A SCENE BETWEEN A FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
When Mildred entered the library Lindsay was already there. He stood
before one of the ranges of book shelves, and held a volume in his hand
which, for a moment after his daughter's entrance, seemed to engross his
attention. Mildred was sufficiently astute to perceive that by this
device he struggled to compose his mind for an interview of which she
more than guessed the import. She was of a constitution not easily to be
driven from her self-possession; but the consciousness of her father's
embarrassment, and some perplexity in her own feelings at this moment,
produced by a sense of the difficult part she had to perform, slightly
discomposed her; there was something like alarm in her step, and also in
the expression of her features, as she almost stealthily seated herself
in one of the large lounging chairs. For a moment she unconsciously
employed herself in stripping a little flower that she held in her hand
of its leaves, and looked silently upon the floor; at length, in a low
accent, she said, "Father, I am here at your bidding." Lindsay turned
quickly round, and, throwing down the volume he had been perusing,
approached his daughter with a smile that seemed rather unnaturally to
play over his grave and almost melancholy countenance, and it was with a
forced attempt at pleasantry he said, as he took her hand:--
"Now, I dare say, you think you have done something very wrong, and that
I have brought you here to give you a lecture."
"I hope, father, I have done nothing wrong," was Mildred's grave and
almost tremulous reply.
"Thou art a good child, Mildred," said Lindsay, drawing a chair close
beside hers, and then, in a more serious tone, he continued, "you are
entirely sure, my daughter, that I love you, and devoutly seek your
happiness?"
"Dear father, you frighten me by this solemn air. Why ask me such a
question?"
"Pardon me, my girl, but my feelings are full with subjects of serious
import, and I would have you believe that what I have now to say springs
from an earnest solicitude for your welfare."
"You have always shown it, father."
"I come to speak to you, without reserve, of Tyrrel," resumed Lindsay;
"and you will not respond to my confidence, unless you answer me in the
very truth of your heart. This gentleman, Mr. Tyrrel, has twice avowed
to me of late an earnest attachment to you, and has sought my leave to
prosecute his suit. Such things are not apt to escape a woman's notice,
and you have doubtless had some hint of his predilection before he
disclosed it to me."
All the woman's bashfulness disappeared with this announcement. Mildred
grew erect in her seat, and as the native pride of her character beamed
forth from every feature of her face, she replied--
"He has never, father, vouchsafed to give me such a proof of his good
opinion. Mr. Tyrrel is content to make his bargain with you: he is well
aware that whatever hope he may be idle enough to cherish, must depend
more on your command than on my regard."
"He has never spoken to you, Mildred?" asked Lindsay, without making any
comment on the indignant reception his daughter had given to his
disclosure. "Never a word? Bethink you, my daughter, of all that has
lately passed between you. A maiden is apt to misconstrue attentions.
Can you remember nothing beyond the mere civilities of custom?"
"I can think of nothing in the conduct of Mr. Tyrrel but his devotion to
the purpose of embroiling my dear father in his miserable politics. I
can remember nothing of him but his low voice and noiseless step, his
mysterious insinuations, his midnight sittings, his fulsome flattery of
your services in the royal cause, the base means by which he has robbed
you of your rest and taken the color from your cheek. I thought him too
busy in distracting your peace to cast a thought upon me. But to speak
to me, father, of attachment," she said, rising and taking a station so
near Lindsay's chair as to be able to lean her arm upon his shoulder,
"to breathe one word of a wish to win my esteem, that he dared not do."
"You speak under the impulse of some unnecessarily excited feeling,
daughter. You apply terms and impute motives that sound too harsh from
your lips, when the subject of them is a brave and faithful gentleman.
Mr. Tyrrel deserves nothing at our hands but kindness."
"Alas, my dear father, alas, that you should think so!"
"What have you discovered, Mildred, or heard, that you should deem so
injuriously of this man? Who has conjured up this unreasonable aversion
in your mind against him?"
"I am indebted to no sources of information but my own senses," replied
Mildred; "I want no monitor to tell me that he is not to be trusted. He
is not what he seems."
