sight of his father, of Beatrice's grief, his sense of filial duty gave
way. He was maddened by irritation, by the insult offered to the woman
he loved, which a few trembling words from her explained to him,--
maddened yet more by the fear that the insult had lost her to him; warm
words ensued between son and father, to close with the peremptory command
and vehement threat of the last.

"Come away this instant, sir! Come with me, or before the day is over, I
strike you out of my will!"

The son's answer was not to his father; he threw himself at Beatrice's
feet.

"Forgive him; forgive us both--"

"What! you prefer that stranger to me,--to the inheritance of Hazeldean!"
cried the squire, stamping his foot.

"Leave your estates to whom you will; all that I care for in life is
here!"

The squire stood still a moment or so, gazing on his son with a strange
bewildered marvel at the strength of that mystic passion, which none not
labouring under its fearful charm can comprehend, which creates the
sudden idol that no reason justifies, and sacrifices to its fatal shrine
alike the Past and the Future. Not trusting himself to speak, the father
drew his hand across his eyes, and dashed away the bitter tear that
sprang from a swelling and indignant heart; then he uttered an
inarticulate sound, and, finding his voice gone, moved away to the door,
and left the house.