Chapter XII (2)

‘The fatal truth curdles my blood like poison! I feel the hell in my bosom. Oh, what a heart I’ve lost? Why, splendid slavery of rank, must virtue be thy victim; why must affection be sacrificed to thee? The peasant mates him where his heart directs, and to his lowly bride brings happiness; his lord must fret, chained to some high-born fool; or either pine in vain for humble loveliness, or make its innocence a martyr to his choice. I was not born to be a betrayer. Wed! I cannot cease to love!’

The words recalled my scattered reason, and I was almost tempted to return to the apartment; but a feeling of pride restrained me, and bursting with anguish, I hurried away to my chamber, where I was soon afterwards joined by Celia, who was sent by the earl to watch me. I was at first insensible to her presence, and sat like a statue, with my eyes fixed upon the earth, and buried in deep and agonizing meditation. The poor girl spoke to me, but, overcome with my emotions, I burst into tears, and threw myself on the couch, and Celia, probably thinking that I should fall into a slumber, left. My mind being so dreadfully fatigued by the sufferings I had so recently undergone, I did gradually fall to sleep, from which I was aroused by hearing some person moving in the adjoining apartment. The door was partly open, and I perceived it was Celia. Anxious to ascertain for what purpose Celia was there, I still pretended to slumber, and shortly afterwards, she stole softly to the door which opened upon my chamber, and peeped in.

‘Yes, she sleeps,’ she said. ‘Poor lady, my heart bleeds for her. Why, this strange, unlooked-for adventure has created a fine confusion among all of us; for see—if one wouldn’t think, by the state this room is in, that it had turned the heads of the whole family. Scarcely a piece of furniture in its place, and my mistress’s toilet, too. Here’s confusion. But hold, Celia, that’s your affair, so no complaining. I declare I’m almost worn out with this bustle. Heigh-ho! I’m ordered by the earl to watch my mistress here; but I’m sure I don’t know what I shall do to keep awake, suppose I finish the new drawing the Lady Clara honored my humble talents by so much admiring—that’s just the thing.’

Celia placed the drawing-stand before her, and sitting down, applied herself to her task; but it was evident, by her frequent nodding, that her words would soon be verified, and I was most anxious for it to happen so, as I had formed a resolution to make my escape from the villa that night by some means or other. She once more approached the couch, and having apparently satisfied herself that I still slept, she returned to the drawing.

‘Oh, dear,’ she exclaimed with excessive weariness, ‘oh, dear, my eyelids are so very heavy, they stick together whenever I wink, and I can scarcely force them open again. My poor drawing will never get finished at this rate. However, I must try once more what it will do to keep me from sleeping at my post.’

She again endeavored to keep herself awake, but her efforts were all useless, she nodded, and nodded, until at length she fell back in her seat, fast asleep.

I now hastily arose, and attired myself in the village dress I had gazed at with such feelings of pain and regret in the morning. I approached Celia on tip-toe, and being certain she was really asleep, I soliloquized—

‘Yes, she sleeps! Now is the only moment! I thought I could not brave a father’s eyes; but there is courage in despair, which makes the weak frame wonder at itself. I have written this letter to the earl, and here are all his gifts—his diamonds, his detested wealth. Now, methinks, my heart feels lighter. Yes, like the prodigal, I will turn my steps where a child may always look with confidence. I have been imprudent, but am not guilty. Heaven receives the offering of the sincerely penitent, and can a parent’s blessing be denied when Heaven forgives?’

The apartment upon which my chamber opened, and in which Celia was, was a magnificent one. On one side was a large French window, through which the distant country could be seen far beyond. Outside was a balcony overhanging the road. I undrew the curtains softly, and opened the window. It was a fine moonlight night, and the distant landscape could be seen as distinctly as at broad day. I took a scarf from the shoulders of Celia, which she wore, fastened one end of it to the balcony railing, then returned, made an appeal to Heaven for protection, and blew out the candles. With more firmness than might have been expected, I then began my perilous descent, and gradually letting myself down by the scarf, alighted in safety below. Fear of being re-taken lent speed to my feet, and I flew with the greatest rapidity across the country to which, however, I was complete stranger.

I scarcely abated my speed in the least for the distance of five miles or more, when I was obliged to pause, in order to rest myself. I looked fearfully around me to see whether or not I was pursued, and then reflected upon what course I should pursue. I feared to travel at that hour, and, indeed, it would have been most dangerous, to a young girl especially; I therefore resolved to proceed for some distance further, and then to seek shelter at some cottage till the morning. I then resumed my lonely journey in a state of fear and agitation, it is unnecessary for me to describe. After walking for above an hour longer, I arrived at a small and obscure hamlet, and by the light which I perceived in several of the cottage windows, I was satisfied that some of the inmates had not retired to rest.

Here, again I paused, for uncertain of the reception I might meet with, I almost feared to knock. At length, I approached the first one, and having first listened at the door, and hearing only the voice of an old woman, apparently in prayer, I became more confident, and having waited till she had ceased, I knocked, and shortly afterwards, the voice of the old woman demanded who was there, and what they wanted. I informed her, and begged that she would admit me. It was some time before she complied, and seemed to be consulting within herself the propriety or safety of doing so, but having put several more questions to me, as to whether I was alone, &c., she at last ventured to open the door, and eyed me narrowly from head to foot. She was a very clean, motherly-looking woman, whose appearance called the tears to my eyes, she was so much like the parent to whom I was returning.

