CHAPTER X.—THE OLD MAN AND HIS DAUGHTER.
Jul. Good father, I beseech you on my knees,
Hear me with patience but to speak a word.
Cap. Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch!
I tell thee what—get thee to church o’ Thursday,
Or never after look me in the face.
Speak not, reply not, do not answer me.
Day, night, late, early,
At home, abroad, alone, in company,
Waking or sleeping, still my care hath been
To have her match’d: and having now provided
A gentleman of princely parentage,
Of fair demesnes, youthful and nobly trained,
Proportion’d as one’s heart would wish a man,—
And then to have a wretched puling fool,
A whining mammet, in her fortunes tender,
To answer—I’ll not wed—I cannot love—
I am too young—I pray you pardon me.
But, an’ you will not wed. Look to’t—think on’t—
I do not use to jest; Thursday is near—
An’ you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;
An’ you be not, hang, beg, starve, die i’ the streets;
For, by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee.
Jul. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds
That sees into the bottom of my grief!
Shakspere.
Wilton did not observe wherefore his daughter quitted his arm, and re-entered the breakfast-room. In all probability, if he had seen the little incident which followed, he would have taken no notice of it. He took again her proffered arm, and together they entered his library.
She arranged his easy chair—her frequent office—while he carefully fastened the door. Then, placing a chair for her, he motioned her to be seated.
She obeyed, gazing upon him with an expression of gradually dawning surprise.
“What can you possibly have to communicate to me in this retired, private manner, dear sir?” she exclaimed, expecting that the interview would result in the information that he had some present to make her—a pleasure he had frequently indulged in since his recent accession to wealth. Still there was an unusual expression in his air and manner that warranted a strange and uneasy foreboding that it would prove of greater importance and less pleasure than a mere present.
The old man gave a loud preparatory hem! to clear his voice, and then said, with a peculiar earnestness of tone—
“Flo’, my sweet one, during the struggling years of poverty to which we were together doomed, neither I nor your sainted mother—a-a-a-hem!—made any allusion, in your presence or in that of your brother, to the past affluence from which we were so harshly and unexpectedly thrust. Nor did we mention, at any time, the names of those with whom we associated or with whom we were on intimate or friendly terms. But there were many. Some are dead; some I do not wish to renew relations with; others I may shortly invite here, that I may have the joy of seeing the old hall brightened up with the loved faces of happier times. To come, however, to the point and purport of this interview, I must tell you that there was one friend to whom I was greatly attached He was the playmate of my childhood, the school companion of my boyhood, and my friend in after years. His name was Montague Vane of Weardale. You heard me, I think, on meeting with the Honorable Lester Vane in London, name him in terms indicating the high esteem in which I held him.”
Flora’s attention began to be riveted, and her wonder at the coming revelation to increase. She could not trust herself to speak. She merely bowed.
“Well,” continued Wilton, “our friendship was so single-hearted and unselfish—as we each many times proved it to he—that we determined, on both contracting alliances, to draw that friendship yet closer by cementing, if Providence permitted us, a union between our families.”
Flora felt the colour stealing from her cheeks, and she could hear the beating of her heart.
She watched, with intense eagerness, the half-thoughtful, half-abstracted expression her father’s features wore while speaking, and she remained wholly silent, awaiting what was yet to come.
Her father went on——-
“Yes, if Heaven blessed us with children of opposite sex, we made a solemn compact, to betroth them, that in due time they might wed each other.”
Flora became paler than marble, and a dizziness seemed to take possession of her so that she could scarcely preserve her equilibrium. Her father did not observe her, but went on, with the same thoughtful manner as before.
“Heaven denied him family,” he continued.
Flora breathed again.
“But I was more blessed—” he proceeded, “you were born. Almost immediately afterwards the wife of Montague Vane breathed her last. Her death was sudden, and the shock to my friend appeared to be irrecoverable. Our compact would thus have fallen through, but that he urged and entreated me to permit him to nominate the son of his elder brother, Lord Colborne, instead of the child he had hoped would have handed down his name. I assented, and each solemnly vowed to visit with our lasting displeasure and irreconcilable hostility, either of the children attempting to frustrate our compact by wilful and obstinate disobedience.”
