That was the view of the matter that had seized upon the girl's
imagination. It was not so much love for Hugh--she liked him.
His flattery--the excitement of meeting him--his love, had
become necessary to her; but had any other means of escape from
the monotony she hated presented itself, she would have availed
herself of it quite as eagerly. Hugh was not so much a lover to
her as a medium of escape from a life that daily became more and
more unendurable.
She listened with bright smiles when he told her that in two
years he should return to fetch her; and she, thinking much of
the romance, and little of the dishonor of concealment, told him
how her sad young mother hated and dreaded all mention of love
and lovers.
"Then you must never tell her," he said--"leave that for me
until I return. I shall have money then, and perhaps the command
of a fine vessel. She will not refuse me when she knows how
dearly I love you, and even should your father--the father you
tell of--come home, you will be true to me, Beatrice, will you
not?"
"Yes, I will be true," she replied--and, to do her justice, she
meant it at the time.
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