I neither moved nor answered.  His face changed again, and grew livid; his fingers trembled convulsively, and crumpled the sheet of paper, as he tried to take it up from the table on which it lay.

“You refuse?” he said quickly.

“I have already told you, Sir—­”

“Go!” he interrupted, pointing passionately to the door, “go out from this house, never to return to it again—­go, not as a stranger to me, but as an enemy!  I have no faith in a single promise you have made:  there is no baseness which I do not believe you will yet be guilty of.  But I tell you, and the wretches with whom you are leagued, to take warning:  I have wealth, power, and position; and there is no use to which I will not put them against the man or woman who threatens the fair fame of this family.  Leave me, remembering that—­and leave me for ever!”

Just as he uttered the last word, just as my hand was on the lock of the door, a faint sound—­something between breathing and speaking—­was audible in the direction of the library.  He started, and looked round.  Impelled, I know not how, I paused on the point of going out.  My eyes followed his, and fixed on the cloth door which led into the library.

It opened a little—­then shut again—­then opened wide.  Slowly and noiselessly, Clara came into the room.

The silence and suddenness of her entrance at such a moment; the look of terror which changed to unnatural vacancy the wonted softness and gentleness of her eyes, her pale face, her white dress, and slow, noiseless step, made her first appearance in the room seem almost supernatural; it was as if an apparition had been walking towards us, and not Clara herself!  As she approached my father, he pronounced her name in astonishment; but his voice sank to a whisper, while he spoke it.  For an instant, she paused, hesitating—­I saw her tremble as her eyes met his—­then, as they turned towards me, the brave girl came on; and, taking my hand, stood and faced my father, standing by my side.

“Clara!” he exclaimed again, still in the same whispering tones.

I felt her cold hand close fast on mine; the grasp of the chill, frail fingers was almost painful to me.  Her lips moved, but her quick, hysterical breathing made the few words she uttered inarticulate.

“Clara!” repeated my father, for the third time, his voice rising, but sinking again immediately—­when he spoke his next words, “Clara,” he resumed, sadly and gently, “let go his hand; this is not a time for your presence, I beg you to leave us.  You must not take his hand!  He has ceased to be my son, or your brother.  Clara, do you not hear me?”

“Yes, Sir, I hear you,” she answered.  “God grant that my mother in heaven may not hear you too!”

He was approaching while she replied; but at her last words, he stopped instantly, and turned his face away from us.  Who shall say what remembrances of other days shook him to the heart?