--Lucy yields at Last.
Not many minutes after Mrs. Mainwaring's interview with the baronet,
Gibson entered the library, and handed him a letter on which was stamped
the Ballytrain postmark. On looking at it, he paused for a moment:
“Who the d------ can this come from?” he said. “I am not aware of having
any particular correspondence at present, in or about Ballytrain. Here,
however, is a seal; let me see what it is. What the d------, again? are
these a pair of asses' ears or wings? Certainly, if the impression
be correct, the former; and what is here? A fox. Very good, perfectly
intelligible; a fox, with a pair of asses' ears upon him! intimating a
combination of knavery and folly. 'Gad, this must be from Crackenfudge,
of whom it is the type and exponent. For a thousand, it contains a list
of his qualifications for the magisterial honors for which he is
so ambitious. Well, well; I believe every man has an ambition for
something. Mine is to see my daughter a countess, that she may trample
with velvet slippers on the necks of those who would trample on hers if
she were beneath them. This fellow, now, who is both slave and tyrant,
will play all sorts of oppressive pranks upon the poor, by whom he knows
that he is despised; and for that very reason, along with others, will
he punish them. That, however, is, after all, but natural; and on this
very account, curse me, but I shall try and shove the beggarly scoundrel
up to the point of his paltry ambition. I like ambition. The man who has
no object of ambition of any kind is unfit for life. Come, then, wax,
deliver up thy trust.'”
With a dark grin of contempt, and a kind of sarcastic gratification, he
perused the document, which ran as follows:
“My dear Sir Tomas,--In a letter, which a' had the honer of receiving
from you, in consequence of your very great kindness in condescending to
kick me out of your house, on the occasion of my last visit to Red
Hall, you were pleased to express a wish that a' would send you up as
arthentic a list as a' could conveniently make up of my qualifications
for the magistracey. Deed, a'm sore yet, Sir Tomas, and wouldn't it be
a good joke, as my friend Dr. Twig says, if the soreness should remain
until it is cured by the Komission, which he thinks would wipe out all
recollection of the pain and the punishment. And he says, too, that this
application of it would be putting it to a most proper and legutimate
use; the only use, he insists, to which it ought to be put. But a' don't
go that far, because a' think it would be an honerable dockiment, not
only to my posterity, meaning my legutimate progenitors, if a' should
happen to have any; but, also and moreover, to the good taste and
judgment, and respect for the honer and integrity of the Bench,
manifested by those who attributed to place me on it.
“A' now come to Klaim No. I, for the magistracey: In the first place
a'm not without expeyrience, having been in the habit of acting as a
magistrate in a private way, and upon my own responsibility, for several
years. A' established a kourt in a little vilage, which--and this is a
strong point in my feavor now-a-days--which a' meself have depopilated;
and a' trust that the depopilation won't be ovelueked. To this kourt
a' com-peled all me taunts to atend. They were obliged to summon one
another as often as they kould, and much oftener than they wished, and
for the slightest kauses. A' presided in it purseondlly; and a'll tell
you why. My system was a fine system, indeed. That is to say, a' fined
them ether on the one side or the tother, but most generally on both,
and then a' put the fines into my own pocet. My tenints a' know didn't
like this kind of law very much--but if they didn't a' did; and a' made
them feel that a' was their landlord. No man was a faverite with me that
didn't frequent my kourt, and for this resin, in order to stand well
with me, they fought like kat and dog. Now, you know, it was my bisness
to enkorage this, for the more they fought and disputed, the more a'
fined them.
“In fact, a' done everything in my power, to enlitin my tenints. For
instance, a' taught them the doktrine of trespiss. If a' found that a
stranger tuck the sheltry side of my hedge, to blow his nose, I fined
him half-a-crown, as can be proved by proper and undeniable testomony.
A' mention all these matters to satisfy you that a' have practis as a
magistrate, and won't have my duties to lern when a'm called upon to
discharge them.
“Klaim No. II. is as follows: A'm very unpopilar with the people, which
is a great thing in itself, as a' think no man ought to be risen to the
bench that's not unpopilar; because, when popilar, he's likely to feavor
them, and symperthize with them--wherein his first duty is always to
konsider them in the rong. Nether am a' popilar with the gentry and
magistrates of the kountry, because they despise me, and say that a'm
this, that and tother; that a'm mean and tyrannical; that a' changed my
name from pride, and that a'm overbearing and ignorant. Now this last
charge of ignorance brings me to Klaim No. III.
“Be it nown to you, then, Sir Tomas, that a' received a chollege
eddycation, which is an anser in full to the play of ignorance. In fact,
a' devoted meself to eddycation till my very brain began to go round
like a whurli-gig; and many people say, that a' never rekovered the
proper use of it since. Hundres will tell you that they would shed their
blood upon the truth of it; but let any one that thinks so transact
bisness with me, or bekome a tenint of mine, and he'll find that a' can
make him bleed in proving the reverse.
