There is a kind of character in thy life,
That to the observer doth thy history
Fully unfold; thyself and thy belongings
Art not thine own so proper, as to waste
Thyself upon thy virtues, they or thee.
Heaven doth with us as we with torches do,
Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues
Did not go forth of us, ’twere all alike
As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touched
But to fine issues.
--Shakspere.
It is not easy to conceive nor to clearly explain the true motives
which induced Lotte Clinton to give her assent to the unexpected
proposition made to her by Nathan Gomer. In no view was it pleasing to
her, or calculated to afford her aught but embarrassment pain---perhaps
ungenerous insult. What, indeed, was it less than insult to ask her to
tend the man in his helplessness, who, in his strength and pride, had
stigmatised her as low-born? Alas! she could not look upon the present
request as a compliment to her--there was no phase in which it could
take that shape. It held out no prospect of effecting the realization of
what had once been--so recently too--afondly, though timidly cherished
hope. There was no prospect indeed, but that she would be harassed by
Mark’s appeals and urgings, and pained and sorely tried by the denials
he would force from her lips.
What was she to expect when Mr. Wilton recovered his senses, and became
conscious of her presence? Would he not believe that she had meanly
and surreptitiously contrived to gain admission to his house during his
prostration, with the object of availing herself of the opportunity to
fix more indelibly his son’s passion for her in his heart? What
would naturally be his conduct and his language to her under such an
impression?
Respecting Flora she conjectured little. She knew her to be kind and
gentle; but the same influences which had affected her father, when an
alliance was the subject of consideration, might have their effect upon
her too.
She wished Mark had not sent for her.
Yet, withal, she would not have rejected the entreaty for worlds. No!
beset as the task would necessarily be--with possible vexations, trials
and contumely, she determined to go through with it. Still she thought
Mark should not have asked this of her.
To refuse was not, indeed, possible to her; no, even if it cost her that
fortune and ease which Helen Riversdale had promised her.
She did not once ask herself--Why? If she would not have answered that
question, who else should make the attempt?
She did not dream that Mark Wilton was wholly guiltless of the message
Nathan Gomer conveyed to her, or that, in meeting with him, she should
have to undergo an ordeal she could not, under the circumstances, have
contemplated.
The journey to Harleydale was performed rapidly. Nathan Gomer rendered
himself as amiable and as entertaining as he could, until Lotte thought
it was a pity he was so short, so extremely yellow, and _so_ ugly, for
really he was a cheerful, kind-hearted, dear little old man. On
reaching the Hall, Nathan learned that Mark was alone in one of the
sitting-rooms, and, forbidding the servant to announce him--his usual
custom--he took Lotte by the hand, and pressing it, as if to reassure
her, he, with noiseless step, approached the room to which he had been
directed.
He found the door ajar, and he peeped in. He raised his finger to Lotte
to be silent; and, opening the door without a sound, he advanced with
his trembling companion to the shoulder of Mark Wilton, who was seated,
gazing abstractedly out of the window upon the lovely landscape which
stretched far away into the distance.
Lotte did not like the process, but really Nathan had so much
instinctive influence that she took part in the proceedings
unresistingly and without remark.
She quickly wished she had not done so.
Mark, who was sitting with his arms folded, suddenly released them,
pressed his hands forcibly together, and ejaculated--
“Oh! Lotte, Lotte! cruel girl, you have no faith in my endearing love.
You have coldly sacrificed my heart--my life--to a chimera!”
Nathan instantly tapped him on the shoulder; he started up and turned
round. Uttering an exclamation of astonishment, he staggered back
several paces, for his rapid glance had fallen upon Lotte’s downcast and
grave features.
“Bad practice, Master Mark, that of audibly soliloquising; it is a
failing of mine,” exclaimed Nathan Gomer, sharply. “Take the results
of my experience---it has got me into scrapes which money has hardly
succeeded in plucking me out of.”
“I am not dreaming!” cried Mark, pressing his hand to his forehead. Then
he rushed forward and seized Lotte’s passive hand. “Oh, Lotte! sweet
Lotte!” he cried, “to what happy turn of fate am I to attribute your
dear presence here?”
With a crimsoned face she looked upon him, and said, faintly--
“Did you not expect me?”
