“Oh! my God!—this is retribution!” murmured Mr. Hatfield, bowing himself down, and covering his face with his hands.
At that moment the door opened—and Lady Georgiana, pale as death and scarcely able to support herself on her tottering limbs, made her appearance.
Unable to endure the state of suspense in which she had been plunged relative to the altered manner of her son towards Lady Frances at the breakfast-table,—and having a vague presentiment that some unpleasant scene was occurring between him and her husband in the library,—she had determined to repair thither and relieve herself at once from an uncertainty that was intolerable. But upon reaching the door she heard Charles talking loudly and bitterly: she instinctively paused;—and those terrible questions which he addressed to his father, smote upon her ear like the voice of the Angel of Death.
Staggering into the room, she mechanically closed the door behind her; and then leant against it for support. Her fine—her handsome countenance denoted the most poignant anguish: it was absolutely distorted—while a frightful pallor overspread it.
“My mother—my dear mother!” exclaimed Charles, bounding towards her;—for his soul was touched by the pitiable appearance which she presented to his view.
“Just heaven! Charles—what have you said to your father!” she asked, in a tone of despair;—and flinging herself into her son’s arms, she gave vent to a flood of tears.
“I implore your pardon, my dear parents, if in a moment of haste and impatience I said aught that can give you offence,” exclaimed the young man: “but I was not master of my emotions—for you, my father, had termed me a villain!”
“Let us not recriminate,” said Mr. Hatfield, rising and taking his son by the hand, Lady Georgiana having in the meantime sunk into the chair to which Charles conducted her. “I was wrong to address you thus harshly: but your refusal to form an alliance with Lady Frances, to whom you only yesterday imparted a confession of attachment——”
“O Charles! is it possible that your parents are to experience such bitterness of disappointment as this?” exclaimed Lady Georgiana, turning a look of appeal—of earnest appeal—upon her son. “You know not how profound will be my sorrow if you thus enact a perfidious part towards Lady Frances Ellingham!”
“Would you have me wed when my heart is not fixed?” demanded Charles, warmly. “I laboured under a delusion: I fancied that I loved Lady Frances as one whom I should wish to make my wife—but I now find that it was only with the affection of a brother or of a very sincere friend that I in reality regarded her! Yesterday morning you, my dear father, entered my chamber, at a moment when the confusion of ideas caused by unpleasant dreams was scarcely dissipated;—you urged me to confess an attachment to Lady Frances—to seek her hand;—and I obeyed you! But I acted under an impulse for which I could not account;—I yielded to some unknown influence which I could not resist. And yet it was not love, my dear parents;—no—it was not love! In making Lady Frances my wife I should only ensure the unhappiness of an excellent—a beautiful—an accomplished girl——”