“No matter,” resumed Val, “their sufferings in this life it would end, and so I should no longer be either eye-witness or ear-witness of their destitution and miseries. I would see them, Phil, without house or home—without a friend on earth—without raiment, without food—ragged, starved—starved out of their very virtues—despised, spat upon, and trampled on by all! To these, Phil, I thought to have added shame—shame; but we failed—we have failed.”
“No,” replied Phil, “I give you my word, we did not.”
“We did, sir,” said the father; “Harman and she are now reconciled, and this is enough for the people, who loved her. Yes, by heavens, we have failed.” Val sat, or almost dropped on a chair as he spoke, for he had been pacing through the parlor until now; and putting his two hands over his face, he sobbed out—groaned even with agony—until the tears literally gushed in torrents through his fingers. “I thought to have added shame to all I shall make them suffer,” he exclaimed; “but in that I am frustrated.” He here naturally clenched his hands and gnashed his teeth, like a man in the last stage of madness.
On removing his hands, too, his face, now terribly distorted out of its lineaments by the convulsive workings of this tremendous passion, presented an appearance which one might rather suppose to have been shaped in hell, so unnaturally savage and diabolical were all its outlines.
Phil, who had sat down at the same time, with his face to the back of the chair, on which his two hands were placed, supporting his chin, kept his beautiful eyes, seated as he was in that graceful attitude, fixed upon his father with a good deal of surprise. Indeed it would be a difficult thing, considering their character and situation, to find two countenances more beautifully expressive of their respective dispositions. If one could conceive the existence of any such thing as a moral looking-glass placed between them, it might naturally be supposed that Val, in looking at Phil, saw himself; and that Phil in his virtuous father's face also saw his own. The son's face and character, however, had considerably the advantage over his father's. Val's presented merely what you felt you must hate, even to abhorrence; but the son's, that which you felt to be despicable besides, and yet more detestable still.
“Well,” said Phil, “all I can say is, that upon my honor, my worthy father, I don't think you shine at the pathetic. Damn it, be a man, and don't snivel in that manner, just like a furious drunken woman, when she can't get at another drunken woman who is her enemy. Surely if we failed, it wasn't our faults; but I think I can console you so far as to say we did not fail. It's not such an easy thing to suppress scandal, especially if it happens to be a lie, as it is in the present case.”
“Ah,” said the father with bitterness, “it was all your fault, you ill-looking Bubber-lien. (*An ignorant, awkward booby.) At your age, your grandfather would not have had to complain of want of success.”
“Come, M'Clutchy—I'll not bear this—it's cursed ungenerous in you, when you know devilish well how successful I have been on the property.”
“Ay,” said Val, “and what was the cause of that? Was it not merely among those who were under our thumb—the poor and the struggling, who fell in consequence of your threats, and therefore through fear of us only; but when higher game and vengeful purposes were in view, see what a miserable hand you made of it. I tell you, Phil, if I were to live through a whole eternity, I could never forgive M'Loughlin the triumph that his eye had over me in Castle Cumber Fair. I felt that he looked through me—that he saw as clearly into my very heart, as you would of a summer day into a glass beehive. My eye quailed before him—my brow fell; but then—well—no matter; I have him now—ho, ho, I have him now!”
“I wonder the cars and carts are not coming before now,” observed Phil, “to take away the furniture, and other valuables.”