"My Emmeline pleads bravely for clandestine matches." "Ah! do not trifle, my friend. Say: would you have had him act as young men in his position generally do to young women beneath them?" Sir Austin did not like the question. It probed him very severely. "You mean," he said, "that fathers must fold their arms, and either submit to infamous marriages, or have these creatures ruined." "I do _not_ mean that," exclaimed the lady, striving for what she did mean, and how to express it. "I mean that ... he loved her. Is it not a madness at his age? But what I chiefly mean is--save him from the consequences. No, you shall not withdraw your hand. Think of his pride, his sensitiveness, his great wild nature--wild when he is set wrong: think how intense it is, set upon love; think, my friend, do not forget his love for you." Sir Austin smiled an admirable smile of pity. "That I should save him, or any one, from consequences, is asking more than the order of things will allow to you, Emmeline, and is not in the disposition of this world. I cannot. Consequences are the natural offspring of acts. My child, you are talking sentiment, which is the distraction of our modern age in everything--a phantasmal vapour distorting the image of the life we live. You ask me to give him a golden age in spite of himself. All that could be done, by keeping him in the paths of virtue and truth, I did. He is become a man, and as a man he must reap his own sowing." The baffled lady sighed. He sat so rigid: he spoke so securely, as if wisdom were to him more than the love of his son. And yet he did love his son. Feeling sure that he loved his son while he spoke so loftily, she reverenced him still, baffled as she was, and sensible that she had been quibbled with. "All I ask of you is to open your heart to him," she said. He kept silent. "Call him a man,--he is, and must ever be the child of your education, my friend." "You would console me, Emmeline, with the prospect that, if he ruins himself, he spares the world of young women. Yes, that is something!" Closely she scanned the mask. It was impenetrable. He could meet her eyes, and respond to the pressure of her hand, and smile, and not show what he felt. Nor did he deem it hypocritical to seek to maintain his elevation in her soft soul, by simulating supreme philosophy over offended love. Nor did he know that he had an angel with him then: a blind angel, and a weak one, but one who struck upon his chance. "Am I pardoned for coming to you?" she said, after a pause. "Surely I can read my Emmeline's intentions," he gently replied. "Very poor ones. I feel my weakness. I cannot utter half I have been thinking. Oh, if I could!" "You speak very well, Emmeline." "At least, I am pardoned!" "Surely so." "And before I leave you, dear friend, shall I be forgiven?--may I beg it?--will you bless him?" He was again silent. "Pray for him, Austin! pray for him ere the night is over."