“Cruel! cruel!” muttered Flora, overwhelmed with agony, at what had just been communicated to her.
Still, her father had not turned his eyes upon her to observe the effect this startling intelligence would naturally have, but continued addressing her.
“It is a singular coincidence,” he said, “that young Grahame—whose father, by the way, has written to propose for your hand for his son—ho! ho! I have declined that honour—I say it is singular that young Grahame should, by accident, introduce to me and to you the son of Lord Colborne, who, as you may surmise, is that young Vane to whom, in your infancy, I contracted you. Yet more singular, for these events generally turn out the reverse of what is intended or desired, Mr. Vane declares himself most strongly and passionately attached to you, and that it will be to him the proudest and happiest event that has happened or can happen in his life, when you bestow your hand upon him. We talked the matter over for some length of time last night, after you had retired. I have no reason to doubt the ardour of his affection for you, or that he will make it the study of his future life to render your happiness perfect and complete. He will be a lord some day, you know, and thus the humble daughter of the poor old gilder will be ‘a lady and ride her Barbary courser yet.’”
It would be wholly impossible to attempt to depict the horror and amazement of Flora, on receiving this announcement of the disposal of her hand and person. She sat utterly aghast. The dreams of the previous night, and at the golden dawn, were at one blow rudely shattered. Her father had always been so gentle in his tenderness to her; so mindful of her wishes and inclinings; so overjoyed to gratify them; so careful not to thwart them, that though a strange, unbidden impression had obtruded itself in her felicitous daydreams that he might object to her love for Hal Vivian, yet she felt that he was so devotedly fond of her, he would not be able to withstand her fond and earnest pleadings in Hal’s favour.
Such a contingency as this which he submitted to her she could not, by any possibility, have surmised; thought was absolutely paralysed. She knew not what to say, how to act, for what to prepare: in short, she was completely confounded, bewildered—ready to die with fright and grief.
Even now, Wilton had not raised his eyes to catch the expression of his daughter’s face. He was not without a consciousness that he was exercising a stretch of parental authority beyond its just limits, and he began to have a perception that it would be a great relief to him if he were to feel his daughter’s white arms entwining his neck, her soft lips pressing upon his forehead, as they uttered, in a low whisper, her assent to do as he wished her. But she made no sign, and he had a distinct sense that she did not.
“I sought this interview with you, Flo’, my darling,” he continued, with a slight cough, “because I thought, before you formed for yourself an attachment, you should know my position and your own, in respect to the disposal of your hand; also, because the young man to whom you are betrothed is in the house; and because, further, he is urgent to plead his own cause, to do which, of course, I have granted him full permission. You must expect to hear from his lips the soft language of affection, to think of him with tenderness, and always to remember that he will be your future husband.”
“Father!” burst from the lips of the unhappy girl. Sobbing hysterically, she flung herself at his feet, and clasped his knees.
Wilton did not expect this display. He had been surprised at her silence, and a feeling crept over him that she did not receive the revelation he made with her usual deference to any expression of his will, but he did not look for a weeping suppliant at his feet.
He started back and cried amazed:
“Flo’—Flo’—my child! why do you act thus?—what is the meaning of this affrighted sorrow?”
“Spare me—in mercy spare me!” she gasped. “Do not let me leave you; pray—pray—do not urge your proposition upon me!”
“My foolish girl,” he replied, soothingly, “we shall not separate. You will still be beneath this roof with me. Oh! believe me, I stipulated for that. There—there, Flo’—dry your tears; you can be a happy wife as well as a fond daughter.”
“No! no! no!” she exclaimed, with shuddering vehemence; “I cannot—I cannot—I dare not!” she half shrieked.
“Dare not!” echoed her father, elevating his eyebrows with wonder, almost with terror. “Your words are a mystery to me—your conduct inexplicable! What is the meaning of it all?”
“I cannot—oh! I cannot receive Mr. Vane’s addresses!” she exclaimed, almost frantically.
