"What's the matter?" said she.
"What's frighted thee, lad?" asked the old man, rising.
"Oh! feyther!--oh! mother!"--exclaimed he, drawing them hastily on one
side and whispering something in a low, and almost inaudible voice.
The old woman raised her hands in supplication and tottered to her
chair while the Cotter, bursting out into a paroxysm of violent rage,
clutched his son's arm, and exclaimed in a loud voice:
"Make fast the door, boy, an thou'lt not have my curse on thee!--I tell
'ee, she shan't come hither!--No--never--never;--there's poison in her
breath--a' will spurn her from me!--A pest on her!--What; wilt not do
my bidding?"
"O! feyther, feyther!" cried the young peasant, whose heart seemed
overcharged with grief, "It be a cold, raw night--ye wou'dna kick a cur
from the door to perish in the storm! Doant 'ee be hot and hasty,
feyther, thou art not uncharitable--On me knees!"--
"Psha!" exclaimed the enraged father, only exasperated by his
remonstrances. "Whoy talk 'ee to me, son--I am deaf--deaf!--Mine own
hand shall bar the door agen her!"--adding with bitterness--"let her
die!"--and stepping past his prostrate son, was about to execute his
purpose--when, a young girl, whose once gay and flimsy raiment was
drenched and stained, and torn by the violence of the storm, appeared at
the door. The old man recoiled with a shudder--she was as pale as
death--and her trembling limbs seemed scarcely able to support her--a
profusion of light brown hair hung dishevelled and in disorder about her
neck and shoulders, and added to her forlorn appearance. She stretched
forth her arms and pronounced the name of "Father!" but further
utterance was prevented by the convulsive sobs that heaved her bosom.
"Mary--woman!" cried the old man, trembling--"Call me not feyther--thou
art none of mine--thou hast no feyther now--nor I a daughter--thou art a
serpent that hath stung the bosom that cherished thee! Go to the fawning
villain--the black-hearted sycophant that dragged thee from our
arms--from our happy home to misery and pollution--go, and bless him for
breaking thy poor old feyther's heart!"
Overcome by these heart-rending reproaches, the distressed girl fainted;
but the strong arm of the young Cotter supported her--for her
tender-hearted youth, moved by his fallen sister's sorrows, had ventured
again to intercede.
"Hah! touch not her defiled and loathsome body," cried the old
man--"thrust her from the door, and let her find a grave where she may.
Boy! wilt thou dare disobey me?" and he raised his clenched hand, while
anger flashed from his eye.
"Strike! feyther--strike me!" said the poor lad, bursting into
tears--"fell me to the 'arth! Kill me, an thou wilt--I care not--I will
never turn my heart agen poor Mary!--Bean't she my sister? Did thee not
teach me to love her?--Poor lass!--she do want it all now, feyther--for
she be downcast and broken-hearted!--Nay, thee art kind and good,
feyther--know thee art--I zee thine eyes be full o' tears--and
thee--thee woant cast her away from thee, I know thee woant. Mother,
speak to 'un; speak to sister Mary too--it be our own Mary! Doant 'ee
kill her wi' unkindness!"
The old man, moved by his affectionate entreaties, no longer offered any
opposition to his son's wishes, but hiding his face in his hands, he
fled from the affecting scene to an adjoining room.
Her venerable mother having recovered from the shock of her lost
daughter's sudden appearance, now rose to the assistance of the
unfortunate, and by the aid of restoratives brought poor Mary to the
full sense of her wretchedness. She was speedily conveyed to the same
humble pallet, to which, in the days of her innocence and peace, she had
always retired so light-hearted and joyously, but where she now found a
lasting sleep--an eternal repose!--Yes, poor Mary died!--and having won
the forgiveness and blessing of her offended parents, death was welcome
to her.--_Absurdities: in Prose and Verse_.
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