“Much as I have wished for you, I could not,” he said, “after our last
interview, expect the happiness of seeing you here.”
“Oh, sir!” said Lotte, turning with a face as white as death, to Nathan
Gomer, “you could not have conceived the misery you have occasioned me,
or you would never have placed me in so cruel a position as this.”
“You have no right to be miserable, and you shall not be miserable if I
have any influence in the matter,” replied Nathan Gomer. “Mr. Mark
did not expect to meet you here, because he was not consulted in the
affair.”
Lotte turned her reproachful eyes upon him, and said--“But, sir”----
“I told you that it was his earnest request that you should, as his
sister was very ill, come down here and take her place at the bedside
of Mr. Wilton,” interrupted Nathan, speaking in rather a dogmatical
tone. “Well, he did request you in his heart: I knew that, and made
use of it. The fact is, Mr. Wilton the elder is a very obstinate old
gentleman. A career of privation, instead of teaching him some useful
lessons upon social relations, has hardened his heart, as prosperity
does those of other men. I have a mind to teach him, with your aid, Miss
Clinton, a lesson too. What that may be you will know in good time; but
you, who I know never refused to do good to all within your reach, will
not refuse _me_ this request. By a subterfuge, which by-and-by you will
pardon, I brought you here. By appealing to your unselfish nature, I
hope to retain you here. Mr. Mark Wilton has a spirit too noble to take
advantage of your presence to alter the respective positions in which
you stand to each other. For the present he will see in you only his
sister’s dear friend. He and you will, I trust, leave the rest to me.
Under my guidance, I hope to bring present cross purposes to a happy
unity. Will you, Mr. Mark, be so good as to lead Miss Clinton to your
sister’s room, she is fatigued with her journey; and then be kind
enough to return to me, for, though Dame Nature omitted to lengthen
my proportions, she did not curtail my appetite, and before I commence
other operations I would silence its admonitions.”
Mark took Lotte’s hand; his impulse was to press it, but he refrained.
He led her from the room, and on his way, he said--
“Your presence here, Mi--Mi--Mi--hang it, I may say Lotte to my sister’s
dear friend, and I must. So let me tell you, Lotte, your coming will
light up this dull, gloomy old place with sunshine. It is, indeed;
welcome to me, and you will find how dear it will be to Flo’. Let me say
also, Lotte, I quite understand the peculiarity of the position in which
Nathan Gomer has placed you, but I am sure it is for the best he has
done it; besides, you know he can do just what he pleases here. Let me
further beg you to discard all fear of being ill at ease, for nothing
shall be left untried to make you happy and contented, even to my
scrupulously fulfilling the suggestion of Nathan Gomer.”
He released her hand as he concluded, tapped sharply at his sister’s
room-door, and with a beaming smile of happiness, such as had not for
some time illumined his face, he quitted her, and, hurrying along the
corridor, returned to Nathan Gomer.
In one statement Nathan Gomer had been truthful. Flora Wilton was really
very ill; her nerves had been shattered by the horrible event in which
she had taken part, and by the sight of the ghastly face of her father,
as he lay motionless in his bed on her return to Harleydale after
her abduction. For a day or two she had contrived to devote herself to
watching and waiting upon him, but when fever and delirium--the effects
of his wound--exhibited themselves, her strength gave way, her nervous
system was prostrated, and the physician attending her father insisted
upon her not only keeping her room, but her bed, to prevent fatal
consequences following her efforts to continue her self-imposed and
natural office of nurse.
The chamber door was opened by Flora’s maid, who, without a word,
admitted Lotte, assuming her to be a friend of her young mistress, and
the latter walked up to the bedside to announce herself.
She could not forget in doing so that night when, rescued from the
commission of a great crime, Hal Vivian presented her to Flora. She was
not likely to forget her reception then, still she was not prepared for
the cry of delight that Flora uttered when her feeble eyes rested on her
face; still less did she look for the passionate action with which Flora
flung her arms about her neck and kissed her many times. She had some
difficulty in preserving her composure, and exerted herself to calm down
Flora’s excitement and soothe her emotion. When the maid, intuitively
comprehending that her absence would be desirable, retired, Lotte sought
to elicit an explanation of this display of joy at her appearance. The
more striking it was to her, as she expected only to be welcomed with
a quiet courtesy, tempered by the reserve which did not acknowledge an
equality of position between them.