“Flora, this is but childish absurdity; unless you have some grave complaint to make to me against Mr. Vane,” said her father, with a slight sternness of manner. “Has he done aught to give you offence?”
“No,” she replied, in a faint tone.
“Is there aught in his appearance or manner to create aversion in your breast?” he inquired.
“It is not that,” she returned—“it is not that!” She paused.
“What is it?” inquired her father. “Rise, Flora; your position does not become the relation in which we stand to each other. Be seated; be composed and calm. Tell me where lies your objection to Mr. Vane?”
She rose up slowly, and stood before her father. She pressed her hand upon her throat to subdue its spasmodic heavings.
“I do not love him!” she ejaculated, almost inaudibly.
“I can well believe that,” returned her father, gently. “Your acquaintance has been short. People don’t, out of romances, and in the actual world, fall in love with each other the instant they meet. It takes time and observation, besides many little nameless charms, to raise love. At present you have not—you cannot have anything to say against the personal appearance of Mr. Lester Vane; he is gentlemanly in his manners, honourable in his sentiments, and in his disposition amiable and kind. I judge so from what I have seen. These are endearing qualities; and when you are thrown more into each other’s society—when he yet more softens his manner in his wooing, and consults your wishes and tastes, makes your will his, and shows to you that he has no greater earthly bliss than that afforded him in seeing you happy; when you come to observe this, and to appreciate it—then, then you will begin to love him.”
“Never,” cried Flora, emphatically.
“I say, yes,” responded Mr. Wilton, with sharp emphasis. “‘Dropping water wears away stone.’ You will receive him on probation; you cannot remain ice-cold to many and constant kindnesses—it is not your nature to do so; and when you find yourself growing grateful, you will find love creeping into your heart to keep it company.”
She had found it.
“I implore you, sir, to spare me from an ordeal agonising to me, and utterly useless and hopeless in its result to the person for whom it is appointed,” she rejoined, with extreme earnestness; “I never can love Mr. Vane.”
“Why not?” cried her father, in a more excited tone than he had yet used; and now regarding the expression on her face with startled wonder. He had never before seen it so aroused, or such a strange gleam flashing from her eye.
She spoke not in answer to this question.
“Why not, I ask?” he cried, loudly and harshly. “I see by your manner that you imply a motive for that assertion. Again, I ask you, why not?”
She struggled passionately with her emotions. She wrung her hands, and looked about her almost piteously for some aid or help by which she might escape from answering this question.
“Speak!” he thundered, animated by a rage she had never yet seen him display. It seemed gradually to change her to stone. She drew herself gently up, crossed her hands over her breast, closed her eyes, and said in a low, but clear, firm voice. “I love already—another!”
Wilton, who in his excitement, had risen angrily from his feet, now staggered back, and sank into his chair, like one smitten with paralysis.
He pressed his hands over his forehead, upon which stood large drops of perspiration. Suddenly he raised his head, and cried hoarsely—
“It is impossible! it is a subterfuge; it is—but if it were true, girl, I have—years, years ago—registered a vow.”
“And I!” she exclaimed, hysterically, “unknowing what you had done, I, too, have registered a vow with Heaven. I may not—cannot—will not—break it.” With a loud sobbing cry, she ran from the room, and sought her own, plunged into a deeper grief than any yet known by her, although she had suffered much.
She saw that she was to be torn from Hal, and her heart clung to him only the more vehemently. Now she knew, indeed, that she loved him; now she experienced in its fullest force how entirely he was enwoven with all her hopes of future happiness; she knew it, too, at the moment that she was to be robbed of him, perhaps for ever.
She gave way to the wildest emotions of sorrow; she flung herself by her bedside upon her knees, and called upon God to help her in her distraction. She pictured Lester Vane approaching her, stealing his arm, snakelike, about her waist, and his hot breath reeking on her cheek. She shuddered, and shrieked.
“How may I help myself?” she gasped. “How! how! how! Oh! I am so alone—so alone—none to counsel me—what am I to do? how save myself from this fate? Oh, Hal! Hal! had you but let me perish in the blistering flames. I shall go mad! I shall go mad!”