"True, he is not what he seems, but better. Tyrrel appears here but as a
simple gentleman, wearing, for obvious reasons, an assumed name. The
letters he has brought me avouch him to be a man of rank and family,
high in the confidence of the officers of the king, and holding a
reputable commission in the army: a man of note, worthy to be trusted
with grave enterprises, distinguished for sagacity, bravery, and honor,
of moral virtues which would dignify any station, and, as you cannot but
acknowledge from your own observation, filled with the courtesy and
grace of a gentleman. Fie, daughter! it is sinful to derogate from the
character of an honorable man."
"Wearing an assumed name, father, and acting a part, here, at the Dove
Cote! Is it necessary for his purpose that, under this roof, he should
appear in masquerade? May I know whether he treats with you for my hand
in his real or assumed character--does he permit me to know who he is?"
"All in good time, Mildred. Content you, girl, that he has sufficiently
certified himself to me. These are perilous times, and Tyrrel is obliged
to practise much address to find his way along our roads. You are aware
it would not be discreet to have him known even to our servants. But the
time will come when you shall know him as himself, and then, if I
mistake not, your generous nature will be ashamed to have wronged him by
unworthy suspicions."
"Believe me, father," exclaimed Mildred, rising to a tone of animation
that awakened the natural eloquence of her feelings, and gave them vent
in language which more resembled the display of a practised orator than
the declamation of a girl, "believe me, he imposes on you. His purposes
are intensely selfish. If he has obtained an authority to treat with you
or others under an assumed name, it has only been to further his
personal ends. Already has he succeeded in plunging you, against your
will, into the depth of this quarrel. Your time, my dear father, which
once glided as softly and as happily as yon sparkling waters through our
valley, is now consumed in deliberations that wear out your spirits:
your books are abandoned for the study of secret schemes of politics:
you are perplexed and anxious at every account that reaches us of
victory or defeat. It was not so, until you saw Tyrrel: your nights,
that once knew a long and healthful sleep, are now divided by short and
unrefreshing slumbers: you complain of unpleasant dreams and you
foretell some constantly coming disaster. Indeed, dearest father, you
are not what you were. You wrong yourself by these cares, and you do not
know how anxiously my brother Henry and myself watch, in secret, this
unhappy change in your nature. How can I think with patience of this
Tyrrel when I see these things?"
"The times, Mildred, leave me no choice. When a nation struggles to
throw off the rule of lawful authority, the friends of peace and order
should remember that the riotous passions of the refractory people are
not to be subdued without personal sacrifices."
"You promised yourself, father, here at the Dove Cote to live beyond the
sphere of these excitements. And, as I well remember, you often, as the
war raged, threw yourself upon your knees, and taught us,--your
children,--to kneel by your side, and we put up our joint expressions of
gratitude to God, that, at least, this little asylum was undisturbed by
the angry passions of man."
"We did, we did, my dearest child. But I should think it sinful to pray
for the same quiet when my services might be useful to restore harmony
to a distracted and misguided country."
"Do you now think," asked Mildred, "that your efforts are or can be of
any avail to produce peace?"
"The blessing of heaven has descended upon the arms of our sovereign,"
replied Lindsay. "The southern provinces are subdued, and are fast
returning to their allegiance. The hopes of England brighten, and a
speedy close of this unnatural rebellion is at hand."
"There are many valleys, father, amongst these mountains, and the wide
forests shade a solitude where large and populous nations may be hid
almost from human search. They who possess the valleys and the
wilderness, I have heard it said by wise men, will for ever choose their
own rulers."
"Mildred, you are a dutiful daughter, and are not wont to oppose your
father's wishes. I could desire to see you, with that shrewd
apprehension of yours, that quick insight, and that thoughtful mind,
thoughtful beyond the quality of your sex, less favorably bent towards
the enterprise of these rebel subjects. I do utterly loathe them and
their cause, and could wish that child of mine abated in no one jot of
my aversion to them."
