Carlisle."
"Yes, but the rest?"