She sank, as she in acute agony vehemently ejaculated these words, prostrate upon the floor, in abject despair, and almost senseless.
Wilton remained for some time alone in his library, overwhelmed by the result of his interview with his daughter. A project he had nursed for years, even in his destitution, and especially in his affluence, was destroyed from the quarter in which he least expected to meet with opposition. He was foiled, too, by an event upon which he had not calculated.
Flora in love! With whom?—with whom? ah! that was the point. Who had won her young susceptible heart? Of young Vivian he never thought. It was but the other day he was a mere youth; his figure did not, therefore, now present itself to his inquiring eyes. Was it young Grahame? His father had written to propose the match, but where had they met? Then, too, he was vulgar and foolish. No, no; he gave Flora’s taste more credit. Who was there else? no one—save Mires.
The old man stopped in his walk.
“Can he have taken the opportunity of being my guest, to gain her simple heart?” he muttered, with a fierce and angry gesture. “Can he possibly have done this? He may—he is subtle and insinuating; if he has, he shall never have her—never. It may be that I have hit the truth in this surmise, but I will be sure; I will question him, and from his own lips learn the truth.” He rang his bell violently, and a servant answered him.
“Seek Colonel Mires,” he said, sharply; “say to him that when he is at liberty, I should be glad of a few minutes’ conversation with him here in the library.”
The man disappeared with a bow, and performed his errand.
An hour probably elapsed, during which Wilton was eaten up with anxiety, and a thousand distracting and inexact surmises. He was about again to summon his servant, to request the presence of his guest, when Colonel Mires made his appearance.
Wilton made a sharp and curt remark upon the engagement which had so long detained him from complying with his request for an interview, but he expressed his gratification that it had not wholly prevented him from presenting himself.
The Colonel saw that something had happened, and excused himself by stating that the servant who had conveyed to him the message, had given him no intimation that Wilton desired the interview to be immediate.
“As it is calculated to have a material influence upon my future peace, it is one which cannot commence too early, nor close too soon,” Wilton exclaimed, as he motioned Colonel Mires to a seat, which he accepted. Wilton then proceeded—
“I have a daughter, Colonel Mires, almost at a marriageable age.”
Colonel Mires’ face flushed crimson, as Wilton’s bright eye met his. He only bowed, however, wondering what this observation was to prelude, especially as he could see that the old man was trembling with strong excitement.
“That daughter, as you are aware, Colonel Mires,” continued Wilton, “is my favourite child, the gift of wedded love, the most beautiful among her sex—the ‘Flower of my Flock.’ I had designed a certain position for her. I had bound myself to its fulfilment by a vow. I have through the greatest trials and worst vicissitudes cherished it, and now, when upon the verge of its consummation, I find my purpose retarded, flung back by an event as unlooked for as it is most untoward.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Yes, sir, indeed. Mark me, Colonel Mires, I am fully acquainted with my daughter’s temperament, her inclinings, every phase of her gentle disposition; I am fully convinced that she has no guile, would not cast about her to find a man to love, to bestow her heart upon, in the ultimate hope of following up the gift with that of her hand. It is not her nature; she must be wooed to be won.”
“That I believe,” exclaimed Colonel Mires, with some little emphasis.
“Of course,” responded Wilton. “Now let me inform you, sir, if you know it not already, she has been wooed, sir, and won; surreptitiously wooed, and stealthily, fraudulently won.”
The face of Colonel Mires changed colour like a chameleon; he knitted his brows, and bent an almost fierce gaze upon Wilton.
“Have you strong reasons, sir, for forming this strange conclusion?” he inquired.
“Oh, Colonel!” rejoined Wilton, with an expressive gesture, “the very best; I have it on the authority of the lady herself.”
An oath escaped the lips of the Colonel. He rose and paced the room in visible agitation. When he had somewhat controlled his emotion, he returned to his seat, and confronting Wilton, he said—
“Will you tell me, sir, who has thus acted?”
“That is what I wish to know,” exclaimed Wilton, striking the palm of his hand with his clenched fist; “the lady omitted that very important item in her confession. I sent for you under an impression that you were the very man who could supply that valuable piece of information.”
