“Give me your address,” said Waife; “I will write about—that paper. Don’t now stay longer—pray—pray.”
“Do not fear, sir. I am not lingering here with the wish to see—her!”
Waife looked down.
“Before I asked the servant to announce me I took the precaution to learn that you were alone. But a few words more—hear them patiently. Have you any proof that should satisfy Mr. Darrell’s reason that your Sophy is his daughter’s child?”
“I have Jasper’s assurance that she is; and the copy of the nurse’s attestation to the same effect. They satisfied me. I would not have asked Mr. Darrell to be as easily contented; I could but have asked him to inquire, and satisfy himself. But he would not even hear me.”
“He will hear you now, and with respect.”
“He will!” cried Waife, joyously. “And if he should inquire and if Sophy should prove to be, as I have ever believed, his daughter’s child, would he not’ own, and receive, and cherish her?”
“Alas, sir, do not let me pain you; but that is not my hope. If, indeed, it should prove that your son deceived you—that Sophy is no way related to him—if she should be the child of peasants, but of honest peasants—why, sir, that is my hope, my last hope—for then I would kneel once more at your feet, and implore your permission to win her affection and ask her hand.”
“What! Mr. Darrell would consent to your union with the child of peasants, and not with his own grandchild?”
“Sir, sir, you rack me to the heart; but if you knew all, you would not wonder to hear me say, ‘I dare not ask Mr. Darrell to bless my union with the daughter of Jasper Losely.’”