“Madam, she is but a child!”
“A mischievous one, full of peril to us all, and therefore, to be disposed of at once. Out of my own income I will provide for her wants, but away from this place—in another land, perhaps.”
I felt myself growing pale, and saw that Irving was also greatly agitated. He looked at me reproachfully, and muttered, “imprudent—imprudent.” I went to a window, and leaning against the frame, stood patiently, and still as marble, waiting for my sentence. Again my rashness had perilled all that I loved; the thought froze me through and through; I hated myself. Irving was talking to his mother; she had forgotten dignity, her elegance, everything in her indignation against me. At last I caught some of his words. They were deep and determined.
“No, mother, I will not consent. If our suspicions are true, and I must confess every day confirms them in my estimation—the course you propose would be impolitic as cruel. You cannot keep her existence from Lord Clare; all that we guess he will soon learn. He is just, noble—think if he would forgive this persecution of—of an orphan—for she is that if nothing more!”
“But am I to be annoyed—braved, talked down by a child, and before my own guests?” said the mother. “Who knows the mischief she has already done with Estelle?”
“Mother, I beseech you, let that subject drop. It is a dream.”
“One of the best matches in England, my son; a golden dream worth turning to reality.”
“No, mother, in this I must be free.”
“Perhaps you are not free! That child!”
They were looking in each other’s eyes, the mother and son reading thoughts there that each would gladly have concealed from the other. I came forward.