"

I rushed out of the cavern, and sitting down on a stone by the
sea-side, cried bitterly.

When I looked up, Henry was standing before me, waiting for my
next words with forced calmness; but as I remained silent, he
made a strong effort over himself, and said quietly, "I will
explain to you what I mean; lam not going to make love to you
now; I have not time to tell you what I feel, and what you
know as well as I do; but thus much I must tell you, my sister
is right when she says that your uncle will never consent to
our marriage: he never will, Ellen; and if we part now, we
part for ever; and God only knows the misery which hangs over
both our heads if we do."

I raised my head at these words, and looked at him with
surprise; he had no right to assume that such a separation
would make me miserable; my pride was wounded, and spoke in my
eyes: he read their language, and went on:--

"This is no time for girlish resentment; forgive me, Ellen; I
make you angry, but when the fate of a whole life, and more
than one life, hangs on the decision of an hour, it is no tune
for weighing words; and mine must be few. Mrs. Brandon knows
that I love you, and _how_ I love you! she thinks too that you
love me. She is well acquainted with her brother's inflexible
prejudices, with his stubborn character; she received from
your dying mother a charge to shield and protect you; should
he ever turn against you, and make you unhappy by the
sternness of his conscientious but iron nature, she will obey
that charge; she will go with you to-morrow to the church at
Henley, and stand by us while we--"

"Stop, Henry, stop, I cannot, will not, listen to such words
as these. You ask me to marry; to seal my fate, against my
uncle's will, without my aunt's consent; you ask me to add
another drop of sorrow to the cup already too bitter and too
full. That _I_ should do this! Oh, my God, he asks me to do
this, and I sit by and listen; Henry, I almost hate you for
the thought."

"Can you believe," he rejoined, "that _she_ would not bless
you for the act? Can you think that when she hears that the
child of her adoption, the child of her love, has saved from
anguish, from despair, from guilt, the brother whom she nursed
in his cradle, whose mother she was, as she has been
yours,--can you think that she will not pronounce a secret but
fervent blessing on your head? She obeys her husband's stern
commands, Ellen, but her heart aches for us. Oh! for h