"Oh, will it not come to me? Cruel
hand!" and he rolled his little eyes with an absurdly sentimental air of
reproach. "It is shy--it will not clasp the hand of its protector! Do
not be afraid, Froeken! . . . I, Charles Dyceworthy, am not the man to
trifle with your young affections! Let them rest where they have flown!
I accept them! Yea! . . . in spite of wrath and error and moral
destitution,--my spirit inclineth towards you,--in the language of
carnal men, I love you! More than this, I am willing to take you as my
lawful wife--"
He broke off abruptly, somewhat startled at the bitter scorn of the
flashing eyes that, like two quivering stars, were blazing upon him. Her
voice, clear as a bell ringing in frosty air, cut through the silence
like a sweep of a sword-blade.
"How dare you!" she said, with a wrathful thrill in her low, intense
tones. "How dare you come here to insult me!"
Insult her! He,--the Reverend Charles Dyceworthy,--considered guilty of
insult in offering honorable marriage to a mere farmer's daughter! He
could not believe his own ears,--and in his astonishment he looked up at
her.
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