“And have you not,” asked the dean, “owned that Henry Norwynne is the father of your child?”
She seemed as if she wished to expostulate.
The curate raised his voice—“Have you or have you not?”
“I have,” she faintly replied.
“Then here,” cried the dean to William, “read that paper to her, and take the Bible.”
William read the paper, which in her name declared a momentous falsehood: he then held the book in form, while she looked like one distracted—wrung her hands, and was near sinking to the earth.
At the moment when the book was lifted up to her lips to kiss, Henry rushed to her—“Stop!” he cried, “Rebecca! do not wound your future peace. I plainly see under what prejudices you have been accused, under what fears you have fallen. But do not be terrified into the commission of a crime which hereafter will distract your delicate conscience. My requesting you of your father for my wife will satisfy his scruples, prevent your oath—and here I make the demand.”
“He at length confesses! Surprising audacity! Complicated villainy!” exclaimed the dean; then added, “Henry Norwynne, your first guilt is so enormous; your second, in steadfastly denying it, so base, this last conduct so audacious; that from the present hour you must never dare to call me relation, or to consider my house as your home.”
William, in unison with his father, exclaimed, “Indeed, Henry, your actions merit this punishment.”
Henry answered with firmness, “Inflict what punishment you please.”