To find herself so pleasantly in error was agreeable enough, but she
needed, nevertheless, a cause for conduct at least improbable; and
which, in the circumstances in which she was placed, she could
hardly help looking at as a little more extravagant than the occasion
warranted--grateful, so very grateful as she was for it.
She had yet to understand Flora’s actual position; and when she did so,
her wonder at her reception was considerably modified. Flora had not one
friend of her own sex. When old Wilton came to Harleydale, it did not
occur to him to invite to his new home the gentry of the vicinity. He
preferred seclusion; Flora thus had not even a female acquaintance. The
events by which she had been rapidly surrounded were all of a character
to render communion with a female friend all but imperative: one in whom
she could confide, with whom she could consult, became in her isolation
a want necessary to her present happiness.
With each succeeding phase of circumstances her need grew greater, and
never did she feel more keenly, than at the moment when Lotte arrived,
the desolation of having no ear in which to pour her sorrows, no gentle
eye to beam with sympathy upon her sadness, no tender voice to guide her
in the path she ought to take.
Of all the world, Lotte Clinton was the being she would have selected to
fill up the void. Of all faces in the world to shine upon her now in
her tribulation, Lotte Clinton’s was the most welcome. She knew Lotte’s
kindly nature, and she knew her self-reliance. She knew that she loved,
and that a cloud had settled on that love. She had faith in her pure,
bright spirit; in its independence, in her clear sense of rectitude, and
in that unwavering resolve which would maintain her in acting up to its
dictates.
Here was a mind to direct hers, a soul to sympathise with her, and a
breast which she could safely make the repository of her secrets.
Gradually Flora revealed the want under which she had so long suffered,
and was not long in putting Lotte into possession of the fact that she
looked upon her in the light of a very dear, dear friend.
Lotte knew Hal Vivian. Ah! how that smoothed the path to many a
revelation! and she listened with such deep attention and sympathy to
Flora’s confession---though she had not sought it--that, in the fulness
of her heart at finding at last a comforter and a counsellor in one
of her own sex and of her own age--of her own cast of thought and
feeling--Flora kept back nothing; and ere Lotte that night for the first
time stood in the sick chamber of old Wilton, she was in full possession
of all that Flora had to reveal.
It was not without a trembling hesitation, a nervous sense that she was
in a false position, that Lotte entered Mr. Wilton’s chamber, but
she felt, nevertheless, that she was borne along by the stream of
circumstances, and she could not resist the force of the current.
The sight of the invalid, however--his moaning, ravings, and feeble
motions--at once dissipated all her personal feelings, and she applied
herself to the duties she had undertaken with a promptness and tact
which showed how much a willing spirit can supply to compensate for
a want of knowledge. Thoughtfully suggestive, tenderly considerate,
unwearied in application to her task, she elicited the warmest encomiums
from the physician, who, at the end of the week, told her, in the
presence of Mark and Nathan Gomer, that Mr. Wilton, if his life was
spared, would be as much indebted for his recovery to her assiduous
care and faithful performance of instructions as he would be to his own
skill.
Mark, who had preserved towards her a very quiet and respectful
demeanour, and never breathed a word about his love in her ear, regarded
her now with grateful and affectionate glances; while Nathan Gomer, with
shining face, grinned and rubbed his hands delightedly.
So, for a short time, matters went on. Flora, who shared, too, no mean
portion of Lotte’s attention, fast recovered strength, and felt more
placid and calm than she had been since the change in her circumstances
had taken place.
Harry Vivian was not at Harleydale; he had gone to the scene of Colonel
Mires’ fatal accident to attend, with Nathan Gomer’s agent, a coroner’s
inquest. He had previously attended a preliminary examination of Mr.
Chewkle before a magistrate, on which occasion the extremely chapfallen
criminal was remanded for the recovery of Mr. Wilton, who, it was stated
at the time, would soon be sufficiently well to give evidence. But Mr.
Wilton at first grew rapidly worse instead of better, and therefore Mr.
Chewkle was again remanded for a somewhat longer term than before.
The return of Mr. Wilton’s reason found him terribly enfeebled; but
the danger having been surmounted, the recovery of strength was but a
question of time. And now commenced the real difficulty Lotte had to
encounter.
