This was the first time she had called him Mr. Warden. It had always been William, before.
“Emma—Miss Merritt, I mean—I have no right to call you Emma, now; the man who has involved you in ruin, and wrecked the prospects of your dearest friends, is my father; and I feel that you hate and despise me. I cannot endure this disgrace, and am about to leave for another country, where the shame of my father will not be known, and where the dishonor attached to his name will not hang like a mill-stone around my neck, paralyzing all my efforts to rise to respectability and honor. But I could not leave you forever without seeing you once more, and for this opportunity I have watched long and anxiously. I dared not offend your father with my presence under his roof.”
Emma’s resolution about the little womanly display of temper suddenly vanished, her warm heart softened, and was throbbing in sympathy, ere the first tones of Warden’s musical voice died away.
“O no, William, he does not blame you!” she exclaimed, with tearful eyes, “indeed he does not. He knows you for all that is generous and good.”
“And have not you blamed me?”
“I, William—no, never! O, William, how could you accuse me thus?”
“Bless you for these kind words, Emma, they inspire me with new hopes. And now, Emma, as we must soon part, perhaps forever, tell me, if these things had never happened, if my father had still continued in prosperity, and free from the crime which makes his name odious to your ear, could you have loved me, then, Emma—would you, Emma?”
Emma answered not loud, but the gentle whisper reached the ear of love, and William Warden sealed it in a long, burning kiss upon her glowing lips. They were happy.
“Farewell, dearest Emma, we meet again,” was all he said, and when she looked up William Warden was gone.
——