“A' could prove many other klaims equally strong, but a' hope it's not
necessary to seduce any more. A' do think, if the Lord Chanceseller knew
of my qualifications, a' wouldn't be long off the bench. If, then, Sir
Tomas, you, who have so much influence, would write on my behalf, and
rekomend me to the custus rascalorum as a proper kandi-date, I could not
fail to sukceed in reaching the great point of my ambition, which is,
to be accommodated with a seat--anything would satisfy me--even a
close-stool--upon the magisterial bench. Amen, Sir Tomas.
“And have the honer to be,
“Your obedient and much obliged, and very thankful servant for what a'
got, as well as for what a' expect, Sir Tomas,
“Periwinkle Crackenfudge.”
Sir Thomas--having perused this precious document, which, by the way,
contains no single fact that could not be substantiated by the clearest
testimony, so little are they at head-quarters acquainted with the
pranks that are played off on the unfortunate people by multitudes of
petty tyrants in remote districts of the country--Sir Thomas, we say,
having perused the aforesaid document, grinned--almost laughed--with a
satirical enjoyment of its contents.
“Very good,” said he; “excellent: confound me, but Crackenfudge must get
to the bench, if it were only for the novelty of the thing. I will this
moment recommend him to Lord Cullamore, who is _custos rotulorum_ for
the county, and who would as soon, by the way, cut his right hand off as
recommend him to the Chancellor, if he knew the extent of his 'klaims,'
as the miserable devil spells it. Yes, I will recommend him, if it were
only to vex my brother baronet, Sir James B-----, who is humane, and
kind, and popular, forsooth, and a staunch advocate for purity of the
bench, and justice to the people! No doubt of it; I shall recommend you,
Crackenfudge, and cheek by jowl with the best among them, upon the same
magistorial bench, shall the doughty Crackenfudge sit.”
He instantly sat down to his writing-desk, and penned as strong a
recommendation as he could possibly compose to Lord Cullamore, after
which he threw himself again upon the sofa, and exclaimed:
“Well, that act is done, and an iniquitous one it is; but no matter,
it is gone off to the post, and I'm rid of him.' Now for Lucy, and my
ambition; she is unquestionably with that shameless old woman who could
think of marrying at such an age. She is with her; she will hear of my
illness, and as certain as life is life, and death death, she will be
here soon.”
In this he calculated aright, and he felt that he did so. Mrs.
Mainwaring, on the evening of their visit to the city, considered it her
duty to disclose, fully and candidly, to Lucy, the state of her father's
health, that is, as it appeared to her on their interview. Lucy, who
knew that he was subject to sudden attacks upon occasions of less
moment, not only became alarmed, but experienced a feeling like remorse
for having, as she said, abandoned him so undutifully.
“I will return immediately,” she said, weeping; “he is ill: you say he
speaks of me tenderly and affectionately--oh, what have I done! Should
this illness prove serious--fatal--my piece of mind were gone forever. I
should consider myself as a parricide--as the direct cause of his death.
My God! perhaps even now I am miserable for life--forever--forever!”
Mrs. Mainwaring soothed her as well as she could, but she refused to
hear comfort, and having desired Alley Mahon to prepare their slight
luggage, she took an affectionate and tearful leave of Mrs. Mainwaring,
bade _adieu_ to her husband, and was about to get into the chaise, which
had been ordered from the inn in Wicklow, when Mrs. Mainwaring said:
“Now, my dear Lucy, if your father should recover, and have recourse
to any abuse of his authority, by attempting again to force your
inclinations and consummate your misery, remember that my door, my arms,
my heart, shall ever be open to you. I do not, you will observe, suggest
any act of disobedience on your part; on the contrary, I am of opinion
that you should suffer everything short of the last resort, by which
I mean this hateful marriage with Dunroe, sooner than abandon your
father's roof. This union is a subject on which I must see him again.
Poor Lord Cullamore I respect and venerate, for I have reason to
believe that he has, for one contemplated error, had an unhappy if not
a remorseful life. In the meantime, even in opposition to your
father's wishes, I say it, and in confirmation of your strongest
prejudices------”
“It amounts to antipathy, Mrs. Mainwaring--to hatred, to abhorrence.”
“Well, my dear child, in confirmation of them all, I implore, I entreat,
I conjure, and if I had authority, I would say, I command you not to
unite your fate with that young profligate.”
“Do not fear me, Mrs. Mainwaring; but at present I can think of nothing
but poor papa and his illness; I tremble, indeed, to think how I shall
find him; and, my God, to reflect that I am the guilty cause of all
this!”
They then separated, and Lucy, accompanied by Alley, proceeded to
town at a pace as rapid as the animals that bore them could possibly
accomplish.