Colonel Mires was bursting to ask for the circumstances which led to this confession on the part of Flora. He could easily understand that it must have arisen from a proposition made by her father to her, extremely repugnant to her feelings. He had an instinctive sense that he was not the object of her father’s choice, and he was at least glad that Flora had rejected the proposed husband, whoever he might be.
It was not difficult for him at the same time to form a shrewd guess at the person Flora had acknowledged loving. From the frame of mind in which Wilton was at present, he foresaw that it would be easy to ruin the successful rival in Wilton’s estimation at once, and, as he believed, for ever; he therefore instantly resolved to attempt it.
“Have you formed no surmise identifying the person who has inveigled your daughter’s affections?” he asked. “I have” replied Wilton, drily.
“May I ask who it is?”
“I prefer hearing your communication first,” responded Wilton, in the same hard manner.
“I think I can show him to you, and at this moment,” exclaimed Mires, rising.
“I am afraid that I expect you can,” returned Wilton, growing more stern, severe, and cold in his manner.
“Attend me, if you please,” observed Mires; noticing the distant manner of his host.
He advanced to the centre window, which looked out upon the terrace beneath. He motioned to Wilton to gaze below. He pointed out Hal Vivian, who stood in an attitude of melancholy abstraction, his gaze seemingly fixed upon the beautiful landscape, stretching away to the horizon.
“That is the man,” he exclaimed, emphatically.
Wilton gazed upon him with distended orbs, and then gave utterance to a wild laugh of incredulity.
“Preposterous!” he exclaimed.
“Unquestionably,” remarked Mires; “but it yet is the fact.”
Old Wilton pressed his hands to his temples, and tried to look back upon the past. The effort helped him to no solution of the enigma. That his daughter should have fallen in love with the goldsmith’s apprentice seemed incredible; but when he came to remember that he had saved her life, had been able to pay her many most acceptable attentions when she was in misery and distress, he began to believe that there might be something in it after all.
He staggered rather than walked to his seat, and, pressing his hands again over his brow, once more went over the scenes in which, under his eye, they had taken part together. There was not enough to satisfy him yet that the Colonel’s assertion could be true.
He turned sharply to him.
“Pray inform me, Colonel,” he said, “how you came to alight upon this discovery?”
The Colonel shrugged his shoulders.
“I had a shrewd notion of it from the first,” he returned. “I observed his conduct when visiting you at the Regent’s Park. I detected his artful duplicity immediately after I had been, as your guest, called upon to endure his company. I noticed his obsequious deference to you, his readiness to coincide with your views, and to assent, without reflection, to all you said.”
“I did not observe that,” remarked Wilton, thoughtfully.
“No,” replied Colonel Mires; “nor did you notice his marked, though quiet, attentions to your daughter; his incessant gaze upon her eyes when she was present; his subdued, yet devoted, bearing to her; the cunning manner in which he turned every word from her lips into an acknowledgment of love, or asked for grateful remembrances of an act which the Royal Society’s fire-escape conductor would have done much better, and have expected scarcely scanty thanks for the able performance of his duty. You did not observe how he foisted his society upon her at every turn, because you never dreamed that he would be guilty of such presumption, any more than you could have any conception that he had induced her to consent to clandestine meetings, or of the number of such interviews which have taken place.”
Old Wilton sprang to his feet, with a howl of wounded rage and pride.
“Colonel Mires, this is a most grave charge,” he cried, with foaming lips. “It is one that compromises my daughter’s fair fame, as well as the honour of young Mr. Vivian, of whom, until you have spoken concerning him, I have heard nothing but what redounds to his credit.”
Colonel Mires sneered.
“Praises, in fact,” he said, “which have been prepared for your ears. Do not misapprehend me, Mr. Wilton,” he continued, hastily; “I have no intention or design to compromise the fair fame of Miss Wilton. She is too pure, too ingenuous and artless for any charge having such object, to be sustained. But her simple guileless nature lays her open to the designs of an unprincipled adventurer, who, by adventitious circumstances, has obtained some influence over her, and she might be induced to consent to an interview artfully suggested, and ardently pressed, without having, in her simplicity, any notion that her assent would bear a construction unfavourable to her—to any lady acting in the same manner, under similar influence.”
