“You shall not see her,” said Sir Simon; “you would not think of such a thing if you were in your right mind; but you are mad, De Winton. Say to her, indeed! That you find you are a married man—I don’t believe it, mind—but what else could you say if you were to see her? While there is the shadow of a doubt on this head you must not see her, must not directly or indirectly hold any communication with her.”
“And I am to sneak off without a word of explanation, and leave her to think of me as a heartless, dishonorable scoundrel!”
“A bitter alternative; but it is better to seem a scoundrel than to be one,” answered Sir Simon. “What could you say to her if you saw her?”
“I would tell her the truth and ask her to forgive me,” said the young man, his face kindling with tenderness and passion of a softer kind than that which had just convulsed its fine lineaments. “I would bless her for what the memory of her love must be to me while I live. Harness, if it is only to say ‘God bless you and forgive me!’ I must see her.”
“I’ll shoot you first!” said the baronet, clutching his arm and arresting his steps toward the door. “You call that love? I call it the basest selfishness. You would see the woman who loves you for the sole purpose of planting yourself so firmly in the ruins of her broken heart that nothing could ever uproot it; but then she would worship you as a victim—a victim of her own making, and this would be compensation to you for a great deal. I thought better of you, De Winton, than to suppose you capable of such heartless foppery.”
It was Clide’s turn to quail. But he answered quickly:
“You are right. It would be selfish and cruel. I was mad to think of it.”
“Of course you were. I knew you would see it in a moment.”
“But there is no reason why I should not see her father,” said Clide; “it is only fit that I should speak to him. Shall I go there, or will you bring him up here?”
“You shall not see him, here or anywhere else,” was the peremptory reply. “Have you spoken to him already?”