Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

"You dare not do it!" cried my father, starting from his chair, and eluding by the suddenness the griping hand of Frederick.

"You lie!" impiously replied the drunken boy, and following him as he proceeded from his seat.

It was my time to act. No longer capable of self-control, I placed myself between the angry men, and entreated the aggressor to desist. My influence and power over the unfortunate were gone.

"Stay you there," said he, placing me at a distance from them, "or begone, and do not intermeddle. I am tranquil, and am master of myself. We have a long account to settle; and it must be called over item after item." "I do not fear you," muttered my father, gnashing his teeth, and looking fiercely at his son. "I do not fear you, most unnatural villain!"

"Well said, unnatural father!" cried Frederick, in a laughing tone; "then sit you down, and we'll converse. You need not fear me. You say I dare not punish you for all your guilt; and I say, You lie. I dare; BUT I WILL NOT. The time is past. You have not me to thank for it. Live, die, and be detested, when and where you please."

The words were grateful in my father's ear, hideous as they fell on mine. He lost dastard timidity with their utterance, and acquired insolence and bluster. Secure of life, he had no motive to withhold his abuse, and it spirted out, as usual, upon the head of the powerless and innocent. He aimed his shafts at the coffin of my scarcely-buried mother. Alas! he knew not the holiness with which that mother's memory was enshrined, even in the heart of the irreligious and much-offending Frederick.

"You have had a good instructress!" was the ready sarcasm. "Your mother".

"Name her not," shrieked Frederick; the blood rushing from his cheek at the same moment, leaving it pale, ghastly, and fearful to behold. "Name her not. I dare not name her. I dare not trust myself to listen to the

sound."

"She was punished for the usage I received from her, and so will you be, and so will she," continued he, pointing spitefully at me. "You will be smitten both, as she was smitten, when

I cursed her for her cruelty-vilest of wretches, as she was."

"Be warned!" cried Frederick, swelling with anger, and struggling for composure, which he could not find. "Be warned, I say! Speak to him, Emma-save us both!"

"Warned! warned!" said the roused lunatic, presuming on the assurance he had received. "Who threatens me? Do you remind me of the past? I have not forgotten it. The curse will wither the hand that was uplifted against your father, as it has visited and destroyed her who bore the miscreant, and taught him lessons that will avail him when he pines in hell. She was born to be my plague; and I glory in my deliverance. Were she here again, again would I be quit of her. I hated and despised her. I have lived to trample on her grave!"

One

He said more than this-more than I desire to remember or record. He persisted in the same strain, associating the most disgusting epithets with my mother's name, and outrunning sense in his eagerness to vilify her. Drunken, unmeaning gibberish sup. plied him with terms that would have excited ridicule and compassion within the breast of any one but him who listened to the speaker, enraged and irritated until reason was immersed, and could no longer serve him. horrible expression, too infamous to be repeated, was fatal to them both. It was but half-uttered before Frederick leaped from his seat, and seized his fellow-drunkard and his father by the throat. The latter fell and his assailant with him. One shrieked with terror, and struggled furiously; the other foamed, and held the prostrate man down with a hand of iron. I saw no more, but ran from the apartment, screaming aloud for help, and about to fall with fright and agitation.

The servants had asked permission to leave home at the close of dinner, in order to visit the grave of their mistress, before it should be finally and for ever shut. It was a request that had its origin in affection, and I complied with it at once. They had been faithful and true friends; for years had shared the affliction of my mother, and on her account had borne anger and submitted to reproach. We were about to lose them now. Ingots of gold would not have pur

chased their services for my widowed father. They had already set out on their errand of love, and the house was deserted. No one there could help me, and I flew into the village. Within a hundred yards of the parsonage I encountered old Adam. He was the family confidant, and in a few words I made the miserable business known to him. The poor fellow quickened, as well as he might, his aged feet, and, full of useless regrets and ineffective guesses, accompanied me to our abode.