Mr. Wilton, as soon as he began to recognise anything, noticed Lotte’s
presence; and, on making a remark respecting it, was informed by the
physician that it was a young lady who had kindly undertaken to tend him
with that earnest care which could not be obtained, save in exceptional
instances, from a hired nurse, and he spoke in warm and praiseful terms
of the service she had rendered.
Wilton fancied he had seen her face somewhere, but could not remember
where; it was a passing thought, and he did not ask her name, assuming
that it was some new-formed friend of Flora’s, residing in their
neighbourhood; in truth, he was glad to think so, and satisfied himself
with the supposition, for he felt too ill to pursue inquiries.
He quickly felt the value of Lotte’s presence and her services; there
were so many little nameless attentions, such a close regard for his
comfort and immunity from pain, such a constant anticipation of his
wishes and his wants, that at length he could scarcely bear her from his
sight.
He began to get strength to talk, and he conversed with her or listened
while she read to him, eliciting occasionally her opinions upon the
subject he had selected, and he was pleased with the evidence she gave
of a sensible and practical mind, as well as of a pure taste. Soon
his conversation, chatty and familiar, began to revert to herself, and
became embarrassingly personal. Still he did not identify her.
He knew, indeed, that her name was Clinton, but the name itself
struck him no more than if it had been Brown or Thompson, at least
in connection with the individual whom his son frantically, as he
considered, designed to marry. In fact it was not likely to occur to him
that a young damsel, against whose admission into his family he had so
vehemently and determinedly set his face, should have absolutely taken
possession of his sick chamber, to act a daughter’s part. And as he had
adopted, as soon as he began to be sensible of her kind attention, the
appellation of “my little nurse,” in addressing or speaking of her, the
name of Clinton quickly left his memory.
Only from her hand would he take his medicine; she never made any
mistake, or gave him more or less than he ought to have had, and if she
was not there to administer it, he insisted that it was not the proper
time to take it. She gave him his food; it was always correct as to its
quality, quantity, and fitness. Hers was the first face to greet his
opening eyes in the morning, the last upon whom they closed at night.
Ay, even in the night, at times, he would wake and find the same
pleasant, patient face hanging over him, and when he asked why she had
not retired, she was always ready to answer him with a plea, that
during the previous day she had observed him to be not so well, and as a
restless night usually followed those symptoms of retrogression, she
was merely at hand to administer to him some soothing medicine which the
physician had provided for such contingencies.
Her hand alone could smooth and arrange his pillow to his satisfaction.
She was never impatient under the caprices of his temper or his
ever-varying whims. She moved always with such alacrity--so light of
foot when requested to do anything for him. She submitted so gently and
patiently to his querulous testiness, and bore his peevish remarks, as
she had throughout executed the task allotted to her, without a cloud
upon her brow or a ruffle on her equanimity. “Of course,” cry the
selfish, shrugging their shoulders, “such conduct was eminently politic;
she had a deep game to play, and had the shrewdness as well as the
ability to understand the part assigned to her, and to perform it well.”
But “far-seeing” people are not always correct in their assumptions, and
in jumping to a conclusion sometimes arrive only at the mire of their
own ungenerous instincts; being as far from the truth as they are from
the possession of tenderness of heart or magnanimity of soul.
The policy of such conduct formed no element in Lotte’s demeanour or
action; it was in fact the result of her organisation, having undertaken
such a duty, to so fulfil it.
Mr. Wilton, now rapidly approaching a state of convalescence, began, to
weary of his chamber, and to long to inhale the fresh air without his
stately dwelling. He sketched out to Lotte walks upon the terrace, and
of the pleasure he should enjoy in again being enabled to take them, and
how much that pleasure would be enhanced by her favouring him with the
support of her kind arm. He promised to enlighten her upon many subjects
of science and art, of which she knew nothing, and he promised himself
also the pleasure of listening to her simple but always pertinent and
sensible remarks.
Flora, too, had recovered her strength and her spirits. Communion with
Lotte had toned down the perturbation of her mind, and rendered her far
more contented and hopeful than she had been for some time past.
