“You have spoken, Clara, as you should not have spoken,” he went on, without looking up.  “Your mother—­” his voice faltered and failed him.  “Can you still hold his hand after what I have said?  I tell you again, he is unworthy to be in your presence; my house is his home no longer—­must I command you to leave him?”

The deeply planted instinct of gentleness and obedience prevailed; she dropped my hand, but did not move away from me, even yet.

“Now leave us, Clara,” he said.  “You were wrong, my love, to be in that room, and wrong to come in here.  I will speak to you up-stairs—­you must remain here no longer.”

She clasped her trembling fingers together, and sighed heavily.

“I cannot go, Sir,” she said quickly and breathlessly.

“Must I tell you for the first time in your life, that you are acting disobediently?” he asked.

“I cannot go,” she repeated in the same manner, “till you have said you will let him atone for his offence, and will forgive him.”

“For his offence there is neither atonement nor forgiveness.  Clara! are you so changed, that you can disobey me to my face?”

He walked away from us as he said this.

“Oh, no! no!” She ran towards him; but stopped halfway, and looked back at me affrightedly, as I stood near the door.  “Basil,” she cried, “you have not done what you promised me; you have not been patient.  Oh, Sir, if I have ever deserved kindness from you, be kind to him for my sake!  Basil! speak, Basil!  Ask his pardon on your knees.  Father, I promised him he should be forgiven, if I asked you.  Not a word; not a word from either?  Basil! you are not going yet—­not going at all!  Remember, Sir, how good and kind he has always been to me. My poor mother, (I must speak of her), my poor mother’s favourite son—­you have told me so yourself! and he has always been my favourite brother; I think because my mother loved him so!  His first fault, too! his first grief!  And will you tell him for this, that our home is his home no longer?  Punish me, Sir!  I have done wrong like him; when I heard your voices so loud, I listened in the library.  He’s going!  No, no, no! not yet!”

She ran to the door as I opened it, and pushed it to again.  Overwhelmed by the violence of her agitation, my father had sunk into a chair while she was speaking.

“Come back—­come back with me to his knees!” she whispered, fixing her wild, tearless eyes on mine, flinging her arms round my neck, and trying to lead me with her from the door.  “Come back, or you will drive me mad!” she repeated loudly, drawing me away towards my father.

He rose instantly from his chair.

“Clara,” he said, “I command you, leave him!” He advanced a few steps towards me.  “Go!” he cried; “if you are human in your villany, you will release me from this!”

I whispered in her ear, “I will write, love—­I will write,” and disengaged her arms from my neck—­they were hanging round it weakly, already!  As I passed the door, I turned back, and looked again into the room for the last time.