"Disgraceful to relate!" ejaculated Sir Robert, putting his hand over
his face, "I married Edith Beaufort, while in our deepest mourning,
but at Somerset, as the place farthest from general notice. My
father, eager to efface as fast as possible from my mind and hers all
recollection of his past conduct towards us, had prepared everything
splendid, though private, for our union; and in her blissful,
restored possession, I forgot for a while Therese and her agonies.
But when my dear Pembroke first saw the light, when I pressed him to
my heart, it seemed as if in the same instant a dagger pierced it.
When I would have breathed a blessing over him, the conviction struck
me that I durst not--that I had deluded the mother who gave him
birth, and that at some future period he might have cause to curse
the author of his existence.
"Well," continued the baronet, wiping his forehead, "though the birth
of this boy conjured up the image of your mother, to haunt me day and
night, I never could summon moral courage to inquire of her destiny
after I had left her. When the troubles of Poland commenced, what a
dreadful terror seized me! The successes of their allied enemies, and
the consequent distress and persecution of the chief nobility,
overwhelmed me with apprehension. I knew not but that many, like the
_noblesse_ of France, might be forced to abandon their country;
and the bare idea of meeting your grandfather, or the injured
Therese, in England, precipitated me into a nervous state that
menaced my life.
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