Poor Lotte! her own heart-canker exhibited no sign. The acute agony of
her own thoughts was never suffered to display any influence upon her
actions or manner in the presence of others; it was only when alone,
and offering up her prayers to Heaven for strength to sustain her in
the performance of her duty to others, no less than to herself, that
the convulsions of a poignant sorrow bore down all opposition, and
prostrated her.
Poor Lotte! if she had entertained any misgivings, even during Mark’s
most sanguine representations to her of becoming his wife, they resolved
themselves into a certainty now. She had only to cast her eyes upon the
picturesque antique hall, with its saloons and its galleries, its
rich appointments, its paintings, and its sculptures--upon the
terrace-garden, with its fountains, its flowers, its rare shrubs, its
elegant exotics and trees, and smoothly gravelled serpentine paths--upon
the park, with its slopes and undulations of green sward--upon the
plantation, and the woods beyond, to feel that it was not for her, so
humble in her position, to share these grand and beautiful things.
It was a sorrowful conviction, but she did not quarrel now with Mr.
Wilton’s opposition to her becoming Mark’s wife; it seemed, indeed,
merely natural, taking life as she had found it, that he should do
so, and not unreasonable. And it was to bear this conviction without
repining that she prayed earnestly, and wrestled with her wishes
ardently.
Flora was no sooner able to quit her room than she applied herself to
the task of relieving Lotte of some portion of her labours. She did this
with affectionate willingness, for she was desirous that Lotte should,
after such continuous confinement to a sick chamber, be enabled to
obtain rest, and such personal enjoyment as the beauties and advantages
of the place afforded; and by the time Mr. Wilton was prepared to make
his first visit down stairs, Flora was sufficiently recovered to resume
her place at his side, and take up the position Lotte had so generously
and so well filled.
There was quite a little excitement when Mr. Wilton came down for the
first time since his attack to his library. Flora’s arm was used by him
for support, because Lotte had not made her appearance. The old man
was disappointed, and inquired sharply why his “little nurse” was not
present. Flora replied that she had not quitted her room yet--that
she was unusually late this morning--that she would, after having
congratulated him upon his returning to his old place in the house,
hasten to her chamber to ascertain the cause of her non-appearance.
“The sooner the better,” said Wilton, drily.
Flora quitted the room; and Mark now offered his father his
congratulations upon his having quitted his invalid chamber, and his
reappearance in his library.
“Thank you--thank you,” responded his father, quickly; and added,
somewhat peevishly, “I miss the congratulations of one who has done so
much to restore me to my place here; I quite expected to have had her
help to get here, or, at least, her pleasant face to welcome me.”
“She’s a tender, kind-hearted, good girl, sir,” said Mark, trying to
curb enthusiasm of tone and manner.
“She’s an angel, sir!” cried Wilton, vehemently. “I repeat it--an angel.
There, now, is a young, inestimable creature, who would--but we won’t
recur to that now; another time. Well, well, Flo’, where is little
nurse?” he cried, as Flora entered the library.
There was a grave expression on her face, and she held in her hand a
letter.
Lotte had quitted Harleydale early that morning. Certainly, of the
three, none appeared more completely thunderstruck at the circumstance
than Mr. Wilton.
“Gone!” he cried; “left us without a word?” He looked fiercely at
both son and daughter. “What is the meaning of so extraordinary
an occurrence?” he continued. “She must have been, in some way,
insulted--outraged--to have departed in so abrupt a manner. Whoever has
dared to be guilty of aught which can have compelled her to act thus
shall be visited by my most wrathful indignation.”
The old man spoke with great excitement. Flora, half-frightened at his
manner, said, hurriedly--
“Here is a letter, father which she has left upon her toilet-table,
addressed to me.”
“Read it,” cried Wilton, imperatively.
Flora opened the note, and, with genuine emotion, read the contents.
They ran thus--
“_My dear Miss Wilton,---Do not think harshly of me for quitting you
and your beautiful home thus abruptly, but, indeed, I could not summon
fortitude enough to part with you for ever._”
[“For ever,” ejaculated Mark and his father in a breath. “_With quivering
lip_. Flora repeated the word, and went on reading.]
