With all her spirit and pride she felt weak and powerless before
the mighty love of this strong man. Almost unconscious of what
she did, Beatrice laid her white hands upon the dark, handsome
head of her lover.
"Hush, Hugh," she said, "you frighten me. I do love you; see,
you tears wet my hand."
It was not a very enthusiastic response, but it satisfied him.
He clasped the young girl in his arms, and she did not resist; he
kissed the proud lips and the flushed cheek. Beatrice Earle said
no word; he was half frightened, half touched, and wholly
subdued.
"Now you are mine," cried Hugh--"mine, my own peerless one;
nothing shall part us but death!"
"Hush!" cried Beatrice, again shuddering as with cold fear.
"That is a word I dislike and dread so much, Hugh--do not use
it."
"I will not," he replied; and then Beatrice forgot her fears. He
was so happy--he loved her so dearly--he was so proud of
winning her. She listened through the long hours of that sunny
morning. It was the fifteenth of July--he made her note the day
and in two years he would return to take her forever from the
quiet house where her beauty and grace alike were buried.
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