Philip Mordaunt gazed, and for a moment his brow relaxed, and his voice softened as he spoke again,
“Mabel.”
Eagerly she looked up; eagerly upon his stern care-worn face those wild eyes turned, with a half hopeful, half doubting expression, that might have softened a harder heart; but his was steeled against her.
“When you left my home and heart for a villain, I cursed you, Mabel Clifdon. But I will unsay my curse; I will drag you from the shame into which you have fallen. See, my arms are opened to receive you.”
“But Clifdon,” she murmured gaspingly, still crouching to the earth.
“Perdition seize him!”
She shuddered but spoke not.
“See,” murmured the old man, raising her slight form from the ground and speaking kindly, but with a strange gleam in his eye, that mocked the softness of his tones, “See how I woo you back again. I press you to my heart; I smooth back these bright waves that I may kiss your cheek and forehead as I did of old. Come back to the lone old man, who is dying in the midst of his luxury, and all for lack of one dear heart to lean upon. Sweet Mabel! darling! my own, my only child! hark how your mother from her grave implores you. Return, forsake the villain who has wrought us all this anguish.”
“Ah! no! no!”
“Then perish!” he said fiercely, dashing her violently to the earth, “Go perish, fool, with all that you would cling to!”