“Oh, my young friend,” added Marchdale, “if anything could add to the pangs which all who love, and admire, and respect Flora Bannerworth must feel at the unhappy condition in which she is placed, it would be the noble nature of you, who, under happier auspices, would have been her guide through life, and the happy partner of her destiny.” “As I will be still.” “May Heaven forbid it! We are now among ourselves, and can talk freely upon such a subject. Mr. Charles Holland, if you wed, you would look forward to being blessed with children—those sweet ties which bind the sternest hearts to life with so exquisite a bondage. Oh, fancy, then, for a moment, the mother of your babes coming at the still hour of midnight to drain from their veins the very life blood she gave to them. To drive you and them mad with the expected horror of such visitations—to make your nights hideous—your days but so many hours of melancholy retrospection. Oh, you know not the world of terror, on the awful brink of which you stand, when you talk of making Flora Bannerworth a wife.” “Peace! oh, peace!” said Henry. “Nay, I know my words are unwelcome,” continued Mr. Marchdale. “It happens, unfortunately for human nature, that truth and some of our best and holiest feelings are too often at variance, and hold a sad contest——” “I will hear no more of this,” cried Charles Holland.—“I will hear no more.” “I have done,” said Mr. Marchdale. “And ’twere well you had not begun.” “Nay, say not so. I have but done what I considered was a solemn duty.” “Under that assumption of doing duty—a solemn duty—heedless of the feelings and the opinions of others,” said Charles, sarcastically, “more mischief is produced—more heart-burnings and anxieties caused, than by any other two causes of such mischievous results combined. I wish to hear no more of this.” “Do not be angered with Mr. Marchdale, Charles,” said Henry. “He can have no motive but our welfare in what he says. We should not condemn a speaker because his words may not sound pleasant to our ears.” “By Heaven!” said Charles, with animation, “I meant not to be illiberal; but I will not, because I cannot see a man’s motives for active interference in the affairs of others, always be ready, merely on account of such ignorance, to jump to a conclusion that they must be estimable.” “To-morrow, I leave this house,” said Marchdale. “Leave us?” exclaimed Henry. “Ay, for ever.” “Nay, now, Mr. Marchdale, is this generous?” “Am I treated generously by one who is your own guest, and towards whom I was willing to hold out the honest right hand of friendship?” Henry turned to Charles Holland, saying,— “Charles, I know your generous nature. Say you meant no offence to my mother’s old friend.” “If to say I meant no offence,” said Charles, “is to say I meant no insult, I say it freely.” “Enough,” cried Marchdale; “I am satisfied.”