"Can it be that I have found a daughter? Yes! in those lovely features I trace the living semblance of my beloved Rosalie. Where is she, my child? Where is your angel mother, whom I have sought sorrowing so many years? They tell me that you are married,—that it is your husband who watches you with such jealous scrutiny. He must not know who I am. I am a reckless, desperate man. It would be dangerous to us both to meet. Guard my secret as you expect to find your grave peaceful, your eternity free from remorse. When can I see you alone? Where can I meet you? I am in danger, distress,—ruin and death are hanging over me,—I must flee from the city; but I must see you, my child, my sweet, my darling Gabriella. I must learn the fate of my lost Rosalie.
"The curtain falls,—I dare not write more. Walk in the —— Park to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, where I will wait your coming. Come alone,—I ask only a few moments. A father pleads with his child! As you hope for an answer to your dying prayers, come, child of my Rosalie,—child of my own sad heart."
Once,—twice,—thrice I read these lines,—the death-warrant of my wedded peace. How could I resist so solemn an appeal, without violating the commands of a dying mother? How could I meet him, without incurring the displeasure of my husband? What possibility was there of my leaving home alone, when Ernest scarcely ever left me; when, after his return, if he chanced to go out, he always asked me how I had passed the time of his absence? How could I preserve outward composure, with such a secret burning in my heart? A sigh, involuntarily breathed,—a tear, forcing its way beneath the quivering lash, would expose me to suspicion and distress. What could I, should I do? I was alone, now; and I yielded momentarily to an agony of apprehension, that almost drove me mad. On one side, a guilty, ruined parent; on the other, a jealous husband, whose anger was to me a consuming fire. No, no; I could never expose myself again to that. I trembled at the recollection of those pale, inflexible features, and that eye of stormy splendor. The lightning bolt was less terrible and scathing. Yet, to turn a deaf ear to a father's prayer; to disregard a mother's injunction; to incur, perhaps, the guilt of parricide; to hazard the judgments of the Almighty;—how awful the alternative!
I sank down on my knees, and laid my head on the marble slab on which I had been seated. I tried to pray; but hysterical sobs choked my words.
"Have pity upon me, O my heavenly Father!" at length I exclaimed, raising my clasped hands to heaven. "Have pity upon me, and direct me in the right path. Give me courage to do right, and leave the result unto Thee. I float on a stormy current, without pilot or helm. I sink beneath the whelming billows. Help, Lord! or I perish!"
Before I rose from my knees, it seemed as if invisible arms surrounded me,—bearing me up, above the dark and troubled waters. I felt as if God would open a way for me to walk in; and I resolved to leave the event in his hands. Had I applied to an earthly counsellor, with wisdom to direct, they might have told me, that one who had been guilty of the crime my father had committed, had forfeited every claim on a daughter's heart. That I had no right to endanger a husband's happiness, or to sacrifice my own peace, in consequence of his rash demand. No instinctive attraction drew me to this mysterious man. Instead of the yearnings of filial affection, I felt for him an unconquerable repugnance. His letter touched me, but his countenance repelled. His bold, unreceding eye;—not thus should a father gaze upon his child.
Upon what apparent trifles the events of our life sometimes depend! At the breakfast table, Madge suddenly asked what day of the month it was.
Then I remembered that it was the day appointed for a meeting of the ladies composing a benevolent association, of which I had been lately made a member. After the conversation with Ernest, in which I had expressed such an anxiety to do good, he had supplied me bountifully with means, so that my purse was literally overflowing. I had met the society once, and had gone alone. The hour of the meeting was ten. What a coincidence! Was Providence opening a way in which my doubting feet should walk? When I mentioned the day of the month, I added,
"Our Society for the Relief of Invalid Seamstresses meets this morning. I had forgotten it, till your question reminded me that this was the day."
"Do not your coffers need replenishing, fair Lady Bountiful?" asked Ernest. "This is an association founded on principles which I revere. If any class of females merit the sympathy and kind offices of the generous sisterhood, it is that, whose services are so ill repaid, and whose lives must be one long drawn sigh of weariness and anxiety. Give, my Gabriella, to your heart's content; and if one pale cheek is colored with the glow of hope, one dim eye lighted with joy, something will be added to the sum of human happiness."