CHAPTER III.
CONTAINING SOME FURTHER ACCOUNT OF COLONEL AND MRS. BRANDON, AND OF THE EDUCATION OF THEIR SON REGINALD.
While the scene described in the last chapter was passing in the lawyer’s study, stormy and severe was the struggle going on in the breast of the listening father; more than once he had been on the point of rushing into the room to fold his child in his arms; but that obstinate pride, which causes in life so many bitter hours of regret, prevented him, and checked the natural impulse of affection: still, as she turned with her husband to leave the room, he unconsciously opened the door on the lock of which his hand rested, as he endeavoured to get one last look at a face which he had so long loved and caressed. The door being thus partially opened, a very diminutive and favourite spaniel, that accompanied him wherever he went, escaped through the aperture, and, recognising Lucy, barked and jumped upon her in an ecstasy of delight.
“Heavens!” cried she, “it is—it must be Fan!” At another time she would have fondly caressed it, but one only thought now occupied her: trembling on her husband’s arm, she whispered, “George, papa must be here.” At that moment her eye caught the partially opened door, which the agitated squire still held, and breaking from her husband, she flew as if by instinct into the adjacent room, and fell at her father’s feet.
Poor Mr. Perkins was now grievously disconcerted; and calling out, “This way, madam, this way; that is not the right door,” was about to follow, when George Brandon, laying his hand upon the lawyer’s arm, said, impressively,
“Stay, sir; that room is sacred!” and led him back to his chair. His quick mind had seized in a moment the correctness of Lucy’s conjecture, and his good feeling taught him that no third person, not even he, should intrude upon the father and the child.
The old squire could not make a long resistance when the gush of his once loved Lucy’s tears trickled upon his hand, and while her half–choked voice sobbed for his pardon and his blessing; it was in vain that he summoned all his pride, all his strength, all his anger; Nature would assert her rights; and in another minute his child’s head was on his bosom, and he whispered over her, “I forgive you, Lucy: may God bless you, as I do!”
For some time after this was the interview prolonged, and Lucy seemed to be pleading for some boon which she could not obtain; nevertheless, her tears, her old familiar childish caresses, had regained something of their former dominion over the choleric but warm–hearted squire; and in a voice of joy that thrilled even through the quiet man of law, she cried, “George! George, come in!” He leaped from his seat, and in a moment was at the feet of her father. There, as he knelt by Lucy’s side, the old squire put one hand upon the head of each, saying, “My children, all that you have ever done to offend me is forgotten: continue to love and to cherish each other, and may God prosper you with every blessing!” George Brandon’s heart was full: he could not speak; but straining his wife affectionately to his bosom, and kissing her father’s hand, he withdrew into a corner of the room, and for some minutes remained oppressed by emotions too strong to find relief in expressions.