“_My mission is fulfilled. I was placed by your father’s bedside in the
darkest hour of his danger, with no skill, but only a hopeful heart and
willing spirit to help and guide me. It has pleased Heaven to place him
on the threshold of health, and my services, with you by his side, are
no longer needed, so I retire again into my own humble privacy_----”
“But I won’t allow her to do anything of the kind,” roared old Wilton,
excitedly.
“Hush, sir, for mercy sake, hush!” cried Mark; and, in an agitated
manner, said to Flora, “Pray, go on.”
Flora brushed her tears away, and proceeded reading--
“_I have imagined and feel rewarded by the thanks your generous
heart and kind nature would prompt you to render me for what I have
endeavoured to accomplish in my office of nurse. I have imagined those
of the other members of your family, and so am amply repaid. You and
they owe me nothing on that account; yet, if I might claim a favour
quite to repay all obligation, it would be to ask of you all to forget
me--or if you may not be able to remove all traces of her whose social
grade renders her of little worth in the eyes of those in your position,
from lingering in your memory, at least act as if I were no more
remembered. Do not seek me, do not write to me more_--”
Wilton uttered an ejaculation of wonder. Flora, with an unsteady voice,
proceeded--
“_I beg also to be spared from giving explanations, for what must seem
strange conduct in the eyes of your parent, yourself--perhaps of others,
but I trust you will rest content by the acknowledgment that I am weaker
in spirit than I believed myself to le. That seeing hopes shown to
be illusions and dreams dissipated by hard--perhaps cold facts, I am
desirous of not having anything in future presented to my eyes to raise
up recollections of my poor folly, but would pray to be permitted to
pass my future life with resignation and in graceful obscurity. You may
know all, or you may know nothing; in either case, I earnestly implore
you to grant my request. And so, dear, dear Miss Wilton, unequal to
the agony of parting with you personally, take now from me therefore,
through the medium of this note, my farewell, and for ever. May the
Almighty bless you, and those nearest and dearest to you_---”
“Ahem!” coughed a voice loudly preventing, by the interruption, Flora
from adding the name appended to the note.
Old Wilton, whose eyes were riveted on Flora, turned sharply to the spot
whence the sound proceeded, as did Mark and Flora. They beheld Nathan
Gomer standing before them. He blew his nose almost fiercely, and we
are not sure that his eyelids were not filled with water. He cleared
his voice, which betrayed symptoms of huskiness, and muttering first
something about “a plaguy cold,” he addressed Flora.
“I am sorry, Miss Wilton,” he said, “to interrupt you, or to intrude
unannounced upon private family matters, but I have some very important
business, which cannot be delayed, to transact with your good father,
whom I congratulate upon being down here in his library once more. With
the permission of yourself and your brother, I will proceed to my work
at once.”
Both Flora and Mark were glad of the opportunity of retiring from the
library, to confer together upon Lotte’s remarkable proceeding.
Flora was utterly overwhelmed with surprise at what had happened. Mark
was not. He began to understand Lotte’s character better. Never did he
honour her more highly, or love her more dearly than when he heard the
contents of that letter, which he not only intended to read, but having
obtained possession of, to keep.
When Mark and Flora had departed, old Wilton motioned to Nathan Gomer
to be seated; all the time in a state of mystification and wonder at
the behaviour of his pretty, kind, little nurse. There was something to
unravel, he was sure of that. And, after all, who really was she, and
why had she departed from his house in a manner so extraordinary?
“I say I hope you are satisfied now!” exclaimed Nathan Gomer, loudly
repeating some words he had previously uttered. He had been talking for
some little time, and Wilton had not heard a word.
The old man started, and apologised for his inattention.
“A singular circumstance has occurred beneath my roof to-day,” he said,
“and it has surprised, mystified, and upset me--yes, much disturbed me,
when I hoped to have been really more gratified and happy than I have
been for a long time. When you have finished your communication, I will
take your opinion upon the matter.”
Nathan Gomer peered under his eyebrows at him, and stroked his chin.
He noted, with seeming pleasure, the vexed expression the old man’s
features wore; but he made no allusion to it, nor even to the incident
respecting which he was to be called upon to give his opinion. He said,
in a dry manner--
“I stated to you the present position of Grahame, and I have come to
consult with you upon our future course with respect to that unhappy man
and his family.
“But I did not hear you, Gomer,” exclaimed Wilton, quickly; “pray repeat
it! How stands now the proud man who would have destroyed me and mine?”