On arriving in town, she was about rushing upstairs to throw herself
in her father's arms, when Gibson, who observed her, approached
respectfully, and said:
“This haste to see your father, Miss Gourlay, is very natural; but
perhaps you will be good enough to wait a few moments, until he is
prepared to receive you. The doctor has left strict orders that he shall
not see any person; but, above all things, without being announced.”
“But, Gibson--first, how is he? Is he very ill?”
Gibson assumed a melancholy and very solemn look, as he replied, “He
is, indeed, ill, Miss Gourlay; but it would not become me to distress
you--especially as I hope your presence will comfort him; he is
perpetually calling for you.”
“Go, Gibson, go,” she exclaimed, whilst tears, which she could not
restrain, gushed to her eyes. “Go, be quick; tell him I am here.”
“I will break it to him, madam, as gently as possible,” replied
this sedate and oily gentleman; “for, if made acquainted with it too
suddenly, the unexpected joy might injure him.”
“Do not injure him, then,” she exclaimed, earnestly; “oh, do not injure
him--but go; I leave it to your own discretion.”
Lucy immediately proceeded to her own room, and Gibson to the library,
where he found the baronet in his nightcap and morning gown, reading a
newspaper.
“I have the paragraph drawn up, Gibson,” said he, with a grim smile,
“stating that I am dangerously ill; take and copy it, and see that it be
inserted in to-morrow's publication.”
“It will not be necessary, sir,” replied the footman; “Miss Gourlay is
here, and impatient to see you.”
“Here!” exclaimed her father with a start; “you do not say she is in the
house?”
“She has just arrived, sir, and is now in her own room.”
“Leave me, Gibson,” said the baronet, “and attend promptly when I ring;”
and Gibson withdrew. “Why,” thought he to himself, “why, do I feel as
I do? Glad that I have her once more in my power, and this is only
natural; but why this kind of terror--this awe of that extraordinary
girl? I dismissed that prying scoundrel of a footman, because I could
not bear that he should observe and sneer at this hypocrisy, although
I know he is aware of it. What can this uncomfortable sensation which
checks my joy at her return mean? Is it that involuntary homage which
they say vice is compelled to pay to purity, truth, and virtue? I know
not; but I feel disturbed, humbled with an impression like that of
guilt--an impression which makes me feel as if there actually were
such a thing as conscience. As my objects, however, are for the foolish
girl's advancement, I am determined to play the game out, and for that
purpose, as I know now by experience that neither harshness nor violence
will do, I shall have recourse to tenderness and affection. I must touch
her heart, excite her sympathy, and throw myself altogether upon her
generosity. Come then--and now for the assumption of a new character.”
Having concluded this train of meditation, he rang for Gibson, who
appeared.
“Gibson, let Miss Gourlay know that, ill as I am, I shall try to see
her: be precise in the message, sir; use my own words.”
“Certainly, Sir Thomas,” replied the footman, who immediately withdrew
to deliver it.
The baronet, when Gibson went out again, took a pair of pillows,
with which the sofa was latterly furnished, in order to maintain the
appearance of illness, whenever it might be necessary, and having placed
them under his head, laid himself down, pulled the nightcap over his
brows, and affected all the symptoms of a man who was attempting to
struggle against some serious and severe attack.
In this state he lay, when Lucy entering the room, approached, in a
flood of tears, exclaiming, as she knelt by the sofa, “Oh, papa--dear
papa, forgive me;” and as she spoke, she put her arms round his neck,
and kissed him affectionately. “Dear papa,” she proceeded, “you are
ill--very ill, I fear; but will you not forgive your poor child for
having abandoned you as she did? I have returned, however, to stay with
you, to tend you, to soothe and console you as far as any and every
effort of mine can. You shall have no nurse but me, papa. All that human
hands can do to give you ease--all that the sincerest affection can do
to sustain and cheer you, your own Lucy will do. But speak to me, papa;
am I not your own Lucy still?”
Her father turned round, as if by a painful effort, and having looked
upon her for some time, replied, feebly, “Yes, you are--you are my own
Lucy still.”
This admission brought a fresh gush of tears from the affectionate girl,
who again exclaimed, “Ah, papa, I fear you are very ill; but those words
are to me the sweetest that ever proceeded from your lips. Are you glad
to see me, papa?--but I forget myself; perhaps I am disturbing you. Only
say how you feel, and if it will not injure you, what your complaint
is.”
“My complaint, dear Lucy, most affectionate child--for I see you are so
still, notwithstanding reports and appearances--”
“Oh, indeed, I am, papa--indeed I am.”
