The time, I own, went very sluggishly on. I had no company but Amy and Isabel, and it was given out among the servants of noblemen and gentry that I was very much indisposed, for I thought it a very improper time either to receive or pay visits.
In this manner I lived till the month was up that my daughter was to come again to my lord, for although I went morning, noon, and night, into his apartment to see him, I seldom had a quarter of an hour's discourse with him, and oftentimes one of his valets would be sent to tell me his lord was busy, a little before the time I usually went, which I found was to prevent my going in to him, but this was only when he was in an ill humour, as his man called it.
Whether my lord used to make himself uneasy for want of mine or other company, I cannot tell, but the servants complained every day, as I heard by Amy, that his lordship ate little or nothing, and would sometimes shed tears when he sat down by himself to breakfast, dinner, or supper; and, indeed, I began to think that he looked very thin, his countenance grew pale, and that he had every other sign of a grieved or broken heart.
My daughter came to him one Monday morning, and stayed with him in his study near two hours. I wondered at the reason of it, but could guess at nothing certain; and at last she went away, but I fixed myself so as to see her as she passed by me, and she appeared to have a countenance full of satisfaction.
In the evening, when I went in as usual, he spoke to me in a freer style than he had done since our breach. "Well, madam" (for he had not used the words "my lady" at any time after my daughter's coming to our house), said he, "I think I have provided for your daughter." "As how, my lord, pray will you let me know?" said I. "Yes," replied he, "as I have reason to think you will be sorry to hear of her welfare in any shape, I will tell you. A gentleman who is going factor for the Dutch East India Company, on the coast of Malabar, I have recommended her to; and he, on my character and promise of a good fortune, will marry her very soon, for the Company's ships sail in about twelve days; so, in a fortnight, like a great many mothers as there are nowadays, you may rejoice at having got rid of one of your children, though you neither know where, how, or to whom."
Although I was very glad my lord spoke to me at all, and more especially so at my daughter's going to be married, and settling in the Indies, yet his words left so sharp a sting behind them as was exceeding troublesome to me to wear off. I did not dare venture to make any further inquiries, but was very glad of what I heard, and soon bidding my lord goodnight, went and found Amy, who was reading a play in the chamber.
I waited with the greatest impatience for this marriage; and when I found the day was fixed, I made bold to ask my lord if I should not be present in his chamber when the ceremony was performed. This favor was also denied me. I then asked my lord's chaplain to speak to him on that head, but he was deaf to his importunities, and bade him tell me that I very well knew his mind. The wedding was performed on a Wednesday evening, in my lord's presence, and he permitted nobody to be there but a sister of the bridegroom's, and Thomas (now my lord's secretary or chief clerk), who was brother to the bride, and who gave her away. They all supped together after the ceremony was over in the great dining-room, where the fortune was paid, which was £2000 (as I heard from Thomas afterwards), and the bonds for the performance of the marriage were redelivered.
Next morning my lord asked me if I was willing to see my daughter before she sailed to the Indies. "My lord," said I, "as the seeing of her was the occasion of this great breach that has happened between us, so if your lordship will let me have a sight of her and a reconciliation with you at the same time, there is nothing can be more desirable to me, or would more contribute to my happiness during the rest of my life."
"No, madam," says he, "I would have you see your daughter, to be reconciled to her, and give her your blessing (if a blessing can proceed from you) at parting; but our reconciliation will never be completed till one of us comes near the verge of life, if then; for I am a man that am never reconciled without ample amends, which is a thing that is not in your power to give, without you can alter the course of nature and recall time."
On hearing him declare himself so open, I told him that my curse instead of my blessing would pursue my daughter for being the author of all the mischiefs that had happened between us. "No, madam," said he, "if you had looked upon her as a daughter heretofore, I should have had no occasion to have had any breach with you. The whole fault lies at your own door; for whatever your griefs may inwardly be, I would have you recollect they were of your own choosing."