Christobelle could not comprehend Sir John Spottiswoode's emotion. She could not divine his allusions; she only grasped at his promise to remain, and even that was balm to her heart.
"Oh, yes," she repeated, "stay, and take my part, for I know I shall appeal to papa and you, if I am reproached."
"Who dares presume to reproach you? Who dares to offer a harsh word to you? By the heavens above, if I heard his false lips utter one syllable of unkindness to a creature too gentle and excellent for his worthless mind, I would strike him dead!" Sir John Spottiswoode's eyes struck fire, and his tall figure became still more erect.
"Of whom are you talking?—whose lips are false?" asked Christobelle, in stupid amazement.
"I know him!" continued Sir John Spottiswoode, kindling as he spoke; "but I will follow him through the world, if he gives one pang to such a heart as your's, dearest and loveliest pupil, creature of my fancy and my heart! He is not worthy of you, Christobelle." He stopped, and fixed his eyes upon her with an expression so wretched, that she took his hand in terror: he snatched it from her.
"Do not break my heart, Christobelle; and do not touch me, if you have mercy. Withdraw your wish, and let me quit Fairlee for ever!"
"Oh, no, no," she cried, clasping her hands, and sinking into a chair; "if you go, who will stand between me and my mother?"
"Your mother!" Sir John Spottiswoode gazed upon Christobelle with astonishment. "Your mother!" he repeated.
"I cannot, will not marry Lord Farnborough," exclaimed Christobelle, almost bending in agonized feelings; "and who will save me from her anger!"