But if I were to put on my clothes, Philip replied, I could not go out in them, for I have no mourning, and by a letter from my sister, just now received, I am informed that Mrs. De Lancaster is no more.
Dead; defunct?
Even so.
That is an event indeed of great importance. In one respect it liberates you; in another it enthrals, and binds you to your promise.
I don’t rightly understand to what promise you allude.
Is it possible, rejoined Sir David, (his fierce eyes flashing as his fury kindled) is it possible you can feign to forget the engagement you are under to a lady, whom I have the honour of being related to, and whose natural protector I am? If your memory, Mr. Philip, is of that deceitful unretentive texture, you are indeed a true De Lancaster. But make good your engagement out of hand: a lady’s honour may not be trifled with. The inveterate animosity of your rancorous son, so called, and the injurious charges he has fostered, forged, and urged against me in my absence, have this morning been reported to me by my agent at Penruth. They are such as he must answer and atone for, unless you by fulfilling your solemn promise to my mother, shall interpose your fatherly mediation and heal the else irreparable breach between our families.
It is not my fault, Philip calmly replied; for all the world knows me to be a man of peace and quiet; but as to healing breaches in the manner you prescribe, give me leave to observe, Sir David, that it is a very early day for me to be thinking of a second wife before I have yet put on mourning for my first.
Yet, sir, you must think of it, reiterated Sir David, (elevating his voice) and seriously too, though I shall not hurry you in the execution of it. You shall have time to mourn, if that be what you wish for; but my spirit has been much too deeply galled by the son to bear any aggravation from the gentleman, who allows himself to be called the father—Therefore in one word—Your bond, sir, to my mother, or your blood.—There is but this alternative: so take your choice.
You will give me time, Sir David, to deliberate upon this.
Just as much time, Mr. Philip De Lancaster, as it will cost my lawyer to write out the bond. I will call upon you before two hours are past. With these threatening words the loud-tongued bravo bolted out of the room—Mercy on me, exclaimed the affrighted Philip, what shall I do now, hedged in as I am between matrimony and murder?