“My complaint was brought on by anxiety and distress of mind--I will not
say why--I did, I know, I admit, wish to see you in a position of life
equal to your merits; but I cannot talk of that--it would disturb me;
it is a subject on which, alas! I am without hope. I am threatened
with apoplexy or paralysis, Lucy, the doctor cannot say which; but the
danger, he says, proceeds altogether from the state of my mind, acting,
it is true, upon a plethoric system of body; but I care not, dear
Lucy--I care not, now; I am indifferent to life. All my expectations
--all a father's brilliant plans for his child, are now over. The doctor
says that ease of mind might restore, but I doubt it now; I fear it is
too late. I only wish I was better prepared for the change which I know
I shall soon be forced to make. Yet I feel, Lucy, as if I never loved
you until now--I feel how dear you are to me now that I know I must part
with you so soon.”
Lucy was utterly incapable of resisting this tenderness, as the
unsuspecting girl believed it to be. She again threw her arms around
him, and wept as if her very heart would break.
“This agitation, my darling,” he added, “is too much for us both. My
head is easily disturbed; but--but--send for Lucy,” he exclaimed, as if
touched by a passing delirium, “send for my daughter. I must have Lucy.
I have been harsh to her, and I cannot die without her forgiveness.”
“Here, papa--dearest papa! Recollect yourself; Lucy is with you; not to
forgive you for anything, but to ask; to implore to be forgiven.”
“Ha!” he said, raising his head a little, and looking round like a man
awakening from sleep. “I fear I am beginning to wander. Dear Lucy--yes,
it is you. Oh, I recollect. Withdraw, my darling; the sight of you--the
joy of your very appearance--eh--eh--yes, let me see. Oh, yes;
withdraw, my darling; this interview has been too much for me--I fear
it has--but rest and silence will restore me, I hope. I hope so--I hope
so.”
Lucy, who feared that a continuance of this interview might very much
aggravate his illness, immediately took her leave, and retired to her
own room, whither she summoned Alley Mahon. This blunt but faithful
attendant felt no surprise in witnessing her grief; for indeed she
had done little else than weep, ever since she heard of her father's
illness.
“Now don't cry so much, miss,” she said; “didn't I tell you that your
grief will do neither you nor him any good? Keep yourself cool and
quiet, and spake to him like a raisonable crayture, what you are not,
ever since you herd of his being sick. It isn't by shedding tears that
you can expect to comfort him, as you intend to do, but by being calm,
and considerate, and attentive to him, and not allowin' him to see what
you suffer.”
“That is very true, Alice, I admit,” replied Lucy; but when I consider
that it was my undutiful flight from him that occasioned this attack,
how can I free myself from blame? My heart, Alice, is divided between a
feeling of remorse for having deserted him without sufficient cause, and
grief for his illness, and in that is involved the apprehension of his
loss. After all, Alice, you must admit that I have no friend in the
world but my father. How, then, can I think of losing him?”
“And even if God took him,” replied Alley, “which I hope after all isn't
so likely--”
“What do you mean, girl?” asked Lucy, ignorant that Alley only used
a form of speech peculiar to the people, “what language is this of my
father?”
“Why, I hope it's but the truth, miss,” replied the maid; “for if God
was to call him to-morrow--which may God forbid! you'd find friends that
would take care of you and protect you.”
“Yes; but, Alice, if papa died, I should have to reproach myself with
his death; and that consideration would drive me distracted or kill me.
I am beginning to think that obedience to the will of a parent is, under
all circumstances, the first duty of a child. A parent knows better what
is for our good than we can be supposed to do. At all events, whatever
exceptions there may be to this rule, I care not. It is enough, and too
much, for me to reflect that my conduct has been the cause of papa's
illness. His great object in life was to promote my happiness. Now this
was affection for me. I grant he may have been mistaken, but still it
was affection; and consequently I cannot help admitting that even his
harshness, and certainly all that he suffered through the very violence
of his own passions, arose from the same source--affection for me.”
“Ah,” replied Alley, “it's aisy seen that your heart is softened now;
but in truth, miss, it was quare affection that would make his daughter
miserable, bekase he wanted her to become a great lady. If he was a
kind and raisonable father, he would not force you to be unhappy. An
affectionate father would give up the point rather than make you so; but
no; the truth is simply this, he wanted to gratify himself more than he
did you, or why would he act as he did?”
“Alice,” replied Lucy, “remember that I will not suffer you to speak of
my father with disrespect. You forget yourself, girl, and learn from me
now, that in order to restore him to peace of mind and health, in order
to rescue him from death, and oh,” she exclaimed involuntarily, “above
all things from a death, for which, perhaps, he is not sufficiently
prepared--as who, alas, is for that terrible event!--yes in order to
do this, I am ready to yield an implicit obedience to his wishes: and I
pray heaven that this act on my part may not be too late to restore him
to his health, and relieve his mind from the load of care which presses
it down upon my account.”
“Good Lord, Miss Gourlay,” exclaimed poor Alley, absolutely frightened
by the determined and vehement spirit in which these words were uttered,
“surely you wouldn't think of makin' a saickerfice of yourself that
way?”
