I could not have chosen a more inauspicious time to speak.  She looked at me for an instant in surprise, turning to scorn.  Then she spoke in tones of withering contempt.

“Tell my father that I shall never bear a child by the name of Vernon.  I would rather go barren to my grave.  Ah! that is why Sir John Manners is a villain?  That is why a decisive step should be taken?  That is why you come to my father’s house a-fortune-hunting?  After you have squandered your patrimony and have spent a dissolute youth in profligacy, after the women of the class you have known will have no more of you but choose younger men, you who are old enough to be my father come here and seek your fortune, as your father sought his, by marriage.  I do not believe that my father wishes me to—­to marry you.  You have wheedled him into giving his consent when he was in his cups.  But even if he wished it with all his heart, I would not marry you.”  Then she turned and walked rapidly toward the Hall.

Her fierce words angered me; for in the light of my real intentions her scorn was uncalled for, and her language was insulting beyond endurance.  For a moment or two the hot blood rushed to my brain and rendered me incapable of intelligent thought.  But as Dorothy walked from me I realized that something must be done at once to put myself right with her.  When my fit of temper had cooled, and when I considered that the girl did not know my real intentions, I could not help acknowledging that in view of all that had just passed between us concerning Sir John Manners, and, in fact, in view of all that she had seen and could see, her anger was justifiable.

I called to her:  “Dorothy, wait a moment.  You have not heard all I have to say.”

She hastened her pace.  A few rapid strides brought me to her side.  I was provoked, not at her words, for they were almost justifiable, but because she would not stop to hear me.  I grasped her rudely by the arm and said:—­

“Listen till I have finished.”

“I will not,” she answered viciously.  “Do not touch me.”

I still held her by the arm and said:  “I do not wish to marry you.  I spoke only because your father desired me to do so, and because my refusal to speak would have offended him beyond any power of mine to make amends.  I could not tell you that I did not wish you for my wife until you had given me an opportunity.  I was forced to throw the burden of refusal upon you.”

“That is but a ruse—­a transparent, flimsy ruse,” responded the stubborn, angry girl, endeavoring to draw her arm from my grasp.

“It is not a ruse,” I answered.  “If you will listen to me and will help me by acting as I suggest, we may between us bring your father to our way of thinking, and I may still be able to retain his friendship.”

“What is your great plan?” asked Dorothy, in a voice such as one might expect to hear from a piece of ice.

“I have formed no plan as yet,” I replied, “although I have thought of several.  Until we can determine upon one, I suggest that you permit me to say to your father that I have asked you to be my wife, and that the subject has come upon you so suddenly that you wish a short time,—­a fortnight or a month—­in which to consider your answer.”