“Are you in earnest—are you sincere?”
“By my soul!”
“Then, indeed, you are worthy of my friendship. You will assume the whole forgery—an ugly word, but it avoids circumlocution—to be your own?”
“I will.”
Ferrers paused a moment, and then stopped suddenly short.
“You will swear this!”
“By all that is holy.”
“Then mark me, Cesarini; if to-morrow Lady Florence be worse, I will throw no obstacle in the way of your confession, should you resolve to make it; I will even use that influence which you leave me, to palliate your offence, to win your pardon. And yet to resign your hopes—to surrender one so loved to the arms of one so hated—it is magnanimous—it is noble—it is above my standard! Do as you will.”
Cesarini was about to reply, when a servant on horseback abruptly turned the corner, almost at full speed. He pulled in—his eye fell upon Lumley—he dismounted.
“Oh, Mr. Ferrers,” said the man breathlessly, “I have been to your house; they told me I might find you at Lord Saxingham’s—I was just going there—”