"Heaven, father, and your good tutoring have made me what I am,"
returned Mildred, calmly; "I am but a woman, and speak with a weak
judgment and little knowledge. To my unlearned mind it seems that the
government of every nation should be what the people wish it. There are
good men here, father, amongst your friends--men, who, I am sure, have
all kindness in their hearts, who say that this country his suffered
grievous wrongs from the insolence of the king's representatives. They
have proclaimed this in a paper which I have heard even you say was
temperate and thoughtful: and you know nearly the whole land has roused
itself to say that paper was good. Can so many men be wrong?"
"You are a girl," replied Lindsay, "and a subtile one: you are tainted
with the common heresy. But what else might I expect! There are few
_men_ who can think out of fashion. When the multitude is supposed to
speak, that is warrant enough for the opinions of the majority. But it
is no matter, this is not a woman's theme, and is foreign to our present
conference. I came to talk with you about Tyrrel. Upon that subject I
will use no persuasions, express no wish, not in the slightest point
essay to influence your choice. When he disclosed his purpose to me, I
told him it was a question solely at your disposal. Thus much it is my
duty to say, that should his suit be favored"--
"From the bottom of my heart, father," interrupted Mildred eagerly, and
with increasing earnestness, "I abhor the thought. Be assured that if
age, poverty, and deformity were showered upon me at once, if friends
abandoned me, if my reason were blighted, and I was doomed to wander
barefooted amongst thorns and briers, I would not exchange that lot, to
be his wife amidst ten-fold his honors and wealth. I never can listen to
his hateful proposal: there is that in my condition which would make it
wicked. Pray, dearest father, as you love your daughter, do not speak of
it to me again."
"Resume your calmness, child: your earnestness on this subject afflicts
me; it has a fearful omen in it. It tells of a heart fatally devoted to
one whom, of all men, I have greatest reason to hate. This unhappy,
lingering passion for the sworn enemy of his king and country, little
becomes my daughter, or her regard for me. It may rouse me, Mildred, to
some unkind wish against thee. Oh, I could curse myself that I ever
threw you in the way of this insidious rebel, Butler. Nay you need not
conceal your tears; well do they deserve to flow for this persevering
transgression against the peace of your father's house. It requires but
little skill to read the whole history of your heart."
Lindsay now walked to and fro across the apartment, under the influence
of emotions which he was afraid to trust himself to utter. At length
resuming his expostulation, in a somewhat moderate tone, he continued:
"Will no lapse of time wear away this abhorred image from your memory?
Are you madly bent on bringing down misery on your head? I do not speak
of my own suffering. Will you for ever nurse a hopeless attachment for a
man whom, it must be apparent to yourself, you can never meet again?
Whom if the perils of the field, the avenging bullet of some loyal
subject, do not bring him merited punishment, the halter may reward, or,
in his most fortunate destiny, disgrace, poverty, and shame pursue. Are
you for ever to love that man?"
Mildred stood before her father as he brought this appeal to a close;
her eyes filled with tears, her breast heaving as if it would burst; and
summoning up all her courage for her reply, when this last question was
asked, she looked with an expression of almost angry defiance in his
face, as she answered "For ever, for ever," and hastily left the room.
The firm tone in which Mildred spoke these last words, her proud and
almost haughty bearing, so unlike anything Lindsay had ever seen before,
and her abrupt departure from his presence, gave a check to the current
of his thoughts that raised the most painful emotions. For an instant a
blush of resentment rose into his cheeks, and he felt tempted to call
his daughter back that he might express this sentiment: it was but of a
moment's duration, however, and grief, at what he felt was the first
altercation he had ever had with his child, succeeded, and stifled all
other emotions. He flung himself into the chair, and, dropping his
forehead upon his hand, gave way to the full tide of his feelings. His
spirits gradually became more composed, and he was able to survey with a
somewhat temperate judgment the scene that had just passed. His manner,
he thought, might have been too peremptory--perhaps it was harsh, and
had offended his daughter's pride: he should have been more conciliatory
in his speech. "The old," he said, "are not fit counsellors to the
young; we forget the warmth of their passions, and would reason when
they only feel. How small a share has prudence in the concerns of the
heart!" But then this unexpected fervor of devotion to Butler--that
alarmed him, and he bit his lip, as he felt his anger rising with the
thought. "Her repugnance to Tyrrel, her prompt rejection of his suit,
her indignant contempt for the man, even that I could bear with
patience," he exclaimed. "I seek not to trammel her will by any
authority of mine. But this Butler! Oh! there is the beginning of the
curse upon my house! there is the fate against which I have been so
solemnly warned! That man who had been the author of this unhappiness,
and whose alliance with my name has been denounced by the awful
visitation of the dead,--that Mildred should cherish his regard, is
misery. It cannot and shall not be!"
