FATHER AND DAUGHTER
“Yes, it was my father who stood before me.
“He was dressed in deep mourning, and he looked older by twenty years
than when I had seen him last. As I gazed on his worn face, on which
there was no trace of anger, but only sorrow—I was suddenly smitten with
remorse for all I had done to him; wrongs of which I never realized the
enormity until now.
“The cry of the prodigal son rose in agony to my lips:
“‘Father! forgive me!’
“He opened his arms, and I threw myself within them.
“He folded me to his bosom in sorrow too deep for words, yet I felt that
I was forgiven as I sobbed on his shoulder.
“After a few minutes he lifted my head, kissed me, and led me to the
sofa.
“When I had dropped upon the cushion he sat down beside me, put his arm
protectingly around me, and then he spoke for the first time:
“‘It is I who need forgiveness—I who left my poor, motherless little
girl for long years to the care of hirelings and eye servants, who
betrayed their trust and left her an easy prey to villainy. Yes, it is I
who need forgiveness. Elfrida, my child, can you forgive me?’
“‘Oh, father! father! do not speak so to me—to me who sinned against you
so grievously—to me who ought to be on my knees at your feet!’ I said.
And in the excess of remorse that his patient, forgiving words inspired,
I would have kneeled to him, but that he stopped me and drew me again to
his bosom.
“We spoke no more to each other for a few moments. At last he said, in a
broken voice:
“‘Did you know—your poor stepmother—was dead, Elfrida?’
“‘I thought so, from your mourning dress, papa. I am very sorry for
you,’ I replied.
“‘She passed away in the Canaries, five weeks since. I have the comfort
of knowing that everything which human power could do was done for her.
I devoted the last twelve years of my life solely to her, going with her
wherever there was any hope for benefit. And for this cause I left my
poor motherless child exposed to the beasts of prey that infest this
world.’
“‘Father, dear father, say nothing more of that. I am alive, and since
you have forgiven me, I am almost happy again. Dear father, let us live
for each other now. I will be the most loving, the most faithful,
devoted daughter that ever parent had. I will live for you, father. Only
for you—and—and—for my child—my boy.’
“‘Your child, Elfrida!’ he said, staring at me, while a shiver passed
through his frame.
“‘Yes, the child of my wilful, unfortunate marriage, dear father. I
wrote and told you all about my marriage, but I fear you never got my
letter.’
“‘No,’ he said, with a visible effort to recover from the shock he had
received; ‘no. I heard of your marriage from other sources, and not
until I returned to England, three weeks ago, with the remains of my
wife for interment in the vault at Enderby Castle. The news met me
there—terrible news to meet a father coming home to bury his wife.’
“‘Oh, my father! Oh, my father! Can you forgive me?’ I cried out, at
this.
“‘I could not forgive myself, child. I never dreamed of blaming you.
Does any one blame the bird that is snared?’ he tenderly inquired.
“‘You are too merciful to me—too merciful. I do not deserve it,’ I said,
covering my face with my hands, for my father’s kind words pierced my
heart like poniards.
“‘Hush, child; hush. Do not reproach yourself so bitterly. Let me tell
you how it was that I did not receive any tidings of your marriage until
my return to England.’
“‘I know, dear father. It was because you were far away in the
Canaries.’
“‘That was not all, my child. Listen. While I was still in the
archipelago, late in October, I received a batch of letters from
England, all bringing me good news of my son and daughter. There was one
from you, telling me of your fully restored health and good spirits, and
your desire to spend the winter at Brighton. Another from Miss Murray,
giving a very flattering account of your progress in education. A third
was from Madame de la Champe, much to the same effect.’
“‘Those letters were written only three days before my hasty marriage,
and, oh! believe me, papa, because I even dreamed of taking such a hasty
step,’ I earnestly declared.
‘I do believe you, my child. You shall explain later. The same mail
brought me a long letter from your brother, who had gone to Eton. He
told me of his long summer vacation spent with you at Brighton. And he
corroborated the intelligence given by yourself and your governess as to
your health, good spirits and rapid progress. He also asked leave to
spend the Christmas holidays with you at Brighton.