‘Good gracious, child,’ she said, ‘what causes you to be out at this time of the night and from whence do you come?’

‘I am a stranger in this part of the world, my good dame,’ I replied; ‘I have recently made my escape from villainy, and crave a shelter in your cottage till the morning. I have sufficient to reward you for your trouble.’

‘As for reward,’ returned the old woman, ‘I require none; and if your story is true, you are heartily welcome to the humble bed I have to offer you.’

I thanked the poor woman most sincerely for her kindness, and entered the clean little parlor, where the remains of her humble repast she had been partaking of, was still upon the table, and of which she requested me to eat, but I declined. Judging from her manners and appearance that she was one in whom I could confide, I gave her a brief account of my situation, and upon what purpose I was bent. She listened to me with evident commiseration, and applauding the resolution I had formed, after some conversation, she conducted me to the room in which she was able to accommodate me, and after bidding me good night left me to myself. Fatigued with the events of the day, it was not long ere I fell asleep, and I did not awake until the old woman aroused me late in the morning.

Having been prevailed upon by her to partake of her humble meal, and offered her some remuneration for her kindness which she persisted in declining, I took leave of her, and made my way to the coach office, to which she had directed me. I met with no interruption on the road, and succeeded in obtaining a place in one of the coaches just starting for my native village. I alighted from the coach a short distance from my place of destination, having made up my mind to walk the rest of the way.

I cannot adequately portray the nature of my feelings as I approached the home where I had never known anything but happiness until my meeting with Mansville; alternate hopes and fears racked my bosom. It was a beautiful morning; the sun shone forth in fall meridian splendor, and all nature seemed to wear a smile of gladness. When I came within sight of the village, my heart felt ready to burst, and suddenly the sound of pipes and tabors vibrated on my ears. Presently afterwards, a bridal procession approached towards the spot where I was, and stopped before the doors of one of my female companions, Ellen Greenley, and George Ashburne, who had long been her acknowledged lover.

George Ashburne having thanked his friends for their kindness, the father of Ellen joined them.

‘Good morning to you, my dear child,’ said Mr. Greenley, kissing his daughter affectionately, and smiling upon his son-in-law elect, kindly; ‘may this prove a blessed day to you both. Go, lads and lasses, and gather the flowers to celebrate the ceremony.’

The villagers departed, and Mr. Greenley continued—

‘I’ll try if I can’t prevail upon Mr. Heywood, the unfortunate father of Clara, to come to your wedding; poor fellow! he may be compared to the ruined wing of the crazy old mansion-house he was converted into a farm, that looks down in gloomy silence upon the bright and smiling landscape which everywhere surrounds it. Ah! that sad girl! the flowers they go to gather are less frail than she has proved. My children be virtuous if you would be happy.’

Thus saying, the old man re-entered the cottage, but his words had been so many daggers to my heart.

‘Clara’s father,’ observed Ellen, when her father had left them, ‘ah! if our poor Clara herself were only here now, how her heart would rejoice in our happiness.’

‘Don’t name her, Ellen,’ said George, ‘don’t name her; a virtuous girl’s lips ought not to be sullied by the mention of her name.’

‘Ah! George,’ replied Ellen, ‘pity becomes the virtuous, and the more she has fallen, the more she deserves to be pitied.’

‘Psha!’ cried George, ‘can’t you talk about something else?’

‘A sad day it was when she went away,’ continued Ellen, ‘everybody was downcast, as if some great affliction had befallen the village.’

‘More fools they,’ was George’s abrupt retort; ‘if you or I had gone, indeed, it might have afflicted them; now, Ellen, you shall not talk any more about her. Come, come, let us be going.’

Suddenly accumulating all my fortitude, I emerged from the place where I had concealed myself, and called upon Ellen by name. Both her and her lover started, and the former exclaimed in a tone of astonishment and alarm:—

‘Bless us! what’s that?’

‘As I live,’ said her lover, ‘it is Clara Heywood, or her ghost!’

‘Do not be alarmed, Ellen,’ I said, ‘but one word with you.’

‘No, it’s she herself, as I’m alive,’ ejaculated Ellen: ‘but oh, how changed she is.’

‘One word, dear Ellen,’ I repeated.

‘I am not satisfied upon this subject,’ said the timid George, ‘so, as you seem resolved to stay here, I shall be off.’

‘Ellen,’ I repeated, as soon as George had departed ‘Have you forgotten me?’

‘No, Clara, no,’ answered the affectionate girl, ‘nor never shall forget you. I was even talking about you, as you called. Ah! Clara, you’re sadly altered; and so is everything since you went away. Such a day as it was, when you left us!—There wasn’t a dry eye, nor a cheerful word spoke in the village. Your poor father—’

‘Well—well!’ I hurriedly interrupted.

‘I see it grieves you,’ said Ellen; ‘I didn’t mean to make you sad—you look as if you had suffered enough. This is my wedding-day, Clara.’

Ellen sighed, and for a moment averted her head.

‘Yes, Ellen,’ I resumed, ‘I wish to see my mother, and to see her privately. She would not, perhaps, admit me to her presence, if she was not forewarned. You can oblige me greatly, if you will induce her to come to me, by saying that a stranger desires to speak with her, immediately.’

