“Dear father,” answered Lucy, colouring yet more deeply; “though it were possible that Ethelston, in the presence of greater attractions, may have yielded to them his affections, and withdrawn them from one who had hoped to possess and treasure them for life,—though this may be possible, it is not possible that he should be guilty of a violation of the laws of hospitality and honour, such as that slanderous paper lays to his charge. Promise me, dearest father, to suspend your belief, and never to speak on this subject again, until it is God’s pleasure that the truth shall be brought to light.”
“I promise you, my sweet child,” said her father; “and may that merciful Being grant that your trust be not disappointed!”
“I have no fears,” said Lucy; and, as she spoke, her eyes beamed with that full undoubting love such as can only be felt by one who has never known what it is to deceive or to be deceived.
Days and weeks passed on without any intelligence of Ethelston; and while the fears of Colonel Brandon became more confirmed, the agony of suspense and the sickness of deferred hope began to prey upon the spirits of his daughter: she never alluded to the forbidden subject; but her nervous anxiety, when the weekly letter–bag was opened, clearly showed that it was ever in her mind: nevertheless she continued her occasional excursions to Marietta, and visited, as usual, those around Mooshanne who were sick or in distress; so that neither her mother nor Aunt Mary detected the anxiety by which she was tortured. One evening, half an hour before sunset, as the family party were seated at their simple supper, the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard approaching at full speed, from which the rider dismounted, and, lifting the latch of the unlocked door, entered the house. Traversing the vestibule with hasty strides, and apparently guided by instinct to the apartment in which the family were assembled, he threw open the door, and Ethelston stood before the astonished party. His countenance was haggard from fatigue and exposure to the sun, and his whole appearance indicated exhaustion. Lucy turned deadly pale, and Colonel Brandon’s constrained manner, as he rose from his chair, must have convinced the new comer that his return was productive of other feelings than those of unmingled pleasure. He was moving, however, a few steps forward to pay his first respects to Mrs. Brandon, when the Colonel, touching him lightly on the arm, said, “Mr. Ethelston, I must crave a few words with you in the adjoining room.”
Hitherto Lucy had remained silent, with her eyes fixed intently on Ethelston’s countenance; he returned her look with one as long and fixed: the expression of his eyes was mournful, rather than joyous, but there was no trace of uneasiness or of shame. Springing from her seat, she placed her hand imploringly on the Colonel’s arm saying,
“Dear father, I told you so from the first,—I knew it always—I read it now plain as the sun in heaven,—that vile letter was a string of falsehoods;—he is returned as he left us, with an untarnished honour.”
“Thank you, dear Lucy,” said Ethelston, advancing and pressing her extended hands to his lips: “blessings on that trusting affection which has rendered it impossible for you to believe aught to the prejudice of one on whom you have deigned to fix it. Colonel Brandon,” he continued, “I can guess how you have been misled, and appearances were for a short time so much against me, that I acquit of all intentional malice those who have misled you. Judge for yourself whether, if I were stained by the crime of which I have been accused, I could now ask, on my bended knee, for the blessing of you, my second father, and thus hold in mine, as I dare to do, the hand of your pure, trusting, and beloved child.”
There was a truth in every tone of his voice, and a convincing dignity in his manner, that swept away all doubts like a torrent. The Colonel embraced him with cordial affection; Aunt Mary kissed her favourite nephew over and over again; Mrs. Brandon wept tears of joy on his neck; and Lucy was so overpowered by delight, that she was perhaps scarcely conscious of all that passed around.
After they were in some degree recovered from their emotion, and had pressed Ethelston to take some refreshment, he said to the Colonel, “Now I am prepared to give you an account of my adventures, and to explain those circumstances that led to the misunderstanding under which you have so long laboured.”
“Not a word—not a word will I hear of explanation to–night, my dear boy,” replied the Colonel. “I am already ashamed that I have not shown the same undoubting confidence in your rectitude, both of purpose and conduct, that has been evinced from first to last by Lucy. You are weary and exhausted; the agitation of this scene has been trying to all of us; we will defer your narrative until to–morrow. Our first duty this evening is to return our thanks to Providence for having protected you through all danger, and restored you safe to the comforts of home.”