“Here I sighed so heavily that my father stopped, and laid his hand on
mine in sympathy, while he resumed:
“‘All these letters gave me great satisfaction, on account of my dear
children. They were especially comforting to me at that time, as I was
about to leave the archipelago for the Canaries. I did not notice then
that Glennon had omitted to say one word about his own health, which was
always delicate, he having inherited the constitution of his mother.’
“‘He looked well when he left Brighton,’ I ventured to say.
“‘Yes; but he did not continue well after resuming his studies. The same
mail that brought me his letter brought one from one of the physicians
at Eton. I had overlooked all my other correspondence in dwelling upon
the letters from my children; but at length I took up one in a strange
handwriting which, on opening, proved to be from the physician who had
been attending my son for some seemingly slight disorder in his health.
This Dr. Fletcher wrote to me to say that the state of my son’s health
was such that Glennon should leave Eton and have a thorough change of
air, scene and diet. He suggested that he should have a traveling tutor,
and go to a warmer and drier climate.’
“‘I had heard that he went with you to the Canaries,’ I said.
“‘Yes,’ continued my father, ‘I quickly made up my mind in regard to
Glennon. I wrote to my two old friends, Dr. Alexander and the Rev. Mr.
Clement, asking them if they could procure substitutes to fill their
places at Weirdwaste, and accompany us to the Canaries for the
winter—the one to take charge of the young viscount’s health, and the
other to direct his studies in a very moderate manner.’
“‘I heard, too, that the doctor and the vicar joined your party,’ I
said.
“‘Yes; though I scarcely ventured to hope that they would. And really I
was as much surprised as pleased when I received letters from them
accepting my offer and promising—according to my request, in case of
their acceptance—to go to Eton, join my son and accompany him to
Gibraltar, and there await the arrival of our steamer.’
“My father paused for a few moments, looked at me remorsefully, and
said:
“‘I little knew how I was about to leave my dear, only daughter; my
poor, motherless girl! We sailed early in November. But before sailing I
answered your letter and those of your teachers, expressing the great
satisfaction I felt in your improved health and good progress, thanking
your teachers for all their—supposed—zeal and care, and telling you that
you should winter at Brighton while we were at the Canaries.’
“‘Oh! I never saw that letter, father! I had gone on my mad journey
before that letter came!’ I said.
“‘I know it now, my dear! I did not know it then, when I said in
cheerful confidence that I had left you so safe and happy. At Gibraltar
your brother, with the vicar and the doctor, joined us; and in a few
days we sailed for Santa Cruz de Teneriffe. Where were you then, my
dear?’
“‘I was in Paris—anxiously waiting for an answer to the letter I had
written you, announcing my marriage and asking your forgiveness.’
“‘A letter which I missed by leaving the Grecian Archipelago before it
arrived.’
“‘And, oh, how long, in my ignorance—how long I waited and hoped to hear
from you!’
“‘As I waited and hoped to hear from you—not understanding your silence.
After we had been some weeks settled at Santa Cruz, I began to be
seriously uneasy at not hearing from you, as I had especially requested
you, in my last letter, to direct your answer to Santa Cruz de
Teneriffe. But the countess urged that you would probably wait to hear
of our arrival before writing. Then I wrote to you and waited for an
answer; none came. Then I wrote to the postmaster at Brighton for
information, and in due time received an answer that your whole party
had left the town, without leaving any directions at the post office
where letters should be forwarded. This I attributed to carelessness on
your teachers’ part and inexperience on yours.’
“‘I left too suddenly and too madly to have thought of such a
provision—and I know not how my governesses left after they discovered
my flight.’
“‘I know how they left, but I did not learn until later. From the
postmaster’s imperfect information I judged that you had returned to
Weirdwaste. There I addressed my next letters, with no more success than
had attended all the others. I received no answer. I was uneasy, but not
anxious. I thought that you were living under the care of your teachers
at Weirdwaste. And I hoped, from week to week, to hear from you, and
ascribed my disappointment to any other cause than the real one—to
negligence, to irregular mails, and so forth.’