“Low, indeed; broken, beggared, and outcast!” returned Nathan, with
emphasis.
A grim smile sat on Wilton’s features.
“Retribution!” he muttered, “retribution!”
“A heavy one, Eustace Wilton,” said Nathan, with a sharpness in his tone
not usual with him. “He has been struck to the heart in his family as
well as in his fortune. I have small pity for the man, for he paused
not at the most foul crimes to accomplish his selfish ends; but I cannot
look at the stain which has befallen the female members of the family
without a feeling of pain and regret. They were, at least, innocent of
harm to you, in thought or act.”
“My children were innocent of wrong to Grahame,” said Wilton, harshly,
“but he spared them not.”
“You are not a Grahame!” cried Gomer, in a startling voice. “You do not
take his infamous conduct as your standard of action--do you?”
Wilton shrank back, and felt the colour spring into his cheeks, as he
beheld the glittering eyes of the little man fixed upon his features, as
if to read, by their expression, what was passing in his heart.
With an effort he assumed a cold demeanour, and said--
“Tell me, what is the exact position of the family at the present
moment?”
“I have done so,” said Gomer, with a manner as cold as his own. “I will
repeat it. Grahame has fled, it is not known whither, although a hot
search has been made for him. The sheriff is in possession of his house
in London, at my suit. His eldest daughter fled from his house and
became a mother before she knew she was a wife; his second daughter has
eloped with the Duke of St. Allborne, and is now his kept mistress. The
proud mother--the destroyer of her husband, and, so far as she could be,
the cause of her children’s ruin---is confined to her bed with a wasting
illness and a crushed brain; she is a hopeless idiot. The son is in
prison, arrested at the suit of a tailor, who has been discounting bills
for him, which he has dishonoured. That is the condition of the proud
Grahames. I ask you, are you satisfied? Are your feelings of revenge
glutted by this wholesale wreck of the family?”
“There--there was, I think, another daughter,” said Wilton, in a low,
hesitating tone. “You do not mention her.”
Nathan shrugged his shoulders, and said, tartly, “You mean the
youngest, Evangeline, a simple, artless, innocent girl, with a foolishly
affectionate nature She is pretty and engaging, and has been giving
clandestine meetings to a young lawyer’s clerk. If he happens to be a
scoundrel, it is not difficult to prophecy what will be her fate. Again
I ask you, are you satisfied?”
Old Wilton rose up; he pressed his clenched fist upon his heart. In a
hoarse voice, he exclaimed--
“I am shocked, I am horrified, Gomer. I contemplated this situation with
a vile satisfaction. I am terrified at its realization. My vengeance!
ugh! it is gorged. We must interpose--stay the further progress of their
misery. We will save this child--this Evangeline, and rescue, too, the
rest from destitution and perdition. Oh, pride! accursed pride! it has
triumphed over the reason and the conscience of both Grahame and his
wife. Had they listened to the gentle pleadings of nature, rather than
to the dictates of an overweening, selfish, unfeeling, arrogant pride,
home and family-might at this moment have been to them a source of the
purest domestic felicity. What is it now?--I shudder to reflect upon
it. The happiness of their children could never have been an element in
their worldly calculations; on the contrary, they have trampled on
the natural affections, and have considered their offspring rather
as appendages to their state than as children part and parcel of
themselves. Oh, it is terrible! it is terrible!”
“Ho! ho!” shouted Nathan Gomer; and springing up, he caught Wilton
by the wrist, saying, with vehement earnestness, “‘Before all things,
truth; and truth at all times!’ Why, pride does this for _you, Wilton_;
pride makes _you_ determine to trample on the natural affections.
You--you would break your daughter’s heart rather than she should not
give her hand to a most dishonourable Honourable. You would, at the
inspiration of pride, stamp out her truthfulness, by compelling her to
swear at the altar to love and honour a man she could never love and
never honour. Pride urges you to crush all your only son’s hopes of
earthly happiness, rather than he should mate with one who possesses a
rare combination of human virtues, but is not garbed in fine linen,
and cannot disport her dainty limbs in a handsome carriage. Go to! have
_you_ not one excuse for Grahame’s frailty?”
Old Wilton groaned aloud, and buried his face in his hands.