‘That I will, with all my heart,’ said Ellen, ‘and may it turn to good. Oh, may all the realization of her hopes attend the returning wanderer. But where shall I find you?’

‘I’ll follow you,’ I answered, ‘go round to the front door; I’ll take the opposite side, and meet you at the gate. And Heaven will help the heart, determined to retrace the paths of rectitude and honor,’ I cried, as with a heart beating with hope and dread, I made my way towards the house of my beloved parents.

Oh, never shall I forget the feelings with which I entered at the gate.

‘Here is my home!—my blessed, blessed home!’ I reflected; ‘a frowning form appears to guard the threshold, shrieking in my ear—‘Hence! thou shalt not enter!’ But can I linger here?—I seem to tread the earth like a criminal. I must, and I will approach! Now, now now!’

Having at last made a violent effort to conquer my emotions, I rushed down the steps into the yard, and then exclaimed triumphantly—

‘Once more I am surrounded by all that is dear to me!—Father! mother!—your unhappy child, sorrowing, imploring, returns to you!—And hark! I hear the song of my childhood floating on the air. How acutely doth its accents strike upon my heart in such a scene as this, around whose every tree and flower some recollection of infancy’s entwined.’

My heart rose in my mouth, as I ventured, seeing the coast clear, to approach the house, and even to peep into the parlor-window. I trembled; and an indescribable pang shot through my frame, as I noticed everything that well-known room contained, and which had not undergone any alteration since I last beheld it. But how shall I describe my feelings, when immediately afterwards, the door of the inner apartment was thrown open, and the next moment my mother appeared with the breakfast things. With what eager fondness did I gaze upon her revered countenance, and yearn again to be enfolded in her embrace; and most severely did I reproach myself when I noticed the heavy marks of care that were upon her brow. The casement was partially open, so that I could hear all that passed, and my mother, having placed the breakfast things on the table, sighed heavily and observed—

‘There, there!—There’s the breakfast ready for my poor husband, and now I wish he would return. He has been out since daylight with his gun; the only thing that seems to attract his attention. At home, all day he does nothing but sigh, or,—if he thinks he is not observed,—weep. Oh, Clara! unthinking girl you have too much to atone for. How long he stays.’

My heart was ready to burst as these words reached my ears, and it was with the greatest difficulty I could avoid betraying myself. My mother now came to the door and looked anxiously out, but a little thatched summer-house close at hand concealed me from observation. Again she entered the house, and I overheard her, in tones of the deepest anxiety, exclaim—

‘No, I cannot catch even a glimpse of him, yet my mind is never easy in his absence; his despondency sometimes makes me fear that—ah! surely yonder I see him moving mournfully among the trees. Yes, ’tis he—he is just at the bridge;—he comes!’

‘Never shall I forget the sensation with which I strained my eyes in the direction which the observation of my mother instructed me in, and I thought I should have sunk to the earth with mingled feelings of the most intense anguish and awe, when my eyes once more beheld my father. But oh, how altered was he! Care had deeply imprinted its furrows on his cheeks, and his form was bent and attenuated. He walked with a feeble step, and at least twenty winters seemed to have passed over his head since I had last beheld him.

‘My God!’ I mentally ejaculated, ‘and are these the terrible consequences of my imprudence? Oh, my poor mother, truly did you say that I had much to atone for!—How can I ever make sufficient reparation for the misery I have occasioned.’

My father at length reached the house, and my mother ran affectionately to meet him.

‘You were wrong to have wandered so far,’ she said, ‘you seem quite exhausted.’

‘No,’ replied my father, ‘’tis only exercise that can divert the mind from gloom; When the mind’s disturbed, the body does not feel fatigued. I’m late, I hope you haven’t waited breakfast for me.’

‘I would not certainly breakfast without you,’ returned my mother; ‘but you are too much heated to sit in this parlor; the breeze is too keen for you; we will go into the inner apartment. Go, and I will take the breakfast things for you.’

‘Well, well, as you please,’ said my father, ‘where is Edwin?’

‘He has gone to make one of the wedding party of Ellen and George,’ answered my mother.

‘A wedding!’ said my father, with a sigh, ‘ah.’

My mother had by this time hastily gathered up the breakfast things, and left the parlor.

‘Poor, bereaved mother,’ sighed my father, looking after her with the most poignant sorrow, ‘she struggles with her grief, and endeavors to impart a joy which neither can feel; which we neither can know again.—No! no! peace of mind fled with my guilty daughter—never to return! Why did I repair the ravages time had made in this old mansion? Why strive to give an air of comfort to my habitation?—Because I deemed it would be the abode of bliss. She—my child, hath made it the abode of despair!—But, no matter, a few years of neglect, desolation will spread around, and hearth, roof, and tree will be ruined, like my happiness, and broken as my heart!—My daughter!—my Clara! Oh! misery! misery! She is gone! she is lost forever!’

As he thus spoke he rushed from the room, and my agony was so great that I could not help groaning aloud.

‘Oh! God!’ I exclaimed; ‘what will become of me?—I shall go mad!—Would that I had not ventured hither; I shall never be enabled to withstand the scene!—Never can I find resolution enough to meet his reproaches. Alas! he is too strongly prejudiced against me, ever to be persuaded that I am guiltless!—But where is Ellen?’

