“Suspicion of your ingratitude!—you judge too favourably of my opinion—it amounts to certainty.” “Then to convince you, Sir, I am not ungrateful, tell me who the Lady is you have chosen for me, and here I give you my word, I will sacrifice all my future prospects of happiness—all, for which I would wish to live—and become her husband as soon as you shall appoint.” This was spoken with a tone so expressive of despair, that Lord Elmwood replied, “And while you obey me, you take care to let me know, it will cost you your future peace. This is, I suppose, to enhance the merit of the obligation—but I shall not accept your acquiescence on these terms.” “Then in dispensing with it, I hope for your pardon.” “Do you suppose, Rushbrook, I can pardon an offence, the sole foundation of which, arises from a spirit of disobedience?—for you have declared to me your affections are disengaged. In our last conversation did you not say so?” “At first I did, my Lord—but you permitted me to consult my heart more closely; and I have since found that I was mistaken.” “You then own you at first told me a falsehood, and yet have all this time, kept me in suspense without confessing it.” “I waited, my Lord, till you should enquire——” “You have then, Sir, waited too long;” and the fire flashed from his eyes. Rushbrook now found himself in that perilous state, that admitted of no medium of resentment, but by such dastardly conduct on his part, as would wound both his truth and courage; and thus, animated by his danger, he was resolved to plunge boldly at once into the depth of his patron’s anger. “My Lord,” said he, (but he did not undertake this task without sustaining the trembling and convulsion of his whole frame) “My Lord—waving for a moment the subject of my marriage—permit me to remind you, that when I was upon my sick bed, you promised, that on my recovery, you would listen to a petition I should offer to you.” “Let me recollect,” replied he. “Yes—I do remember something of it. But I said nothing to warrant any improper petition.” “Its impropriety was not named, my Lord.” “No matter—that, you must judge of, and answer for the consequences.” “I would answer with my life, willingly—but I own that I shrink from your anger.” “Then do not provoke it.” “I have already gone too far to recede—and you would of course demand an explanation, if I attempted to stop here.” “I should.” “Then, my Lord, I am bound to speak—but do not interrupt me—hear me out, before you banish me from your presence for ever.” “I will, Sir,” replied he, prepared to hear something that would displease him, and yet determined to hear with patience to the conclusion. “Then, my Lord,”—(cried Rushbrook, in the greatest agitation of mind and body) “Your daughter”——