“Do you suppose, Rushbrook, I can pardon an offence, the sole foundation of which, arises from a spirit of disobedience?—for you have declared to me your affections are disengaged. In our last conversation did you not say so?”
“At first I did, my Lord—but you permitted me to consult my heart more closely; and I have since found that I was mistaken.”
“You then own you at first told me a falsehood, and yet have all this time, kept me in suspense without confessing it.”
“I waited, my Lord, till you should enquire——”
“You have then, Sir, waited too long;” and the fire flashed from his eyes.
Rushbrook now found himself in that perilous state, that admitted of no medium of resentment, but by such dastardly conduct on his part, as would wound both his truth and courage; and thus, animated by his danger, he was resolved to plunge boldly at once into the depth of his patron’s anger.
“My Lord,” said he, (but he did not undertake this task without sustaining the trembling and convulsion of his whole frame) “My Lord—waving for a moment the subject of my marriage—permit me to remind you, that when I was upon my sick bed, you promised, that on my recovery, you would listen to a petition I should offer to you.”
“Let me recollect,” replied he. “Yes—I do remember something of it. But I said nothing to warrant any improper petition.”
“Its impropriety was not named, my Lord.”
“No matter—that, you must judge of, and answer for the consequences.”