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