“Dear Mr. Sandford, do not.”
“How!” exclaimed her father.
She saw the impending frown, and rushing towards him, took his hand fearfully, and knelt at his feet. “Mr. Rushbrook is my relation,” she cried in a pathetic voice, “my companion, my friend—before you loved me he was anxious for my happiness, and often visited me to lament with, and console me. I cannot see him turned out of your house without feeling for him, what he once felt for me.”
Lord Elmwood turned aside to conceal his sensations—then raising her from the floor, he said, “Do you know what he has asked of me?”
“No,” answered she in the utmost ignorance, and with the utmost innocence painted on her face; “but whatever it is, my Lord, though you do not grant it, yet pardon him for asking.”
“Perhaps you would grant him what he has requested?” said her father.
“Most willingly—was it in my gift.”
“It is,” replied he. “Go to him in the library, and hear what he has to say; for on your will his fate shall depend.”
Like lightning she flew out of the room; while even the grave Sandford smiled at the idea of their meeting.
Rushbrook, with his fears all verified by the manner in which his uncle had left him, sat with his head reclined against a bookcase, and every limb extended with the despair that had seized him.