“That may be the word, Alice, or it may not; but if it be a sacrifice,
and if the sacrifice is necessary, it shall be made--I shall make it. My
disobedience shall never break my father's heart.”
“I don't wish to speak disrespectfully of your father, miss; but I think
he's an ambitious man.”
“And perhaps the ambition which he feels is a virtue, and one in which
I am deficient. You and I, Alice, know but little of life and the maxims
by which its great social principles are regulated.”
“Faith, spake for yourself, miss; as for me, I'm the very girl that has
had my experience. No less than three did I manfully refuse, in spite
of both father and mother. First there was big Bob Broghan, a giant of
a fellow, with a head and pluck upon him that would fill a mess-pot. He
had a chape farm, and could afford to wallow like a swine in filth and
laziness. And well becomes the old couple, I must marry him, whether I
would or not. Be aisy, said I, it's no go; when I marry a man, it'll be
one that'll know the use of soap and wather, at all events. Well, but I
must; I did not know what was for my own good; he was rich, and I'd lead
a fine life with him. Scrape and clane him for somebody else, says I; no
such walkin' dungheap for me. Then they came to the cudgel, and flaked
me; but it was in a good cause, and I tould them that if I must die a
marthyr to cleanliness, I must; and at last they dropped it, and so I
got free of Bob Broghan.
“The next was a little fellow that kept a small shop of hucksthery, and
some groceries, and the like o' that. He was a near, penurious devil,
hard and scraggy lookin', with hunger in his face and in his heart, too;
ay, and besides, he had the name of not bein' honest. But then his shop
was gettin' bigger and bigger, and himself richer and richer every day.
Here's your man, says the old couple. Maybe not, says I. No shingawn
that deals in light weights and short measures for me. My husband must
be an honest man, and not a keen shaving rogue like Barney Buckley.
Well, miss, out came the cudgel again, and out came I with the same
answer. Lay on, says I; if I must die a marthyr to honesty, why I must;
and may God have mercy on me for the same, as he will. Then they saw
that I was a rock, and so there was an end of Barney Buckley, as well as
Bob Broghan.
“Well and good; then came number three, a fine handsome young man, by
name Con Coghlan. At first I didn't much like him, bekase he had the
name of being too fond of money, and it was well known that he had
disappointed three or four girls that couldn't show guinea for guinea
with him. The sleeveen gained upon me, however, and I did get fond of
him, and tould him to speak to my father, and so he did, and they met
once or twice to make the match; but, ah, miss, every one has their
troubles. On the last meetin', when he found that my fortune wasn't what
he expected, he shogged off wid himself; and, mother o' mercy, did ever
I think it would come to that?” Here she wiped her eyes, and then with
fresh spirit proceeded, “He jilted me, Miss--the desateful villain
jilted me; but if he did, I had my revenge. In less than a year he came
sneakin' back, and tould my father that as he couldn't get me out of
his head, he would take me with whatever portion they could give me. The
fellow was rich, Miss, and so the ould couple, ready to bounce at him,
came out again. Come, Alley, here's Con Coghlan back. Well, then, says
I, he knows the road home again, and let him take it. One good turn
desarves another. When he could get me he wouldn't take me, and now when
he would take me, he won't get me; so I think we're even.
“Out once more came the cudgel, and on they laid; but now I wasn't
common stone but whitestone. Lay on, say I; I see, or rather I feel,
that the crown is before me. If I must die a marthyr to a dacent spirit,
why I must; and so God's blessing be with you all. I'll shine in heaven
for this yet.
“I think now, Miss, you'll grant that I know something about life.”
“Alice,” replied Lucy, “I have often heard it said, that the humblest
weeds which grow contain virtues that are valuable, if they were only
known. Your experience is not without a moral, and your last lover was
the worst, because he was mean; but when I think of him--the delicate,
the generous, the disinterested, the faithful, the noble-hearted--alas,
Alice!” she exclaimed, throwing herself in a fresh paroxysm of grief
upon the bosom of her maid, “you know not the incredible pain--the
hopeless agony--of the sacrifice I am about to make. My father, however,
is the author of my being, and as his very life depends upon my strength
of mind now, I shall, rather than see him die whilst I selfishly gratify
my own will--yes, Alice, I shall--I shall--and may heaven give me
strength for it!--I shall sacrifice love to duty, and save him; that is,
if it be not already too late.”
“And if he does recover,” replied Alice, whose tears flowed along with
those of her mistress, but whose pretty eye began to brighten with
indignant energy as she spoke, “if he does recover, and if ever he turns
a cold look, or uses a harsh word to you, may I die for heaven if he
oughtn't to be put in the public stocks and made an example of to the
world.”
