“She has wronged me—­cruelly, horribly, wronged me—­” I could say no more.  My head drooped on my breast; my shame overpowered me.

“Who is she?  You called her Margaret, in your illness—­who is she?”

“She is Mr. Sherwin’s daughter—­” The words that I would fain have spoken next, seemed to suffocate me.  I was silent again.

I heard him mutter to himself: 

"That man’s daughter!—­a worse bait than the bait of money!”

He bent forward, and looked at me searchingly.  A frightful paleness flew over his face in an instant.

“Basil!” he cried, “in God’s name, answer me at once!  What is Mr. Sherwin’s daughter to you?”

“She is my wife!”

I heard no answer—­not a word, not even a sigh.  My eyes were blinded with tears, my face was bent down; I saw nothing at first.  When I raised my head, and dashed away the blinding tears, and looked up, the blood chilled at my heart.

My father was leaning against one of the bookcases, with his hands clasped over his breast.  His head was drawn back; his white lips moved, but no sound came from them.  Over his upturned face there had passed a ghastly change, as indescribable in its awfulness as the change of death.

I ran horror-stricken to his side, and attempted to take his hand.  He started instantly into an erect position, and thrust me from him furiously, without uttering a word.  At that fearful moment, in that fearful silence, the sounds out of doors penetrated with harrowing distinctness and merriment into the room.  The pleasant rustling of the trees mingled musically with the softened, monotonous rolling of carriages in the distant street, while the organ-tune, now changed to the lively measure of a song, rang out clear and cheerful above both, and poured into the room as lightly and happily as the very sunshine itself.

For a few minutes we stood apart, and neither of us moved or spoke.  I saw him take out his handkerchief, and pass it over his face, breathing heavily and thickly, and leaning against the bookcase once more.  When he withdrew the handkerchief and looked at me again, I knew that the sharp pang of agony had passed away, that the last hard struggle between his parental affection and his family pride was over, and that the great gulph which was hence-forth to separate father and son, had now opened between us for ever.

He pointed peremptorily to me to go back to my former place, but did not return to his own chair.  As I obeyed, I saw him unlock the door of the bookcase against which he had been leaning, and place his hand on one of the books inside.  Without withdrawing it from its place, without turning or looking towards me, he asked if I had anything more to say to him.