I had scarcely given utterance to the words, when the latter approached, and before I had time to speak to her, entered the house observing me, however, and motioning me to remain where I was, and to wait patiently. I cannot do justice to the anxiety of my feelings during the time I was waiting there. A thousand doubts, hopes and fears, flashed across my brain, and every moment seemed to be an hour. At length, I heard Ellen in joyful accents exclaim, as she came from the house,

‘Joy, Clara, joy!’

I sprang forward with rapture to meet her.

‘I have succeeded, my dear Clara, said the generous-hearted girl, exultingly; ‘she’ll come to you. Wait in the summer-house, and she’ll be with you presently.’

‘Thanks! thanks!’ cried I, ‘a thousand thanks, my dearest Ellen.’

‘She’s coming,’ observed Ellen, eagerly; ‘go, quick. I pray for your success from the bottom of my soul.’

Scarcely had I time to enter the summer-house, when my mother approached. Now was the moment of my trial at hand; a deadly sickness came over me, and it was with difficulty I could save myself from fainting. The next moment my mother entered the summer-house, and she no sooner beheld me, than she uttered a loud scream of astonishment, and became, as it were, paralyzed to the spot.

‘Mother! mother!’ I cried, in frantic tones, ‘if I may still call you by that dear name;—oh, pardon your imprudent, but not guilty daughter!’

I could say no more, but sank at her feet. A pause of several moments ensued! my mother being too much overpowered by her emotions to speak; but at length, in a voice choked with agony, she exclaimed:—

‘Wretched girl! dare you again to approach that home, those parents whose hearts you have rendered desolate? Guilty, miserable girl—’

‘Oh, no, no,’ I interrupted hastily, ‘imprudent, cruel, I have been, dear mother, but your child returns to you as pure as when she left you. I appeal to heaven to attest my innocence. Oh, my mother, pardon the poor prodigal, who erred alone through youth and inexperience, and who is now ready to make all the atonement in her power.’

‘Can this be true? Have you indeed not endeavored to deceive me?’ ejaculated my mother, eagerly, and her eyes beaming, fixed with a penetrating glance upon my countenance, as though she would read all that was passing in my soul. ‘But no, it is impossible. How can you be innocent, uncontaminated? did you not abandon your home, your parents, and throw yourself into the arms of a villain, who—’

‘Oh, mother, believe it not,’ I returned, with the tears at the same time streaming down my cheeks. ‘I acknowledge that by the most base and subtle means, and in a moment of thoughtlessness and imprudence, Mansville got me into his power, and bore me far away from my home. But I thought that he meant to act honorably towards me. He told me he would make me his bride. I was too ready to believe him, and day after day he made some plausible excuse to postpone the fulfilment of his promise. Think not, however, that I suffered nothing. That you were ever absent from my thoughts, or that the fondly cherished recollections of my home, that home I had quitted, ceased to torture my mind. Bitter, indeed, were the pangs I endured. Ofttimes would I have fled the place and returned hither, but I dreaded to meet the reproaches of my parents. When, however, Mansville threw aside the mask, I overcame that dread, and your unhappy daughter has come back to solicit your forgiveness, with her virtue as unsullied as when she left you.’

During the time I was speaking, the agony evinced by my mother needs no description, and when I had ceased, in a paroxysm of delirious transport, she snatched me from the earth and enfolded me in her arms, exclaiming—

‘My child—my long lost Clara! Yes, I do indeed believe you, and pardon you, Oh, this is a happiness that I never expected!’

‘Mother, dear mother!’ I cried, in a tone of gratitude and delight which I cannot adequately describe, ‘to be suffered once more to speak to you in this place—to hear those blest words—to know myself pardoned. My heart is so full. Thus, thus only can I thank you.’

Again I threw my arms around her neck, and pressing vehemently to her bosom, she wept tears of joy.

‘Unfortunate girl,’ at length she said, gently withdrawing herself from my enthusiastic caresses, ‘I believe you innocent; but a mother’s heart is more indulgent than the world. And, ah! there is yet one to be appeased. Hark! I hear footsteps. It is your father. Softly—stand out of sight! He comes, but must not know you yet.’

Hastily throwing a veil over me, my mother urged me into the summer-house, and the next moment my father and the father of Ellen came from the house. They were in conversation, and by the words which I overheard, it seemed that the latter had been endeavoring to persuade my father to join the wedding party.

‘But at any rate,’ said he, ‘for half an hour you might.’

‘No,’ returned my father mournfully, ‘I should only mar the festal hour. I am the scathed tree of the heath that cannot drop. The bolt that struck off my branches has left my old trunk erect in wretched loneliness.’

‘’Tis a shame, neighbor,’ observed his companion, ‘it is a shame, I say, for a strong mind like yours to give itself up to sorrow in this way. You might as well put a pistol to your head at once, for you will be sure to kill yourself by it, sooner or later, and self-murder in one form is quite as criminal as in another.’

‘When you have seen the being for whom you’ve lived,’ retorted my father, ‘the object of every solicitude—the child you’ve reared with unceasing watchfulness, wrenched from you by a villain’s grasp, then come to me and talk of patience, and I’ll listen.’

‘Well, well, I’ll not weary you any longer,’ observed Mr. Greenly; ‘from my soul I’m grieved to see you thus abandoned to fruitless sorrow. Farewell, my friend, and may days be at hand when we shall see you smile once more.’

Thus saying, and grasping the hand of my father most cordially, the father of Ellen retired through the gate.

