“Do you suppose I don’t believe in your innocence too?” he answered. “The one way of setting you right with the world now is for me to make you my wife, in spite of the appearances that point to you. I’m too fond of you, Isabel, to give you up. Come back with me, and I will announce our marriage to my friends.”
She took his hand, and kissed it. “It is generous and good of you,” she said; “but it must not be.”
He took a step nearer to her. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“It was against my will,” she pursued, “that my aunt concealed the truth from you. I did wrong to consent to it, I will do wrong no more. Your mother is right, Alfred. After what has happened, I am not fit to be your wife until my innocence is proved. It is not proved yet.”
The angry color began to rise in his face once more. “Take care,” he said; “I am not in a humor to be trifled with.”
“I am not trifling with you,” she answered, in low, sad tones.
“You really mean what you say?”
“I mean it.”
“Don’t be obstinate, Isabel. Take time to consider.”
“You are very kind, Alfred. My duty is plain to me. I will marry you—if you still wish it—when my good name is restored to me. Not before.”