“Uncle, I think that she has something to say to you with regard to—to—pardon me!—to my cousin.”
“To Blanche?”
“No, no; the cousin I never saw.”
Roland turned pale, and sinking down on a chair, faltered out—“To him,—to my son?”
“Yes; but I do not think it is news that will afflict you. Uncle, are you sure that my cousin is dead?”
“What!—how dare you!—who doubts it? Dead,—dead to me forever! Boy, would you have him live to dishonor these gray hairs?”
“Sir, sir, forgive me,—uncle, forgive me. But pray go to see Lady Ellinor; for whatever she has to say, I repeat that I am sure it will be nothing to wound you.”
“Nothing to wound me, yet relate to him!”
It is impossible to convey to the reader the despair that was in those words.
“Perhaps,” said I, after a long pause and in a low voice, for I was awe-stricken, “perhaps—if he be dead—he may have repented of all offence to you before he died.”