Mr. Hastings looked at him; looked at the tearful, but certainly not guilty countenance of his daughter; turned and looked at the furious one of Charlotte Pain. “Step this way,” he said to George Godolphin. “I would speak to you alone.”
He took him to another room, and shut the door. “I want the truth,” he said, “upon one or two points——”
“Mr. Hastings,” said George, drawing himself up, “I have told you nothing but the truth upon all points.”
“Were you never engaged to Charlotte Pain?” proceeded Mr. Hastings, taking no notice of the interruption.
“Never. I never sought or wished to be.”
“Then what did your good father, Sir George, mean, when he alluded to it the night he was dying? He asked if you and Charlotte were married yet, and you replied, ‘Plenty of time for that.’”
“I said it merely in answer to his words: it was not an hour for dissent or explanation. He was not conscious of what he said.”
“Had you expressed to him any particular liking for Charlotte Pain?”
“I had not; at any time. Sir George believed Miss Pain had a large fortune, and he recommended me, more than once, to think of her, and it. He said she was a handsome girl, and none the worse for possessing a fortune. He had heard she would have thirty thousand pounds. I used to laugh it off. I cared for Maria too much to cast a thought to Charlotte Pain. That is the whole truth, Mr. Hastings, on my honour.”
“Would he have objected to Maria?”