But I was not left long in suspense,—Seymour half drained the flask;—and habits so temperate before, appeared to have undergone a rapid change; for he drank like a man whose shattered nerves require some powerful stimulus.
“Julia,” he said, “you did not expect this visit?”
“Indeed, I did not.”
“Nor when I left you did I anticipate that my return would be so sudden. Circumstances, which for a time must remain unexplained, have rendered it imperative that I should claim you, and our marriage no longer shall be secret.”
“Heaven be praised!” I murmured.
“To-night, Julia, you shall go with me.”
“To-night! impossible! My father’s proud, he never would consent that his daughter should steal from her home.”
“Your father? He shall know nothing of it. No, Julia, we must leave the cottage privately; and, for a brief season, duty to the parent must give place to the stronger claims of wedded love.”
“Am I dreaming? Seymour,—what would you have me do? Desert my father heartlessly, and leave the good old man without humbling myself at his feet, and begging the pardon I require,—the forgiveness he would grant? Fly from this once happy home!—‘Twould break my father’s heart.—I’ll never do it.”
“Then, Julia, we part for ever.”