“The scene, however, will be changed then, Alice; for the subject matter
of all our misunderstandings will have been removed. Yet, Alice,
amidst all the darkness and suffering that lie before me, there is one
consolation”--and as she uttered these words, there breathed throughout
her beautiful features a spirit of sorrow, so deep, so mournful, so
resigned, and so touching, that Alley in turn laid her head on her
bosom, exclaiming, as she looked up into her eyes, “Oh, may the God of
mercy have pity on you, my darling mistress! what wouldn't your faithful
Alley do to give you relief? and she can't;” and then the affectionate
creature wept bitterly. “But what is the consolation?” she asked, hoping
to extract from the melancholy girl some thought or view of her position
that might inspire them with hope or comfort.
“The consolation I allude to, Alice, is the well-known fact that a
broken heart cannot long be the subject of sorrow; and, besides, my
farewell of life will not be painful; for then I shall be able to
reflect with peace that, difficult as was the duty imposed upon me, I
shall have performed it. Now, dear Alice, withdraw; I wish to be alone
for some time, that I may reflect as I ought, and endeavor to gain
strength for the sacrifice that is before me.”
Her eye as she looked upon Alley was, though filled with a melancholy
lustre, expressive at the same time of a spirit so lofty, calm, and
determined, that its whole character partook of absolute sublimity.
Alley, in obedience to her words, withdrew; but not without an anxious
and earnest effort at imparting comfort.
When her maid had retired, Lucy began once more to examine her position,
in all its dark and painful aspects, and to reflect upon the destiny
which awaited her, fraught with unexampled misery as it was. Though well
aware, from former experience, of her father's hypocritical disguises,
she was too full of generosity and candor to allow her heart
to entertain suspicion. Her nature was one of great simplicity,
artlessness, and truth. Truth, above all things, was her predominant
virtue; and we need not say, that wherever it resides it is certain to
become a guarantee for the possession of all the rest. Her cruel-hearted
father, himself false and deceitful, dreaded her for this love of truth,
and was so well acquainted with her utter want of suspicion, that he
never scrupled, though frequently detected, to impose upon her, when it
suited his purpose. This, indeed, was not difficult; for such was his
daughter's natural candor and truthfulness, that if he deceived her by a
falsehood to-day, she was as ready to believe him to-morrow as ever.
His last heartless act of hypocrisy, therefore, was such a deliberate
violation of truth as amounted to a species of sacrilege; for it robbed
the pure shrine of his own daughter's heart of her whole happiness. Nay,
when we consider the relations in which they stood, it might be termed,
as is beautifully said in Scripture, “a seething of the kid in the
mother's milk.”
As it was, however, her father's illness disarmed her generous and
forgiving spirit of every argument that stood in the way of the
determination she had made. His conduct she felt might, indeed, be the
result of one of those great social errors that create so much misery
in life; that, for instance, of supposing that one must ascend through
certain orders of society, and reach a particular elevation before they
can enjoy happiness. This notion, so much at variance with the goodness
and mercy of God, who has not confined happiness to any particular
class, she herself rejected; but, at the same time, the modest estimate
which she formed of her own capacity to reason upon or analyze all
speculative opinions, led her to suppose that she might be wrong,
and her father right, in the inferences which they respectively drew.
Perhaps she thought her reluctance to see this individual case through
his medium, arose from some peculiar idiosyncrasy of intellect or
temperament not common to others, and that she was setting a particular
instance against a universal truth.
That, however, which most severely tested her fortitude and noble
sense of what we owe a parent, resulted from no moral or metaphysical
distinctions of human duty, but simply and directly from what she must
suffer by the contemplated sacrifice. She was born in a position of
life sufficiently dignified for ordinary ambition. She was surrounded
by luxury--had received an enlightened education--had a heart formed for
love--for that pure and exalted passion, which comprehends and brings
into action all the higher qualities of our being, and enlarges all our
capacities for happiness. God and nature, so to speak, had gifted her
mind with extraordinary feeling and intellect, and her person with
unusual grace and beauty; yet, here, by this act of self-devotion to her
father, she renounced all that the human heart with such strong claims
upon the legitimate enjoyments of life could expect, and voluntarily
entered into a destiny of suffering and misery. She reflected upon
and felt the bitterness of all this; but, on the other hand,
the contemplation of a father dying in consequence of her
disobedience--dying, too, probably in an unprepared state--whose heart
was now full of love and tenderness for her; who, in fact, was in grief
and sorrow in consequence of what he had caused her to suffer. We say
she contemplated all this, and her great heart felt that this was the
moment of mercy.