‘Smile,’ soliloquized the former, as his friend left him; ‘smile! Oh, happy father!—happy to see his daughter safe in her native innocence—safe from the bane of wealth. I once hoped that such a fate would beam on me; but fate was jealous. Lost, lost, wretched girl!’

While my unhappy father was thus speaking, my mother entered the summer-house, and leading me forth, she placed her finger on her lips to enjoin me to silence. We stood aside, and watched him, unobserved.

‘As I gaze there,’ he continued, ‘methinks I see her in her days of innocence, when first her little steps began: laughing, she ran, with arms extended towards me; then I trembled lest her young feet should fail, and she should fall. But she passed through those fearful times unharmed. She escaped those thousand dangers. Now she falls—falls to the earth, never to rise! She’s gone—she’s lost! My Clara! Oh, my child!’

My heart was ready to burst, and I was almost choked with endeavouring to repress the heavy sobs that heaved my bosom. My father threw himself into a chair, and my mother advanced towards him, and touched him on the shoulder.

‘A tear,’ she observed, in gentle accents. ‘Did I not hear our Clara’s name too? Did not your lips utter the name of our child?’

‘No, no,’ he replied, hastily rising; ‘let us, if possible, not think or speak of her again.’

‘Well, well, dearest husband,’ returned my mother, ‘I will not urge it now; but here is a poor creature, the daughter of—’

‘Away—away!’ hastily and vehemently interrupted my unhappy parent. ‘I have no daughter now.’

‘No,’ replied my mother; ‘but this repentant child, the daughter of a neighbor, is on her way to ask forgiveness of her offended father. She faints with shame and grief, and dares not meet him. Do speak a word or two of comfort to her, and teach her in what words she should address him to gain his blessing, and to sooth his anguish.’

‘None,’ replied my father, hastily, and his eyes beaming wild, ‘none. Let her not dare to look upon him. Let not her presence insult the home her infamy has disgraced. Perhaps, too, she had a mother, rich in every virtue. Let her shun that mother, for contamination is in her touch. Virtue can hold no intercourse with vice, though vice, with double baseness, kneels affecting reverence for virtue.’

I found it impossible to help groaning aloud, as I listened to my father’s observations, and I threw myself into my mother’s arms. He turned his eyes steadily upon me for a minute or so, and then resumed—

‘Yet hold! I will not judge too harshly; for there are shades of guilt, and hers, perhaps, may not be of so deep a dye as to preclude forgiveness. Perhaps her father was not affectionate—Perhaps (poor child!) he was morose and frigid. Perhaps neglectful, cold, unindulgent.’

‘Oh, no!’ I sobbed, and sank on my knees before him with clasped and upraised hands, ‘he was most kind, affectionate, and good.’

‘What,’ eagerly demanded my poor parent, ‘did he love you better than all the world?—did he rear you in domestic tenderness, and train you in the paths of virtue?—did he clasp you to his doting heart, and in his foolish pride proclaim his child the paragon of earth?—and did you then blast all of his fond hopes, and clinging to another, leave him in his storm of grief?’

Again I groaned with the almost insupportable power of my anguish, and still remained on my knees before him.

‘Dearest husband,’ said my mother, ‘do not aggravate the dear child’s misery. She is repentant—she is the shorn lamb, temper the storm to her affliction, but do not add another wound to a heart already too much lacerated.’

‘Well, well,’ returned my father, ‘be it so. I will forget my own, and try to sooth her sorrows. Young woman, rise.’

He raised me from the earth, and taking my hand tenderly, continued:—

‘What your miseries are, I well can guess; but what your father’s sufferings are I too well know. You fear to meet his eye; you dread to hear his curse. A father’s curse is heavy; shall I paint this agonizing suffering to you, child! I can do so; for I have felt it. I have it now. I once had a daughter.’

‘Oh, sir, do not name her!’ I cried, with a feeling of agony, too powerful for utterance.

‘Oh, how I doted on that daughter,’ he continued, and his countenance betrayed the terrible mental agony he was enduring. ‘How I adored her, words cannot tell; thoughts cannot measure! Yet—she sacrificed me to a villain,—her ingratitude has bleached this head,—her wickedness has broken this heart, and now my detestation is upon her! Oh, do not you resemble her,—remain not a moment longer from your father,—fly to him ere his heart give way, as mine does now—ere he curses you as I now curse—’

‘Oh, no more!’ I interrupted, darting forward in excessive agitation; ‘in mercy, oh, no more.’

‘Ha!’ groaned my father, as he recognized me and retreated from me, ‘away! away! away!’

In a wild delirium of agony, I followed him on my knees, exclaiming, in frantic accents,—

‘Your vengeance cannot make you deaf to the agony of a despairing child; behold me on my knees; I bring the sacrifice of a broken spirit. I do not ask your love till you know I am worthy of being loved. I do not ask your confidence till you feel I can be trusted; but do not deny me the shelter of your paternal roof.’

‘My father spurned me violently from him, and as he did so, he cried, in hoarse tones,—

‘Hence! hence!—I know you not! My sight rejects you—spurns you! If you have wasted all the spoils of guilt, there—there’s gold! Your idol, gold! for which you bartered all your hopes of bliss!’

He dashed a purse furiously to the earth as he spoke, and hastened towards my mother, fixing upon me looks of scorn and hatred. Oh, Heaven! how each glance penetrated to my soul! How every word burnt to my heart! It was wonderful that reason could retain her empire in that trying scene.

