‘Good God! when, and why?’ exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe, the newspaper falling from his hand.
‘Long since, sir; ever since I loved another woman, and she knew it.’
‘Ferdinand! Ferdinand!’ exclaimed the unhappy father; but he was so overpowered that he could not give utterance to his thoughts. He threw himself in a chair, and wrung his hands. Ferdinand stood still and silent, like a statue of Destiny, gloomy and inflexible.
‘Speak again,’ at length said Sir Ratcliffe. ‘Let me hear you speak again. I cannot believe what I have heard. Is it indeed true that your engagement with your cousin has been long terminated?’
Ferdinand nodded assent.
‘Your poor mother!’ exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe. ‘This will kill her.’ He rose from his seat, and walked up and down the room in great agitation.
‘I knew all was not right,’ he muttered to himself. ‘She will sink under it; we must all sink under it. Madman! you know not what you have done!’
‘It is in vain to regret, sir; my sufferings have been greater than yours.’
‘She will pardon you, my boy,’ said Sir Ratcliffe, in a quicker and kinder tone. ‘You have lived to repent your impetuous folly; Katherine is kind and generous; she loves us all; she must love you; she will pardon you. Yes! entreat her to forget it; your mother, your mother has great influence with her; she will exercise it, she will interfere; you are very young, all will yet be well.’