“‘And all that time I was going from city to city with my husband,
leaving always directions where my letters should be forwarded, and
hoping always to hear from you.’
“‘Ah, well, my dear, we were at cross-purposes without knowing it. The
summer came, but brought no increase of health to my poor wife. She grew
worse, and my great anxiety on her account began to absorb all my
thoughts. I ceased even to look for a letter from England.’
“‘I understand, dear father; the present and real calamity dulled your
sensibilities to imaginary troubles.’
“‘In a measure and for a time; but at length I wrote to the steward at
Weirdwaste to ask why I did not hear from you or your teachers. But, ah!
before there was time for an answer to return my poor wife died, and I
got ready to bring her remains to England.’
“‘My dear father!’
“‘I took the casket first to Enderby, where, having been previously
embalmed, it lay in state in the drawing room. The funeral was
advertised for the eighth day after the arrival of the body, and I used
the interval in going quietly down to Liverpool and taking steamer to
Ireland en route for Weirdwaste, to fetch my daughter on to Enderby for
the funeral. It was at Weirdwaste that the news of your marriage first
met me.’
“‘Oh, father! But you have pardoned me! And so they knew nothing of it
at Enderby?’
“‘No, my dear. Consider the remoteness of each of these seats from the
busy world, and their distance from each other—Enderby on the northwest
coast of Northumberland—Weirdwaste on the west coast of Ireland. No, my
dear, no hint of your marriage had reached Enderby, nor would it ever
have reached Weirdwaste but for one circumstance.’
“‘And that, my father?’
“‘Was the fact of your oldest governess, Miss Murray, having left a
portion of her effects at Weirdwaste. The old lady wrote to the steward,
telling him of your sudden marriage, and of the consequent cessation of
her services, and requesting him to forward her effects—of which she
inclosed a list—to a certain address in London. Though the steward and
the housekeeper both wrote to the governess—when they sent her
boxes—imploring her to give them more particulars of their beloved young
lady, she gave them none, merely saying in the letter in which she
acknowledged the receipt of her property that you had married and had
gone away—more than that she said she knew nothing.’
“I bowed my head in sorrow. I realized what my dear, stricken father
must have felt to hear such news at such a time. But I know he never,
even in thought, reproached me.
“‘I made every inquiry, but could learn no more at Weirdwaste. I went
back to Northumberland—to Enderby—and remained until after the funeral
of my dear wife. Then I went down to Brighton to make inquiries there. I
found the house where you had lodged—to which all my letters had been
directed—but the landlady could tell me nothing more than that the young
lady had been missed one day, and that at the end of the same week the
two old ladies had given up their apartments and had gone to London. And
that, subsequently, she had heard a report that the young lady had gone
off to Scotland, with “the Italian,” to be married; but she did not know
the truth of the matter.’
“‘I do not know how the report could have got out, except through my
teachers.’
“‘Of course it was through them. When I could hear no more I went up to
London to transact some business with my banker. I did not like to ask
any direct questions of him concerning you; nor did I have any strong
hope of hearing news of you in that quarter. Nevertheless, when our
accounts had been overhauled, I did venture to remark:
“‘“My daughter has not drawn on you of late, I perceive.”
“‘“Not for a year,” he said; “and that reminds me,” he continued, “that
I had a letter from her highness, last summer, inquiring your lordship’s
address—I believe it was from Geneva. I cannot lay my hands on it at
this time, but—yes, I am sure it was from Geneva.”
“‘How glad I am that I wrote that letter! The banker’s prompt reply was
the first clew I got to your whereabouts, as the banker’s news was the
first clew you got to mine.’
“‘Yes, my dear. I did not ask a question, burning as I was to hear more
of you. How could I ask that comparative stranger for information
respecting my daughter, with whose movements I should have been
perfectly familiar? I did not even know why he called you “her
highness.” I left England that same afternoon, and came as fast as steam
could bring me to Geneva. Here I am! But I do not even know the name of
your husband.’
“Again I dropped my head upon my breast. I had so much to tell him,
besides the name of my husband. But he was waiting patiently for my
reply. I gave it.”