She made choice of the former—and with tears and sobs “owned herself the mother of the boy.”
But still—“Who is the father?”
Again she shrunk from the question, and fervently implored “to be spared on that point.”
Her petition was rejected with vehemence; and the curate’s rage increased till she acknowledged,
“Henry was the father.”
“I thought so,” exclaimed all her sisters at the same time.
“Villain!” cried the curate. “The dean shall know, before this hour is expired, the baseness of the nephew whom he supports upon charity; he shall know the misery, the grief, the shame he has brought on me, and how unworthy he is of his protection.”
“Oh! have mercy on him!” cried Rebecca, as she still knelt to her father: “do not ruin him with his uncle, for he is the best of human beings.”
“Ay, ay, we always saw how much she loved him,” cried her sisters.
“Wicked, unfortunate girl!” said the clergyman (his rage now subsiding, and tears supplying its place), “you have brought a scandal upon us all: your sisters’ reputation will be stamped with the colour of yours—my good name will suffer: but that is trivial—your soul is lost to virtue, to religion, to shame—”