Paying no attention to this, which, however, made his blood boil, he turned to the old gentleman, saying, "You surely cannot be in earnest in trying to separate your daughter and myself. Your deceased wife was my friend; and she as well as yourself gave a ready consent to our union." In the midst of his wrath Squire Lee was a little softened by the tone and manner of the young man, as well as by the mention of his wife, whom he had loved next to himself. He was about to speak more kindly, when Joseph, perceiving his intention, interrupted him.
"Lucy Lee will be an heiress; no wonder you are loath to give up her wealth."
Allen turned deadly pale from suppressed emotion, but controlling his feelings, said, "Squire Lee, I ask again the hand of your daughter. I will gladly take her without one farthing of your hoarded wealth."
Joseph whispered something in his father's ear, who replied, "all very fine, young man—very fine talk" (hiccough) "indeed; but you—can't have her. You see" (hiccough) "we've," with a cunning look at Joseph, "other views for her."
Allen could contain himself no longer, and in a terrible voice denounced both father and son as inhuman and brutal in their conduct. "The time will surely come," he added, "when you will bitterly regret your cruelty toward her, and your abuse of me."
Were these prophetic words?
Joseph, who was beside himself with rage, flew at Allen, and aimed a violent blow at his head, which the young man dexterously warded off.
Poor Lucy, who had been attracted by the noise below, sprang from her bed, and having thrown on a loose robe, rushed wildly into the room. All stood for one moment speechless with astonishment at her presence, and frightful pallor. She threw herself at her father's feet, begging him not to break her heart. She frantically invoked the spirit of her departed mother to intercede for her, but alas! to no effect. Squire Lee sat motionless while Joseph in a fury rang the bell, and said to the porter, "turn that rascal out of the house."
Allen, seeing there was no hope for him or his dearly beloved Lucy, suddenly caught her in his arms, held her for one brief moment to his breast, bade her farewell, and left the house. There was a sincerity in his grief, a dignity in his manner, which made even the hard hearts of both brother and father quail.
Here at Emily's request, Lucy continued the narrative. "I cannot remember what immediately followed; but when I recovered my consciousness, I was in my own room. Mrs. Burns the house-keeper, almost my only friend and confidant, stood bathing my hands and face. From that time I gave up all hope of happiness with Allen, though he has never ceased to write me the most tender letters, urging me not to despair, but to hope on, and hope ever."