"Oh, miss," said he, "why did the young gentleman return? What a pity he didn't keep at school! I should say no mischief has taken place. What is your opinion? Oh, to be sure, it was the maddest trick that could be played-just running into danger. Dear me, dear me, how thoughtless we all are! You don't mean to say, miss, that you left them on the ground, and fighting too! Your brother could never be so sacrilegious as to strike a man in orders! If he was wicked enough to insult his father, he must respect the cloth. Dear me, dear me! pardon me, Miss Harrington, your's is a remarkably unpleasant family."

We reached the house in time to meet Frederick rushing from it vehemently. He had a wild and vacant look, and he was paler than ever. Old Adam retreated a step or two as the wretched youth approached him. Frederick took no notice of him, but seized my hand, which was steadier than his own, and spoke to me, panting for breath.

"You are a witness, Emma," he exclaimed, "I implored him to be quiet. You heard me. He would not. He has himself to thank for it. Oh, the accursed drink! It is the ruin of us all. I vowed that I would use no violence-that I would not be

angry, I promised you faithfully-for your sake it was right. The wine betrayed me-set me in flames. Oh, Emma, Emma," he cried out, bursting into tears, "what is to become of you? What is to be done? All gone all gone!" I endeavoured to pacify him. "No, no," he cried, putting me gently from him; you mustn't kiss me now. Enter there there in that room, don't curse your brother, Emma. I will spare you one trial-you shall not see me on the

66

gallows! Good bye-poor girl-I did not mean it, Emma. It was the drink-the drink!"

We did not permit him to proceed. Horrified by his words, I started from him. Adam had already preceded me, and we entered the dining-room at one and the same moment. He was a corpse. There, on the floor where I had left him, he lay a motionless clod.

Stukely, receive the command of a dying woman, and hold it sacred. Do not shun and utterly discard the drunkard of your acquaintance. Have pity on him, and shock his ear with the unparalleled but faithful history of his fellow mortal. The sight stupified me; I hurried from it, and went to join the-assassin! He was gone. He had fled-whither? Ah, whither could he flee, friendless in the world and alone? I returned to the house. Adam met me on the threshold. His eyes were full of tears. He took me by the hand-closed the door, and locked it. He was very much alarmed, but he tried to keep calm.

"Miss Harrington," said he, "may God forgive me for what I am about The servants, you say, are

to do! out?"

"They are."

"How long will they be absent?" "I cannot tell you, Adam. They may be returning now."

"We have no time to lose, then. You must not speak of this. Oh, we are doing wrong, Miss Harrington, but I am a weak old man, and hardly know indeed the right from the wrong. I pity you. Don't betray your brother. Don't let your lips sentence him to death. I have looked well about him. There's not a mark. Every one knew your father's ailment. A sudden death will not surprise the world. It has been long expected. It is a dreadful situation to be placed in, but what are we to do? Do you understand me, Miss? Hark-there's some one walking up the avenue. Fly! fly! unlock the door, and oh! do not let them hear you for the world!"

I ran with speed. The domestics had come home. I joined them on the lawn, and, reckless of all consequences, I spoke the falsehood. In less than an hour it was spread through the whole village. The parsonage was thronged with applicants and visiters. Adam

was with me for my support. Not one presumed to doubt the tale. It corresponded with the universal expectation. Many wondered why it had not happened many years before. Some had remarked, during the day, the curious look that the parson carried with him, and had all but said he wouldn't see the night out. An inquest was held upon the body. I kept my room that day. The coroner would not distress the lady's feelings by requesting her to be present at the inquisition. The jury concurred in the propriety of this forbearance; "for indeed," the foreman said, on behalf of all the rest, "the melancholy case was but too clear." So deemed the coroner, and so the world. The verdict was returned, and registered, and declared most wise by every one -Mr Harrington HAD DIED of apoplexy.

"I remember the inquest well," said Mr Clayton, laying down the manuscript for a moment: "I read the report of it, and call to mind an observation that was made by a juryman respecting the youth himself. You will hardly believe that reading that account, as an uninterested person and a stranger, a suspicion crossed me unfavourable to the son. I was more than half afraid that he was connected in some way with his father's death. How strangely do things

come about!"

