The resolution Lord Elmwood had taken (and on which he had given his word to his nephew not to interrupt him) immediately gave way. The colour rose in his face—his eye darted lightning—and his hand was lifted up with the emotion, that word had created. “You promised to hear me, my Lord!” cried Rushbrook, “and I claim your promise.” He now suddenly overcame his violence of passion, and stood silent and resigned to hear him; but with a determined look, expressive of the vengeance that should ensue. “Lady Matilda,” resumed Rushbrook, “is an object that wrests from me the enjoyment of every blessing your kindness bestows. I cannot but feel myself as her adversary—as one, who has supplanted her in your affections—who supplies her place, while she is exiled, a wanderer, and an orphan.” The Earl took his eyes from Rushbrook, during this last sentence, and cast them on the floor. “If I feel gratitude towards you, my Lord,” continued he, “gratitude is innate in my heart, and I must also feel it towards her, who first introduced me to your protection.” Again the colour flew to Lord Elmwood’s face; and again he could hardly restrain himself from uttering his indignation. “It was the mother of Lady Matilda,” continued Rushbrook, “who was this friend to me; nor will I ever think of marriage, or any other joyful prospect, while you abandon the only child of my beloved patroness, and load me with rights, which belong to her.” Here Rushbrook stopped—Lord Elmwood was silent too, for near half a minute; but still his countenance continued fixed, with his unvaried resolves. After this long pause, the Earl said with composure, but with firmness, “Have you finished, Mr. Rushbrook?” “All that I dare to utter, my Lord; and I fear, I have already said too much.” Rushbrook now trembled more than ever, and looked pale as death; for the ardour of speaking being over, he waited his sentence, with less constancy of mind than he expected he should. “You disapprove my conduct, it seems;” said Lord Elmwood, “and in that, you are but like the rest of the world—and yet, among all my acquaintance, you are the only one who has dared to insult me with your opinion. And this you have not done inadvertently; but willingly, and deliberately. But as it has been my fate to be used ill, and severed from all those persons to whom my soul has been most attached; with less regret I can part from you, than if this were my first trial.” There was a truth and a pathetic sound in the utterance of these words, that struck Rushbrook to the heart—and he beheld himself as a barbarian, who had treated his benevolent and only friend, with insufferable liberty; void of respect for those corroding sorrows which had imbittered so many years of his life, and in open violation of his most peremptory commands. He felt that he deserved all he was going to suffer, and he fell upon his knees; not so much to deprecate the doom he saw impending, as thus humbly to acknowledge, it was his due.