She looked at him steadfastly. "And that way is--what?" she inquired.
Mr. Dyceworthy hesitated, and wished with all his heart that this girl was not so thoroughly self-possessed. Any sign of timidity in her would have given him an increase of hardihood. But her eyes were coldly brilliant, and glanced him over without the smallest embarrassment. He took refuge in his never-failing remedy, his benevolent smile--a smile that covered a multitude of hypocrisies.
"You ask a plain question, Fröken," he said sweetly, "and I should be loth not to give you a plain answer. That way-that glorious way of salvation for you is--through me!"
And his countenance shone with smug self-satisfaction as he spoke, and he repeated softly, "Yes, yes; that way is through me!"
She moved with a slight gesture of impatience. "It is a pity to talk any more," she said rather wearily. "It is all no use! Why do you wish to change me in my religion? I do not wish to change you. I do not see why we should speak of such things at all."
"Of course!" replied Mr. Dyceworthy blandly. "Of course you do not see. And why? Because you are blind." Here he drew a little nearer to her, and looked covetously at the curve of her full, firm waist.
"Oh, why!" he resumed in a sort of rapture--"why should we say it is a pity to talk any more? Why should we say it is all no use? It is of use,--it is noble, it is edifying to converse of the Lord's good pleasure! And what is His good pleasure at this moment? To unite two souls in His service! Yea, He hath turned my desire towards you, Fröken Thelma,--even as Jacob's desire was towards Rachel! Let me see this hand." He made a furtive grab at the white taper fingers that played listlessly with the jessamine leaves on the porch, but the girl dexterously withdrew them from his clutch and moved a little further back, her face flushing proudly. "Oh, will it not come to me? Cruel hand!" and he rolled his little eyes with an absurdly sentimental air of reproach. "It is shy--it will not clasp the hand of its protector! Do not be afraid, Fröken! . . . I, Charles Dyceworthy, am not the man to trifle with your young affections! Let them rest where they have flown! I accept them! Yea! . . . in spite of wrath and error and moral destitution,--my spirit inclineth towards you,--in the language of carnal men, I love you! More than this, I am willing to take you as my lawful wife--"