These and many such reflections passed through Lindsay's mind, and had
roused his feelings to a tone of exacerbation against Arthur Butler, far
surpassing any displeasure he had ever before indulged against this
individual. In the height of this self-communion he was interrupted by
the return of Mildred to the apartment, almost as abruptly as she had
quitted it. She approached his chair, knelt, laid her head upon his lap,
and wept aloud.
"Why, my dear father," she said, at length, looking up in his face while
the tears rolled down her cheeks, "why do you address language to me
that makes me forget the duty I owe you? If you knew my heart, you would
spare and pity my feelings. Pardon me, dear father, if my conduct has
offended you. I knew not what I spoke; I am wretched, and cannot answer
for my words. Do not think I would wound your affection by unkindness;
but indeed, indeed, I cannot hear you speak of Tyrrel without agony."
"Rise, daughter," said Lindsay, almost lifting her up, "I do not chide
you for your repugnance to Tyrrel. You mistake me if you think I would
dictate to your affections: my grief has a deeper source. This Arthur
Butler"--
"Spare that name, father?" interrupted Mildred, retiring to a seat near
the window and covering her face with her hands.
"Curse him!" exclaimed Lindsay. "May all the plagues that torment the
human bosom fall upon him! Mark me, daughter, I trust I am not an
unreasonable father; I know I am not an unkind one; there are few
requests that you could make which I would not freely grant. But to hear
with patience the name of that man on your lips, to think of him as
allied to you by any sympathy, as sharing any portion of your
esteem--him, a rebel traitor who has raised his sacrilegious hand
against his king, who has sold his name to infamy, who has contributed
to fill these peaceful provinces with discord, and to subvert the
happiness of this land, which heaven had appointed to be an asylum where
man, disgusted with the lusts, rapine, and murder of his fellow, might
betake himself as a child to the bosom of his parent--I cannot endure
the thought of him! Never again, Mildred, I charge you, never allude to
him again!"
"If I could but tell you all!" interrupted Mildred, sobbing, "if I could
but patiently have your hearing."
"Never a word of him! as you desire to preserve my affection, I will not
hear. Get to your chamber," said Lindsay, almost sternly. "Get to your
chamber, this perverse and resolute temper of thine, needs the restraint
of solitude."
Mildred rose from her chair and moved towards the door, and as she was
about to depart she turned her weeping countenance towards her father.
"Come hither," he said, "thou art a foolish girl, and would bring down
wretchedness and woe upon thee. God forgive you, from the bottom of my
heart, I forgive you. This thing is not of your own imagining: some
malignant spirit has spread his baleful wing above our house. Go,
child, forget what has been said, and believe that your father buffets
thus harshly with fate for your own welfare. Kiss me, and may heaven
shield you against this impending ill!"
"Dear father, hear me," said Mildred, as Lindsay imprinted a kiss upon
her forehead.
"Away, away!" interrupted Lindsay, "I would be temperate nor again
forget myself. In all love, Mildred, away."
Mildred left the room, and Lindsay, to restore the equanimity of his
temper, which had been so much overthrown by this interview, wandered
forth into the valley, whence it was some hours before he returned.
It was not long after the termination of this conference before Henry
rode up to the door. The clatter of his horse's hoofs brought Mildred
from her chamber into the parlor.
"What! sister, your eyes red with tears?" said Henry. "Who has
distressed you?"
"Ah, brother, I have had a weary time in your absence. Our poor father
is sadly displeased with me."
"Have you told him all?" asked Henry, with an expression of anxiety.
"He bade me," replied Mildred, "never mention Arthur's name again. He
would not hear me speak of Arthur. Have I not reason, dear brother, to
be miserable?"