‘Father! father!’ I implored, with redoubled vehemence, ‘hear me, I beseech you.’

‘Husband, dearest husband!’ supplicated my mother, ‘hear her, she is innocent.’

‘Innocent!’ he reiterated, ‘she innocent! No, no, impossible!—she left us; left her happy parents—her happy home—to follow a villain!’

‘Father, dearest father!’ I cried, ‘temper mercy, I pray you, with your severity. I am not the poor, guilty, degraded being that you suppose me to be. Your child is still virtuous—still unpolluted; her only crime has been in loving one too fondly, who sought to betray her! In the name of Heaven, I assert my innocence, and if I speak not the truth, may its most awful vengeance descend upon my head! But you cannot, you will not, longer doubt me. I see you will not! Oh, bless you for this, father, father!’

I could say no more; but sobbing convulsively, I threw myself into his arms! He wept;—yes, I could feel his chest heave with the power of mental anguish, and the big round tear of sorrow fell from his eye upon my cheek; he pressed me with all the fervour he had ever been wont to do to his heart, and ere he pronounced it, I knew that I was forgiven.

‘My child! my Clara!’ he at last cried, ‘is it possible that I again hold you innocent to my bosom? But no, the bliss is too great to be real! And yet it is her! yes, it is my child; it is her lips that have asserted her innocence and appealed to Heaven to attest it, and I can no longer doubt! Oh, happiness supreme! My long-lost, reclaimed child! Receive a parent’s thanks.’

He could say no more for a minute or two, but again did he clasp me with ecstasy to his bosom, and weep tears of gratitude upon my cheek. Then he would, withdrawing himself from me, with an expression I find it impossible to describe, gazed in my countenance, and clasping his hands together, raised them towards Heaven, in humble thanksgiving for its goodness in restoring me, uncontaminated to his arms; while my poor mother’s emotion was equal to his own, and she gazed on the scene with a sensation of the deepest gratitude and joy.

‘But where is the villain who has been guilty of this outrage?’ he at length demanded; ‘let me hasten to him, and demand satisfaction for the wrongs he has done us; the many days and nights of bitter misery he has caused your unfortunate parents! Tell me to what insult, what anguish did he expose you? I am mad to hear the guilty tale!’

‘Pray defer it, my dear husband, till your feelings are more composed;’ said my mother.

‘No, no, no,’ hastily ejaculated my father, and with the greatest impatience depicted in his countenance. ‘I will hear it now! I will no longer hesitate!’

In as few words as possible, I complied with my father’s request, and related all the particulars of the earl’s conduct to me during the time I was in his power. During the recital, the violent agitation of my father was plainly visible, and when I had concluded, he walked backwards and forwards for a short time, with disordered steps, and muttering incoherent sentences to himself.

At length he turned to me, and clasping me vehemently to his bosom, exclaimed:—

‘My child!—my own one!—my still innocent Clara!—Can I longer doubt you? Oh, no! you are restored to my arms; guiltless as when in a moment of imprudence you were snatched away from your paternal roof! Oh! God! I thank you for this! The trial has been a heavy one! But my child has withstood the temptation, the artifices of the libertine, and the tempter, and I am again happy! Bless you, bless you, my Clara!—Oh, I was too severe to imagine for a moment that you could be the guilty being I supposed you to have become!—Bless you again!—Here in this fond embrace!—This kiss of fervent affection, let me at once seal your pardon for the indiscretion of which you were guilty. We will never again part, till death shall interpose between us.’

Thus saying he snatched me fervently to his heart, and imprinted warm kisses upon my cheeks, my lips, my temples! How shall I describe the feelings that rushed through my veins at that moment? Language is by far too weak to do justice to them. They must be left to the warm imagination of the susceptible reader!—I was unable to return any answer; emotion choked my utterance, and stifled the words of ecstasy that would otherwise have flowed from my lips. Again I felt the ardent embrace of that father whose forgiveness I had despaired of ever being able to obtain; once more I felt the glow of his kiss upon my lips, and heard him pronounce his forgiveness for the many, many hours of bitter agony, of doubt, of fear, I had caused him.—Surely an age of anguish would have been trifling to purchase such a few moments of bliss, of exquisite transport, as those I then experienced. Again and again he enfolded me to his heart, and wept: like a child did the poor old man weep tears of inexpressible joy and gratitude upon my bosom. My mother, too; what pen could sufficiently depict her emotions upon that occasion.—She joined my father in the embraces he bestowed upon me, and then we all three knelt, and with hearts of sincerity, poured forth our gratitude to that Omnipotent being who had thrown the Almighty shield of His protection around me in hours of such eminent peril, and restored me innocent to the home wherein I had passed so many days of virtue and happiness, and which the wily seducer had endeavored so artfully to make me disgrace for ever!

‘But I will seek out the villain,’ cried my father, in vehement tones, after the first ebullitions of our joy and gratitude were over;—‘yes I will go to him and upbraid him for his base and brutal conduct, and demand of him all the satisfaction he can afford!—The feelings of affectionate parents are not to be racked and insulted with impunity!—No, by Heaven, he shall find, that in spite of his rank, he shall not escape the just indignation of those humble individuals whom he would have disgraced and rendered eternally wretched. To-morrow I will repair to the titled rake, and demand—’

‘Oh; my dearest parent,’ I interrupted, ‘pray do not think of such a thing; rather leave him to his own conscience, which, depend upon it, will sooner or later, be a severe monitor to him, and amply punish him for his guilt. The journey is too long, at your time of life, and besides, the result of such an act, without affording any satisfaction, might be such as I dread even to think upon.’