Mr. Wilton waved his hand sternly.
“Let us keep to facts, Colonel,” he said. “You are now charging upon my daughter and Mr. Vivian the grave impropriety of indulging in clandestine interviews—are you prepared with proofs?”
“I can speak to one having occurred yesterday,” replied Colonel Mires.
“Yesterday!” echoed Wilton. “You are mistaken, you must he. Vivian did not arrive from London until to-day—that is, at least—are you sure of what you assert?”
“I saw him in your park yesterday—let him deny it if he dare.”
“Colonel Mires, I must see this matter to the end. I will send for Mr. Vivian, this moment, and interrogate him—and in your presence.”
“As you will,” returned Mires, coolly.
Mr. Wilton rang the hell sharply, and when the servant answered the summons, he said—
“You will find in the garden my guest, Mr. Vivian, ask him to attend me here immediately. Say that I have something of importance to confer with him upon.” The man disappeared, and, in a few minutes, young Vivian was ushered into the library. He started on seeing Colonel Mires, and he turned his eyes upon the flushed and excited countenance of old Wilton. The scene between himself and Flora, in the glen, on the day preceding, flashed across his mind, and instantly a grim foreshadowing of what was to come passed like a gloomy cloud over his brain.
Wilton’s manner was grave, cold, even harsh. Colonel Mires met him with an insulting but triumphant curl of the lip, which Hal retorted with a glance of scorn and defiance.
“Mr. Vivian,” commenced Wilton, his voice trembling in his eagerness to come at the truth, “I am given to understand that you have designs upon the affections of my daughter, Miss Wilton—that you have prosecuted those designs with secrecy and subtlety, and, by mean artifices, have in some degree succeeded in your unworthy purpose——”
“Mr. Wilton—sir!” interrupted Hal, in a voice which startled him, “are you conscious of the nature of the words you are addressing to me? Mean artifices!—unworthy purpose! This is bitter language, sir, which I do not deserve, and most indignantly repudiate!”
“Listen to me!” rejoined Mr. Wilton, with an imperious manner.
“With respect,” responded Hal; “but at the same time, I must insist, sir, in addressing me you do not employ terms derogatory to my honour!”
Colonel Mires laughed scornfully.
Hal turned fiercely to him.
“Our day of reckoning is to come,” he exclaimed; “it is unnecessary for you to add to your obligations.” Then again turning to Mr. Wilton, he continued—
“I presume, sir, that I have been brought here as a delinquent placed upon his trial—that you will enact the parts of judge and jury, and this man will be the counsel for the prosecution, the witness, and will offer the whole of the evidence. Be it so—proceed with your charges, I will not utter one word until you have both finished, I shall then reply to the allegations; and; of this be assured; sir, that I shall not now, any more than I have ever done, swerve from the truth, be the consequences what they may to myself.”
Hal kept his promise; not a word was extorted from him by the wild suppositions of Wilton, or by the insults, the taunts, or the base insinuations of Colonel Mires; but at last when Wilton called upon him for his answer, he had discovered that, although Flora had confessed to having disposed of her heart, she had not stated to whom; that all that had been produced against himself were the suppositions of the old man, or suggestions of the bitter enemy before him. Even the accidental interview of the day before, so strongly referred to, rested only on Colonel Mires’ statement of having seen Flora and himself emerge successively from the glen; and he perceived that if he chose to keep his mouth sealed, the main features of the charge would hang upon the veracity of the Colonel, respecting which it was certain that Mr. Wilton did not entertain the most exalted notions. He, however, resolved to free Flora from the faintest breath of imputation, and to acknowledge just so much—with regard to their mutual passion—as the turn his own defence and explanations might eliminate, and no more.
Had the course adopted to examine him been what it ought to have been, he would not have concealed an incident; as it was, he determined to reserve as much as he could, from Colonel Mires, at least.
Before, however, he could speak, the library door was flung open, and the servant announced in a loud voice—
“Mr. Mark Wilton.”