"I love you, Mildred," said Henry, kissing his sister, "and what's more,
I love Arthur Butler, and will stand up for him against the world. And I
have a good mind to go to my father and tell him I am man enough to
think for myself--and more than that--that I, for one, believe these
rebels, as he calls them, have the right of it. Why shouldn't I? Can't I
shoot a rifle as well as the best of them, and stand by a friend in a
quarrel, and make good my words as well as many a man who writes twenty
years to his age? Tush! I am tired of this boy-play--shooting with
blunted arrows, and riding with my father's hand ever on the neck of my
horse, as if I could not hold the reins. Give me sharp steel, Mildred,
and throw me on the world, and I'll be bound I make my way as well as
another."
"We are surrounded with difficulties, brother," said Mildred, "and have
a hard part to perform. We must soothe our dear father's feelings, for
he loves us, Henry; and if he could but think as we do, how happy should
we be! But there is something fearful in his passions, and it makes me
tremble to see them roused."
"This all comes," replied Henry, "from that devil's imp Tyrrel. Oh, I
could find it in my heart to trounce that fellow, sister. But you
hav'n't asked me about my reconnoitring! I'll tell you. Tyrrel's man,
Curry, talked a great deal to old Tony and Mrs. Dimock both, about our
friends who went there last night, and found out their names and all
about them: and there was some fray between Horse Shoe and Curry, in
which, I'll warrant you, Horse Shoe gave him a drubbing; so Tony told
me. Well, Butler and Horse Shoe set out this morning at daylight. And
Tyrrel went over there to breakfast: and you may suppose he was lucky in
not meeting the major, for I am sure there would have been a spot of
work if he had. Furthermore, I found out that Tyrrel followed on the
same road after Butler, so they may meet yet, you know."
"I pray not," said Mildred.
"Why pray not, sister? I pray they may meet. Let Tyrrel have all the
good of it. There, now I believe I have given you all the news, sister,
exactly as I picked it up. But here is a trifle I forgot," said Henry,
producing a letter addressed to Mildred. "Ah, ha, you brighten up now!
This was left by the major with Mrs. Dimock, to be forwarded to you with
care and speed."
Mildred tore open the letter, and eagerly perused its contents. They
consisted of a few lines hastily penned by Butler, at early dawn, as he
was about mounting his horse for the prosecution of his journey. Their
purpose was to apprise her of the discovery Robinson had made of the
true character of Curry, and also to express his fears that this latter
person might disclose to Tyrrel the fact of his, Butler's, visit. He
cautioned her to observe the conduct of Tyrrel, and to communicate with
him at Gates's head-quarters where he expected to be delayed a few days
on his journey: her letter, he said, might be forwarded by some of the
parties who at that time were continually passing southward: Henry might
look to this; and he concluded by assuring her that he would write as
often as he might find means of conveying a packet to the care of good
Mistress Dimock, who was sufficiently in the interest of the lovers to
keep faithfully any secret which they might confide to her.
This letter served to explain the cause of Tyrrel's sudden departure,
and to confirm Mildred in the opinion, which she had before expressed,
that this guest of her father was not ignorant of the interest Butler
had in her regard. Her determination therefore was to watch his motions
narrowly, and to make her lover acquainted with whatever she might
discover.
"It is even so," she said musing; "Tyrrel either fears or hates Arthur.
I shudder to think that that man should have any motive supplied him to
contrive against the peace or safety of one so dear to me. Wretch," she
exclaimed, "that he should be insolent enough to hope for my regard! Oh!
my father, my father, what a snare has been spread for you by this man!
Thank you, brother," she continued, addressing Henry. "You have well
executed your mission. Be discreet and ready: I shall have much need of
your head and hand both: your heart is mine already, good brother."
"I will ride for you, sister," said Henry, "I will run for you, speak
for you, pray for you--if my prayers be worth anything--and strike for
you, if need be. If I am but turned of sixteen, I am a man, I trow; and
that's more than you are. Good bye! a soldier ought to look after his
horse, you know."
"God bless you, dear brother, for an excellent boy," said Mildred
smiling, "man I mean--aye and a brave one!"
Henry now walked away, and Mildred betook herself to other cares.