‘Clara!’ observed my father, ‘think you I can tamely brook the injuries I have received from the Earl Mansville? Oh, my child, did you but know, could you but form the least conjecture of the intense agony your disappearance, and the fears, the suspicions, that naturally resulted from it, caused both me and your poor mother, you could not thus advise.’

‘Alas! my dear father,’ I returned, ‘you do me an injury to suppose that I have not keenly, severely, felt the misery yourself and my dear mother must have undergone; in the midst of the luxury and magnificence that were displayed to ensnare me, it would rise in such vivid colors to my imagination, that many a time it surprises me how I can have retained my senses. Then would suspicion of the truth of Mansville rush tumultuously upon my brain, and only that I had dreaded to meet your reproaches, long ere this I should have made my escape from him, and return to your fostering arms. Not able to form any conjectures of your suffering?—Oh, my father, the imagination constantly haunted me;—sleeping or waking, it was ever present to my mental vision; but the deceptive art of Mansville, of which he is so consummate a master, never failed to use all the powers of his eloquence to soothe me, and by specious promises, day and day to quiet my apprehension—I will own my weakness;—such was the powerful ascendancy he had obtained over my heart, that I was too ready to listen to him; too willing to believe that he spoke the truth—Oh, my beloved parents, do me not the injustice to suppose that I could for a moment learn to become insensible of the imprudence I had committed, or of the consequent anguish that I knew it would involve you in.’

‘And do you not love Mansville now, my child?’ demanded my father, looking earnestly in my face.

‘Love him,’ I repeated, and a blush of indignation mantled my cheek as he spoke;—‘Oh, how degraded, how fallen I should be, could I now feel anything but the utmost disgust and abhorrence for one who has acted with such duplicity to me, and who would have destroyed the happiness of my parents for ever! No, my dear father, the youthful passions that are more powerfully excited in favor of any particular object, are more likely to become changed to those of hatred and scorn, when it is discovered that the being who has created them, has acted the part of a heartless traitor,—the vile deceiver,—It is thus with me, Mansville is torn from me forever; the place which his image occupied once, is now replaced by the deepest scorn and detestation.’

‘Darling child!’ cried my father, clasping me again in his arms. ‘There is sincerity in every word you utter. Oh, how could I ever suspect that you’d yield to the temptations of the guilty, and abandon the paths of virtue, in which you were brought up? This—this indeed is a joyful day; such a one as I never expected to experience again.—Come, come, child, into the house; let the blissful news be conveyed to all our neighbors, that this day restores a daughter, imprudent once, but guiltless, to her doting parents’ arms.’

‘And let the past be forgotten in the happiness of the present,’ said my mother, tears of ecstasy starting to her eyes:—‘oh, Clara, you have returned at a time when joy predominates in the bosoms of those dear friends, with whom we have been so long associated. Little did Ellen expect such a happy occurrence on the day of her nuptials.’

Encircling my waist with their arms, my parents led me affectionately to the house, and in a short time I was seated at the breakfast table, and about to eat of the repast beneath the roof in which I had been reared, and from which I had been so near being discarded for ever.—How shall I describe my feelings on that occasion, or those, it was evident, were passing in the minds of my parents.—I could scarcely believe that I had undergone what I had;—that I had ever even for a moment quitted my parental roof. Everything seemed as it was on the eventful morning when I had been borne away, and the whole seemed like some vision to warn me from the imprudent step I had actually been guilty of. The change effected in my father and mother in so short a time was most astonishing. The heavy care, the anguish of my father seemed dissipated, and was succeeded by joy and gratitude; looks of love and intense feeling which he constantly beamed upon me; while my mother could scarcely control her happiness within bounds of reason.

It might be imagined that my heart was too full—but it was not so—on the contrary, I partook of the repast with a relish I never before enjoyed since I had quitted my paternal home. I was again at home! in the home of my childhood restored to the love of my parents; and never was the contrast of the comforts of a virtuous home, with the empty luxuries of wealth and magnificence, presented more powerful to my mind.

Never shall I forget the felicity I enjoyed on that day. In the course of an hour or two my brother returned to the farm. He embraced me affectionately, but his indignation against Mansville was equal to that of my father.

It appeared that both my father and brother, had been indefatigable in endeavoring to trace the earl, but without success.

The day passed away, and at night, for the first time in some months, I retired to my chamber with the blessings of my parents. What ecstatic feelings thrilled through my veins, when I entered the little room where for so many years I had slept, and gazed upon every well known object, which had undergone no perceptible change since I had before reposed in it. It seemed indeed, to have been unoccupied since the time I had been from home; and every article I looked upon, appeared not to have been disturbed. There was the same little clean bed, with its furniture arranged with such admirable care and precision—the humble toilet—and everything the same as when I had last used it. There was the prayer book, the one which had been presented to me by my father many years before, and in which was inscribed his name, with the leaf turned down at the particular prayer I remember to have used the night before my elopement. With a heart overflowing with gratitude, I knelt down, and fervently breathed that prayer, and to it added one of thanks to Heaven, for the manner in which I had been saved from the sorrow and disgrace with which I had been threatened, and invoked its blessings on the heads of my parents and my brother. Then, with a lighter heart than I had experienced for many a day, I retired to my couch, and soon fell off into a calm slumber. No painful vision haunted my imagination that night; my dreams were those of bliss. Of the joys of home, and the affection of adoring parents; and in the morning I awoke to a renewal of that happiness and content, which had ever been mine before I became acquainted with the Earl of Mansville.

