"We're not talking about Aunt Hitty now. Is there anyone in the world whom you like better than you do me?"
"No," said Araminta, softly, her eyes shining. "How could there be?"
"Do you love me, Araminta?"
"Yes," she answered, sweetly, "of course I do! You've been so good to me!"
The tone made the words meaningless. "Child," said Ralph, "you break my heart."
He walked back and forth again, restlessly, and Araminta watched him, vaguely troubled. What in the world had she done?
Meanwhile, he was meditating. He could not bear to have her go back to her prison, even for a little while. Had he found her only to lose her, because she had no soul?
Presently he came back to her and stood by her chair. "Listen, dear," he said, tenderly. "You told me there was no one in the world for whom you cared more than you care for me. You said you loved me, and I love you--God knows I do. If you'll trust me, Araminta, you'll never be sorry, never for one single minute as long as you live. Would you like to live with me in a little house with roses climbing over it, just us two alone?"
"Yes," returned Araminta, dreamily, "and I could keep the little cat."
"You can have a million cats, if you like, but all I want is you. Just you, sweetheart, to love me, with all the love you can give me. Will you come?"
"Oh," cried Araminta, "if Aunt Hitty would only let me, but she never would!"
"We won't ask her," returned Ralph. "We'll go away to-night, and be married."
At the word, Araminta started out of her chair. Her face was white and her eyes wide with fear. "I couldn't," she said, with difficulty. "You shouldn't ask me to do what you know is wrong. Just because my mother was married, because she was wicked--you must not think that I would be wicked, too."
Hot words were struggling for utterance, but Ralph choked them back. The fog was thick before him and he saw Araminta as through a heavy veil. "Undine," he said, moistening his parched lips, "some day you will find your soul. And when you do, come to me. I shall be waiting."
He went out of the room unsteadily, and closed the door. He stood at the head of the stairs for a long time before he went down. Apparently there was no one in the house. He went into the parlour and sat down, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead, and trying to regain his self-control.
He saw, clearly, that Araminta was not in the least to blame; that almost ever since her birth, she had been under the thumb of a domineering woman who persistently inculcated her own warped ideas. Since her earliest childhood, Araminta had been taught that marriage was wrong--that her own mother was wicked, because she had been married. And of the love between man and woman, the child knew absolutely nothing.