“Oh, father!”—­the exclamation was barely murmured.

“Go!” was the sole answer, with the finger still uplift.

In silence, she glided away; not, however, without stealing a fond and assuring glance at her lover.

Her departure was the signal for that issue between the two remaining parties for which each was preparing in his own fashion.  Ralph had not beheld the dumb show, in which Edith was dismissed, without a rising impulse of choler.  The manner of the thing had been particularly offensive to him.  But the father of Edith, whatever his offence, had suddenly risen into new consideration in the young man’s mind, from the moment that he fully comprehended his feelings for the daughter.  He was accordingly, somewhat disposed to temporize, though there was still a lurking desire in his mind, to demand an explanation of those supercilious glances which had so offended him.

But the meditations of neither party consumed one twentieth part of the time that we have taken in hinting what they were.  With the departure of Edith, and the closing of the door after her, Colonel Colleton, with all his storms, approached to the attack.  The expression of scorn upon his face had given way to one of anger wholly.  His glance seemed meant to penetrate the bosom of the youth with a mortal stab—­it was hate, rather than anger, that he looked.  Yet it was evident that he made an effort to subdue his wrath—­its full utterance at least—­but he could not chase the terrible cloud from his haughty brow.

The youth, getting chafed beneath his gaze, returned him look for look, and his brows grew dark and lowering also; and, for anger, they gave back defiance.  This silent, but expressive dialogue, was the work of a single moment of time.  The uncle broke the silence.

“What am I to understand from this, young man?”

“Young man, sir!—­I feel it very difficult to understand you, uncle!  In respect to Edith and myself, sir, I have but to say that we have discovered that we are something more than cousins to each other!”

“Indeed!  And how long is it, I pray, since you have made this discovery?”

This was said with a dry tone, and hard, contemptuous manner.  The youth strove honestly to keep down his blood.

“Within the hour, sir!  Not that we have not always felt that we loved each other, uncle; only, that, up to this time, we had never been conscious of the true nature of our feelings.”

The youth replied with the most provoking simplicity.  The uncle was annoyed.  He would rather that Ralph should have relieved him, by a conjecture of his own, from the necessity of hinting to him that such extreme sympathies, between the parties, were by no means a matter of course.  But the nephew would not, or could not, see; and his surprise, at the uncle’s course, was perpetually looking for explanation.  It became necessary to speak plainly.

“And with what reason, Ralph Colleton, do you suppose that I will sanction an alliance between you and my daughter?  Upon what, I pray you, do you ground your pretensions to the hand of Edith Colleton?”