“My son--my dear son, do not attempt to deceive me!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, emphatically. “Lady Frances, in the artlessness of her soul--in the confiding candour of her amiable nature--yesterday acquainted her mother, the Countess of Ellingham, with all that had taken place between yourself and her in the morning. You made her an offer of your hand, in pursuance of the counsel which I gave you;--and her parents will cheerfully yield an assent to your suit. Indeed, the Earl expected to see you on the subject yesterday afternoon; but it appears that immediately after your interview with Lady Frances, you went out and remained absent for some hours. How you dispose of your time, it is not for me to enquire: you are of an age when you are entitled to be your own master. But this I implore of you,--lose no time in seeking a private interview with the Earl, and soliciting him to accord you the hand of his daughter. ’Tis a mere ceremony which a parent, and a personage of his standing, naturally expects you to perform;--and I promise you that there is no chance of a refusal.” “My dear father,” said Charles, the natural candour of his nature asserting its empire; “I was too hasty in proposing to Lady Frances. Would to God that I could recall the step I thus rashly took!” Mr. Hatfield surveyed his son in profound astonishment for nearly a minute: then, breaking forth indignantly, he exclaimed, “What, sir! you have dared to trifle with the affections of an amiable and accomplished girl?--you decline a match which is so desirable in every point of view, and on which your mother’s heart is set?” “I must decline the honour of this alliance,” answered the young man, speaking with a courage which even surprised himself. “Do you know, Charles,” demanded his father, with on utterance almost suffocated by indescribable emotions,--“do you know that your conduct is that of a villain? And shall it be said that you--_you_, a young man of whom such lofty expectations have been formed----” “By whom have these expectations been formed?” suddenly cried the rebellious son, his choler rising as all his wrongs, real or imaginary, rushed to his mind,--those wrongs which he believed himself to have received and to be still enduring at the hands of his parents. “By whom?” repeated Mr. Hatfield, much pained by the tone, words, and manner of the young man. “By whom should such hopes be experienced, save by your parents?” “My parents!” cried Charles, with withering irony. “Wherefore am I not acknowledged as your son?--why do you not proclaim yourselves to be my parents? Was not the discovery on my part a matter of mere chance?--and should I not have been kept for ever ignorant of the fact, had not an accident revealed it to me?” [Illustration] “Oh! my God!--this is retribution!” murmured Mr. Hatfield, bowing himself down, and covering his face with his hands.