“Do you suspect me of partiality to Mr. Rushbrook?” said Sandford, advancing nearer to the Earl.
Rushbrook had now gained the point of remaining in the room; but the hope that privilege inspired (while he still harboured all the just apprehensions for his fate) gave birth, perhaps, to a more exquisite sensation of pain, than despair would have done. He stood silent—confounded—hoping that he was forgiven—fearing that he was not.
As Sandford approached still nearer to Lord Elmwood, he continued, “No, my Lord, I know you do not suspect me, of partiality to Mr. Rushbrook—has any part of my behaviour ever discovered it?”
“You now then only interfere to provoke me.”
“If that were the case,” returned Sandford, “there have been occasions, when I might have done it more effectually—when my own heart-strings were breaking, because I would not provoke, or add to what you suffered.”
“I am obliged to you, Mr. Sandford:” he returned, mildly.
“And if, my Lord, I have proved any merit in a late forbearance, reward me for it now; and take this young man from the depth of despair in which I see he is sunk, and say you pardon him.”
Lord Elmwood made no answer—and Rushbrook, drawing strong inferences of hope from his silence, lifted up his eyes from the ground, and ventured to look in his face: he found it composed to what it had been, but still strongly marked with agitation. He cast his eyes away again, in confusion.
On which his uncle said to him—“I shall postpone executing your obedience to my late orders, till you think fit once more to provoke them—and then, not even Sandford, shall dare to plead your excuse.”
Rushbrook bowed.