“What charge?” cried Lord Elmwood, morosely interrupting him.
“Though Lady Elmwood, my Lord, left no will behind her, she left a request.”
“A request!” said he, starting, “If it is for me to see her daughter, I tell you now before you ask, that I will not grant it—for by heaven (and he spoke and looked most solemnly) though I have no resentment against the innocent child, and wish her happy, yet I will never see her. Never, for her mother’s sake, suffer my heart again to be softened by an object I might dote upon. Therefore, Sir, if that is the request, it is already answered; my will is fixed.”
“The request, my Lord,” replied Sandford, (and he took out a pocket-book from whence he drew several papers) “is contained in this letter; nor do I rightly know what its contents are.” And he held it out to him.
“Is it Lady Elmwood’s writing?” asked Lord Elmwood, extremely discomposed.
“It is, my Lord.—She wrote it a few days before she died, and enjoined me to deliver it to you, with my own hands.”
“I refuse to read it:” cried he, putting it from him—and trembling while he did so.
“She desired me,” said Sandford, (still presenting the letter) “to conjure you to read it, for her father’s sake.”
Lord Elmwood took it instantly. But as soon as it was in his hand, he seemed distressed to know what he should do with it—in what place to go and read it—or how to fortify himself against its contents. He appeared ashamed too, that he had been so far prevailed upon, and said, by way of excuse,
“For Mr. Milner’s sake I would do much—nay, any thing, but that to which I have just now sworn never to consent. For his sake I have borne a great deal—for his sake alone, his daughter died my wife. You know, no other motive than respect for him, prevented my divorcing her. Pray (and he hesitated) was she buried with him?”