“It is resolved!” she exclaimed; “I will disturb him for a little. There
is no time now for meanly wrestling it out, for ungenerous hesitation
and delay. Suspense may kill him; and whilst I deliberate, he may
be lost. Father, I come, Never again shall you reproach me with
disobedience. Though your ambition may be wrong, yet who else than I
should become the victim of an error which originates in affection for
myself? I yield at last, as is my duty; now your situation makes it so;
and my heart, though crushed and broken, shall be an offering of peace
between us. Farewell, now, to love--to love legitimate, pure, and
holy!--farewell to all the divine charities and tendernesses of life
which follow it--farewell to peace of! heart--to the wife's pride of
eye, to the husband's tender glance--farewell--farewell to everything in
this wretched life but the hopes of heaven! I come, my father--I come.
But I had forgotten,” she said, “I must not see him without permission,
nor unannounced, as Gibson said. Stay, I shall ring for Gibson.”
“Gibson,” said she, when he had made his appearance, “try if your master
could see me for a moment; say I request it particularly, and that I
shall scarcely disturb him. Ask it as a favor, unless he be very ill
indeed--and even then do so.”
Whilst Gibson went with this message, Lucy, feeling that it might be
dangerous to agitate her father by the exhibition of emotion, endeavored
to compose herself as much as she could, so that by the time of Gibson's
return, her appearance was calm, noble, and majestic. In fact, the
greatness--the heroic spirit--of the coming sacrifice emanated like a
beautiful but solemn light from her countenance, and on being desired to
go in, she appeared full of unusual beauty and composure.
On entering, she found her father much in the same position: his head,
as before, upon the pillows, and the nightcap drawn over his heavy
brows.
“You wished to see me, my dear Lucy. Have you any favor to ask, my
child? If so, ask whilst I have recollection and consciousness to grant
it. I can refuse you nothing now, Lucy. I was wrong ever to struggle
with you. It was too much for me, for I am now the victim; but even that
is well, for I am glad it is not you.”
When he mentioned the word victim, Lucy felt as if a poniard had gone
through her heart; but she had already resolved that what must be done
should be done generously, consequently, without any ostentation of
feeling, and with as little appearance of self-sacrifice as possible.
It is not for us, she said to herself, to exaggerate the value of the
gift which we bestow, but rather to depreciate it, for it is never
generous to magnify an obligation.
“I have a favor to ask, papa,” said the generous and considerate girl.
“It is granted, my darling Lucy, before I hear it,” he replied. “What
is it? Oh how happy I feel that you have returned to me; I shall not
now pass away my last moments on a solitary deathbed. But what is your
request, my love?”
“You have to-day, papa, told me that the danger of your present attack
proceeds from the anxious state of your mind. Now, my request is, that I
may be permitted to make that state easier; to remove that anxiety, and,
if possible, all other anxiety and care that press upon you. You know,
papa, the topic upon which we have always differed; now, rather than any
distress of feeling connected with it should stand in the way of your
recovery, I wish to say that you may I count upon my most perfect
obedience.”
“You mean the Dunroe business, dear Lucy?”
“I mean the Dunroe business, papa.”
“And do you mean to say that you are willing and ready to marry him?”
The reply to this was indeed the coming away of the branch by which she
had hung on the precipice of life. On hearing the question,
therefore, she paused a little; but the pause did not proceed from
any indisposition to answer it, but simply from what seemed to be the
refusal of her natural powers to enable her to do so. When about to
speak, she felt as if all her physical strength had abandoned her; as
if her will, previously schooled to the task, had become recusant. She
experienced a general chill and coldness of her whole body; a cessation
for a moment or two of the action of the heart, whilst her very sight
became dim and indistinct. She thought, however, in this unutterable
moment of agony and despair, that she must act; and without feeling able
to analyze either her thoughts or sensations, in this terrible tumult of
her spirit, she heard herself repeat the reply, “I am, papa.”
For a moment her father forgot his part, and started up into a sitting
posture with as much apparent energy as ever. Another moment, however,
was sufficient to make him feel his error.
“Oh,” said he, “what have I done? Let me pause a little, my dear Lucy;
that effort to express the joy you have poured into my heart was nearly
too much for me. You make this promise, Lucy, not with a view merely to
ease my mind and contribute to my recovery; but, should I get well, with
a firm intention to carry it actually into execution?”
“Such, papa, is my intention--my fixed determination, I should say; but
I ought to add, that it is altogether for your sake, dear papa, that
I make it. Now let your mind feel tranquillity and ease; dismiss every
anxiety that distresses you, papa; for you may believe your daughter,
that there is no earthly sacrifice compatible with her duties as a
Christian which she would not make for your recovery. This interview is
now, perhaps, as much as your state of health can bear. Think, then, of
what I have said, papa; let it console and strengthen; and then it will,
I trust, help at least to bring about your recovery. Now, permit me to
withdraw.”
“Wait a moment, my child. It is right that you should know the effect
of your goodness before you go. I feel already as if a mountain were
removed from my heart--even now I am better. God bless you, my own
dearest Lucy; you have saved your father. Let this consideration comfort
you and sustain you. Now you may go, my love.”