[blocks in formation]

The parishioners looked forward to his arrival. The affairs of my father were wound up. It was no difficult matter. He had left behind him little more than was enough to purchase his interment. The whole of his handsome fortune had been dissipated, squandered, and lost, in the encou ragement of his fatal passion, and in the blind recklessness which it had engendered and supported. He had mortgaged, borrowed, and sold, until his income could scarcely meet the claims which were in existence against him. His very furniture had become the property of another; and for the last three years of his life, the generosity and good feeling of a creditor, alone permitted him to enjoy the use of it. I was left in the world literally penniless. A few jewels of my mother, of inconsiderable value, and my own clothes, were every thing that I possessed. With these I quitted the parsonage, and for the emergency, retreated to the cottage of an humble but kind-hearted woman in the village. She was now my truest friend. Indeed, I had.no other in the world. My sudden extreme poverty had made manifest a hundred faults that were not visible before, and every virtuous eye was glad to look another way, and not be wounded with the sight of them. I resolved to go to service, the last resource of the abandoned daughters of the improvident. My education had not been of a high order, still I had not been wholly ne glected. My mother had been for years my teacher, and I had profited under her patience and instruction. I would endeavour to find employment as a governess, but, failing this, pride should not prevent me from becoming a servant maid. I needed peace, and freedom from my own thoughts. These secured, it mattered little how and whence they were obtained. I had arranged to go to London, that great mart and centre of assiduous life, and it wanted but a day to the period fixed for my departure. My kind hostess gave me a volume of advice, and prepared me for the great struggle into which I was about to cast myself; pointed out the dangers of my condition, and laid down rules of conduct which it was indispensable for me to follow if I hoped for comfort and success. It was on this day, and at the moment of her enforcing

her good counsel, that a visiter arrived to aid us with his best wishes and experience. It was Mr Temple. "He had read the account of my father's dissolution, and he had not lost a minute in offering his condolence and assistance at the trying season." It was a benevolent act on the part of my brother's friend, and I thanked him for his consideration. "It was not worth my thanks," he answered, and at the same time he asked for Frederick.

“He is gone," was my reply; "whither I cannot tell you."

"What, left you!" he exclaimed, as if indignant at the thought; "left you here, alone, at such a time! It is impossible Miss Harrington, a stranger could not do it. Surely he is ignorant of his father's death. He cannot be so insensible to duty. I will not believe it of the man to whom I have given my friendship and my heart. Nature could never wrong herself so far. Is this true, good lady?" he enquired, turning to the hostess.

"I don't wonder you're surprised, sir," was the reply. "You are a gentleman of feeling. Indeed it is true, sir, though incredible to believe. The day his father died, sir, he left the premises, and hasn't been nigh nor by, sir, ever since."

"I will not believe it-for I cannot. Instinct in animals is not to be suppressed, and has its claims and laws from which it will not fail. The heart of man cannot do violence to itself. Love will never be restrained."

[ocr errors]
[blocks in formation]

overbold and impertinent, if I ask you of your circumstances? Are you provided for? Are you independent?"

"I have no reason to blush, sir, when I acknowledge to you, that I am at this moment relying for my bread upon the friendship and bounty of this kind person. My father has died insolvent, and I am without a home."

"Miss Harrington, you alarm and agitate me beyond expression! I was not prepared for this communicationit has taken me by surprise! This charitable lady must not go unrewarded. Take this from me," he said, addressing her, and placing a guinea in her hand, "not in payment of what you have done-no money could discharge that obligation—but as a testimonial, slight as it is, of your beneficent and unworldly conduct. And tell me, Miss Harrington, I beseech you, what is it that you propose to do?"

"To go to London without delay, and seek a situation."

"A situation! In heaven's name, as what?"

"I am not particular," I replied. "I can use my hands in many ways. I have no doubt that I shall meet with one to which I can accommodate myself without much difficulty or repugnance."

Mr Temple paced the room in great uneasiness of mind.