But what were my sentiments now as regarded Mansville? Need I try to portray them? I am certain that I need not! They were fully embodied in the observations I had made use of to my father. The mask which the deceiver had thrown off, having shown me his character in its real light, I thought of him only with disgust and abhorrence, and had he even then offered to make all the reparation in his power, by bestowing upon me his hand, I felt confident that I should have rejected it with scorn. Great as had been my trial, and painful as had been the circumstances by which it had been attended, I felt I had no cause to regret it now, but, on the contrary, to feel, in a manner thankful that it did occur, as it had taught me a lesson I shall never forget, and had afforded me that experience in the deceptive practices resorted to by the wealthy and unprincipled of mankind, which would prevent me for the future from approaching the precipice of destruction, down which I was so near being plunged.

I arose the following morning at the early hour to which I had been accustomed, and found my father, mother, and brother, already assembled in the little parlor, and the morning’s repast spread upon the table. I could perceive, as soon as I entered, that they had been discussing something particular, and it was not long ere I was made acquainted with it. I found that my father and my brother had come to the determination of going to the Earl Mansville, in spite of my entreaties, and the observations I had the previous day made use of, to induce them to abandon their design, and such was their eagerness to see Mansville, and demand an explanation of him, that they had resolved not to delay any longer than the following day.

‘I fully appreciate your motives, my dear child,’ said my father, ‘but, after mature deliberation, I cannot consent to comply with your wishes. Were we to suffer the matter to rest where it is it would be yielding a cowardly submission to guilt, which my heart revolts from; and, moreover, would give the foul tongue of slander an opportunity of propagating surmises derogatory to your reputation. No, nothing will satisfy me, but a plain acknowledgment of his guilt, and your innocence from his own lips, and a sufficient apology to satisfy the world at large. Were I to seek reparation in a court of law, his wealth and high rank would be a sure protection for him.’

‘It would,’ coincided my brother, ‘and I see no other means of obtaining any satisfaction than the course we are about to pursue.’

In this opinion, my mother coincided, and, much as I dreaded the consequences that might attend it, I was at a loss for arguments to combat their resolutions. This day passed away in the same manner as the previous one, and the following morning, after a most affectionate farewell, my father and brother took their departure by the coach, for the mansion of the Earl Mansville.

After my father and brother had left, my mind underwent several gloomy presages, and though I perfectly agreed with the propriety of the arguments my father had made use of, I could not but sincerely regret that they had not abandoned their design.

My mother endeavored to sooth me by all the arguments in her power; and said that, doubtless Mansville, for his own credit’s sake, would be ready to make all the reparation that was in his power.

‘Alas!’ thought I, ‘what recompense can he make me for the injury he has inflicted on my peace of mind? Nothing can make amends for the pain of discovering that the only object upon which we have placed all our young heart’s warmest affections is base, treacherous, and unworthy of that passion; and I now as thoroughly despised Mansville as I had before loved him, for that he had thrown a blight upon my mind from which I could never thoroughly recover.’

We expected the return of my father and brother in about three or four days from the time they had left home, as they would have nothing to detain them after they had obtained the interview they sought with the Earl Mansville, as they were fully aware that if they protracted their presence, it would excite our utmost alarm. The fourth and fifth day, however, elapsed, and still they remained absent. Our apprehensions began to be excited in the utmost degree, and all the fearful forebodings that had before haunted my mind, returned with redoubled force.

In spite of all her efforts to appear to the contrary, the fears of my mother, were, if possible, more excited than my own, and conjecture was exhausted in vain, to endeavor to account for the procrastination of their return.

Another day elapsed in this manner, and yet we heard nothing of them, and then, indeed, our terrors were aroused to an almost insupportable pitch, and we no longer sought to disguise from each other the real state of our feelings upon the agonizing subject. I expressed to my mother all those forebodings I had before indulged in, and she could not but admit the too great probability of them. Now did she join with me in deeply regretting that my father and brother had not yielded to my advice, or that she should have made one to urge the propriety of the course they had taken. What step to pursue we were at a loss to conceive.

‘I cannot wait in this horrible state of suspense any longer,’ my mother ejaculated, when the seventh day dawned, and we heard no tidings of them; ‘I’ll instantly take G—m, and learn at once the cause of this mysterious delay, and whether or not anything has happened to them. This dreadful state of doubt and suspicion is worse than the most terrible certainty.’

She had scarcely given utterance to these words when a knock was heard at the outer door, and a letter was presented to my mother, which she knew immediately to be in the hand-writing of her husband. Trembling violently with apprehension, she broke the seal, but had not read more than two lines when, with a piercing scream, she fell senseless to the floor. I flew to her, raised her in my arms, and then, taking up the fatal letter, began to read the contents. The commencement of it was enough to smite my heart with horror; and it is marvellous how, under such trying circumstances, I retained possession for an instant of my faculties. My unfortunate father and brother were in gaol, accused of murder—of the murder of my deceiver, the Earl Mansville!