When Lucy withdrew, which she did with a tottering step, she proceeded
to her own chamber, which, now that the energy necessary for the
struggle had abandoned her, she entered almost unconsciously, and with a
feeling of rapidly-increasing weakness. She approached the bell to ring
for her maid, which she was able to do with difficulty; and having
done so, she attempted to reach the sofa; but exhausted and overwrought
nature gave way, and she fell just sufficiently near it to have her
fall broken and her head supported by it, as she lay there apparently
lifeless. In this state Alley Mahon found her; but instead of ringing
an alarm, or attempting to collect a crowd of the servants to witness
a scene, and being besides a stout as well as a discreet and sensible
girl, she was able to raise her up, place her on a sofa, until, by the
assistance of cold water and some patience, she succeeded in restoring
her to life and consciousness.
“On opening her eyes she looked about, and Alley observed that her lips
were parched and dry.
“Here, my darling mistress,” said the affectionate girl, who now wept
bitterly, “here, swallow a little cold water; it will moisten your lips,
and do you good.”
She attempted to do so, but Ally saw that her hand trembled too much to
bring the water to her own lips. On swallowing it, it seemed to relieve
her a little; she then looked up into Alley's face, with a smile of
thanks so unutterably sweet and sorrowful, that the poor girl's tears
gushed out afresh.
“Take courage, my darling mistress,” she replied; “I know that something
painful has happened; but for Christ's blessed sake, don't look so
sorrowful and broken-hearted, or you will--”
“Alice,” said she, interrupting her, in a calm, soft voice, like low
music, “open my bosom--open my bosom, Alice; you will find a miniature
there; take it out; I wish to look upon it.”
“O thin,” said the girl, as she proceeded to obey her, “happy is he that
rests so near that pure and innocent and sorrowful heart; and great and
good must he be that is worthy of it.”
There was in the look which Lucy cast upon her when she had uttered
these words a spirit of gentle but affectionate reproof; but she spoke
it not.
“Give it to me, Alice,” she said; “but unlock it first; I feel that my
hands are too feeble to do so.”
Alice unlocked the miniature, and Lucy then taking it from her, looked
upon it for a moment, and then pressing it to her lips with a calm
emotion, in which grief and despair seemed to mingle, she exclaimed,
“Alas! mamma, how much do I now stand in need of your advice and
consolation! The shrine in which your affection and memory dwelt, and
against whose troubled pulses your sweet and serene image lay, is
now broken. There, dearest mamma, you will find nothing in future but
affliction and despair. It has been said, that I have inherited your
graces and your virtues, most beloved parent; and if so, alas! in how
remote a degree, for who could equal you? But how would it have wining
your gentle and loving heart to know that I should have inherited your
secret griefs and sufferings? Yes, mamma, both are painted on that
serene brow; for no art of the limner could conceal their mournful
traces, nor remove the veil of sorrow which an unhappy destiny threw
over your beauty. There, in that clear and gentle eye, is still
the image of your love and sympathy--there is that smile so full of
sweetness and suffering. Alas, alas! how closely do we resemble each
other in all things. Sweet and blessed saint, if it be permitted,
descend and let your spirit be with me--to guide, to soothe, and to
support me; your task will not be a long one, beloved parent. From this
day forth my only hope will be to join you. Life has nothing now but
solitude and sorrow. There is no heart with which I can hold communion;
for my grief, and the act of duty which occasions it, must be held
sacred from all.”
She kissed the miniature once more, but without tears, and after a
little, she made Alley place it where she had ever kept it--next her
heart.
“Alice,” said she, “I trust I will soon be with mamma.”
“My dear mistress,” replied Alice, “don't spake so. I hope there's many
a happy and pleasant day before you, in spite of all that has come and
gone, yet.”
She turned upon the maid a look of incredulity so hopeless, that Alley
felt both alarmed and depressed.
“You do not know what I suffer, Alice,” she replied, “but I know it.
This miniature of mamma I got painted unknown to--unknown to--” (here
we need not say that she meant her father) “--any one except mamma, the
artist, and myself. It has laid next my heart ever since; but since
her death it has been the dearest thing to me on earth--one only other
object perhaps excepted. Yes,” she added, with a deep sigh, “I hope I
shall soon be with you, mamma, and then we shall never be separated any
more!”
Alley regretted to perceive that her grief now had settled down into
the most wasting and dangerous of all; for it was of that dry and silent
kind which so soon consumes the lamp of life, and dries up the strength
of those who unhappily fall under its malignant blight.
Lucy's journey, however, from Wicklow, the two interviews with her
father, the sacrifice she had so nobly made, and the consequent
agitation, all overcame her, and after a painful struggle between the
alternations of forgetfulness and memory, she at length fell into a
troubled slumber.