You

"No, no. I must not permit it," he said at length. "Fate has brought me here that I might arrogate to myself the right to act on your behalf which a brother has renounced. would sink under the degradation and indignities to which you are about to expose yourself. It must not be. I cannot allow it. Do not be hastydo not act without forethought and consideration. Permit me to consider for you. Surely there are many ways of providing for you suitably to your education and cultivated habits. I have many friends-they would be proud to serve you. Indeed, to whom would it not be an honour to save loveliness from contumely and insult?"

I am a woman. I was then a girl, by nature susceptible of flattery, and, from my cruel situation, unused to the accents of tenderness and respect. The terms in which Mr Temple addressed me, flattered and gently agitated, but did not displease me. I was grateful for the warm interest which

he evinced in favour of a friendless orphan; and his handsome, manly countenance, could not tend to diminish the impression that his generosity had wrought. My truant woman's heart already encouraged half-formed visions, the secret sight of which crimsoned my cheek, making it blush with fear and maiden shame. I endeavoured to dismiss them, but, alas! could I be insensible to the fact, which was apparent in every word he uttered? It was impossible to avoid the conviction, that a feeling deeper than that of ordinary philanthropy had been excited in his heart, and that I was an object of his passionate love no less than of his compassion. To have resolved to decline all favours at his hands at the moment of making this discovery, would have been the step of prudence and of duty. I did not take it. It was not that my vanity was gratified and my better judgment overborne. Loneliness and desertion, which stared me in the face, height ened and improved the hope that I would scarcely trust myself to entertain, and yet entertained with unbounded gratitude, towards the man who had inspired and emboldened it. It was difficult to find an answer to the tender entreaties of my kind adviser. In truth, I knew not what to say. I thanked him for his counsel, and acknowledged that I thought it well to act upon it-to delay my journey-and to consider well the many disadvantages that would accompany my sudden change of life. "If," I added in conclusion, " he could secure me the countenance and aid of his good friends in the prosecution of my object, he might feel assured that I would not willingly discredit his introduction."

"Do not talk so, Miss Harrington, I implore you," he replied. "You cannot conceive my agony and distress. To see you reduced to the necessity of labouring for your livelihood is more than I can calmly bear. Something must be done for you. I am so shocked by what I see and learn, that I find it hard to fix my thoughts. When I have recovered from the stupor, do not doubt but that I may devise some plan for your future life, that will be congenial to your tastes, and worthy the adoption of the best and fairest of her sex."

Mrs Wybrow, my simple-minded hostess, applied her white apron to

"Ah,

her eyes, and wept copiously. sir," said she, with feelings very much warmed, I fear, by the handsome present that she had received, "if all the young gentlemen in the world were like you, how different things would be! I am sure if Miss Harrington liked to live here for ever, she should be as welcome as the day is long. I have told her myself, that she is running too fast into this sort of thing; and as you say, sir, if she only waits a little, something may turn up quite congealed to her taste."

"Do you really not know where Frederick is?" asked Temple, after having kept silence for a time.

"I do not, indeed," I replied, and shuddered.

"Can you not guess ?"
"I cannot."

"Have you any reason to believe that he will soon return?"

"I believe," I answered, shedding bitter tears, "that I shall never see him more."

"I am resolved," said Temple, in a determined tone-moved to it, as I imagined, by witnessing my tears—“ I am resolved, Miss Harrington. I will go instantly to town, and see my friends. You cannot be in safer and in better company at present than with this kind and feeling lady. You shall shortly hear from me-sooner, perhaps, than you expect. I do not reckon too much on my influence and power, when I assure you that you shall be well provided for. The beginning of your life has not been happy. The end of it may be happiness to yourself, and to another".

He hesitated, and gazed at me expressively. I blushed, and bent my head.

Mr Temple remained in the cottage until a late hour in the evening, when he departed in a chaise which he had hired to convey him to the neighbouring market town. The favourable estimate which I had formed of his character did not suffer by his behaviour during the day that he passed with us. His conversation was agreeable and animated. He had a hundred subjects at command, of which I had never heard, and to which his appropriate language and his fervour gave a charm as resistless as it was injurious. Now he played with Mrs Wybrow's children, gave them pence, promised toys, submitted to be beaten, cried in joke, and per

« ZurückWeiter »