“Unhappy and miserable old man,” she exclaimed, with tears, “what have you done? Look at the condition of your only child, whom you have murdered. She is now a maniac.”
“What,” he exclaimed, rushing to her, “what, what is this? What do you mean? Helen, my darling, my child—my delight—what is wrong with you? Recollect yourself, my dearest treasure. Do you not know me, your own father? Oh, Helen, Helen! for the love of God speak to me. Say you know me—call me father—rouse yourself—recollect me—don't you know who I am?”
There, however, was the frightfully vacant glance, but no reply.
“Oh,” said she, in a low, calm voice, “where is William Reilly? They have taken me from him, and I cannot find him; bring me to William Reilly.”
“Don't you know me, Helen? don't you know your loving father? Oh, speak to me, child of my heart! speak but one word as a proof that you know me.”
She looked on him, but that look filled his heart with unutterable anguish; he clasped her to that heart, he kissed her lips, he strove to soothe and console her—but in vain. There was the vacant but unsettled eye, from which the bright expression of reason was gone; but no recognition—no spark of reflection or conscious thought—nothing but the melancholy inquiry from those beautiful lips of—“Where's William Reilly? They have taken me from him—and will not allow me to see him. Oh, bring me to William Reilly!”
“Oh, wretched fate!” exclaimed her distracted father, “I am—I am a murderer, and faithful Connor was right—Mrs. Brown—Mrs. Hastings—hear me, both—I was warned of this, but I would not listen either to reason or remonstrance, and now I am punished, as Connor predicted. Great heaven, what a fate both for her and me—for her the innocent, and for me the guilty!”
It is unnecessary to dwell upon the father's misery and distraction; but, from all our readers have learned of his extraordinary tenderness and affection for that good and lovely daughter, they may judge of what he suffered. He immediately ordered his carriage, and had barely time to hear that Reilly had been sentenced to transportation for seven years. His daughter was quite meek and tractable; she spoke not, nor could any ingenuity on their part extract the slightest reply from her. Neither did she shed a single tear, but the vacant light of her eyes had stamped a fatuitous expression on her features that was melancholy and heartbreaking beyond all power of language to describe.