"Go! From my house, I mean—my roof—and from Philip's part of it. God! that a child of mine should plot against my country, for England—that was enough; but to be false to her husband, too—false to Philip! I will own no such treason! I turn you out, I cast you off! Not another hour in my house, not another minute! You are not my daughter, not Philip's wife!—You are a thing I will not name! We disown you. Go, I bid you; let me never see you again!"
She had not offered speech or motion; and she continued to stand motionless, regarding her father in fear and sorrow.
"I tell you to leave this house!" he added, in a slightly higher and quicker voice. "Do you wait for me to thrust you out?"
She slowly moved toward the door. But her mother ran and caught her arm, and stood between her and Mr. Faringfield.
"William!" said the lady. "Consider—the poor child—your favourite, she was—you mustn't send her out. I'm sure Philip wouldn't have you do this, for all she might seem guilty of."
"Ay, the lad is too kind of heart. So much the worse her treason to him! She shall go; and you, madam, will not interfere. 'Tis for me to command. Be pleased to step aside!"
His passion had swiftly frozen into an implacable sternness which struck fear to the childish heart of his wife, and she obeyed him dumbly. Dropping weakly upon a chair, she added her sobs to those of Fanny, which had begun to break plaintively upon the tragic silence.
Margaret raised her glance from the floor, in a kind of wistful leave-taking, to us who looked on and pitied her.
"Indeed, sir," began Mr. Cornelius softly, rising and taking a step toward Mr. Faringfield. But the latter cut his good intention short, by a mandatory gesture and the harshly spoken words:
"No protests, sir; no intercessions. I am aware of what I do."