‘Well, well, as you please,’ said my father, ‘where is Edwin?’
‘He has gone to make one of the wedding party of Ellen and George,’ answered my mother.
‘A wedding!’ said my father, with a sigh, ‘ah.’
My mother had by this time hastily gathered up the breakfast things, and left the parlor.
‘Poor, bereaved mother,’ sighed my father, looking after her with the most poignant sorrow, ‘she struggles with her grief, and endeavors to impart a joy which neither can feel; which we neither can know again.—No! no! peace of mind fled with my guilty daughter—never to return! Why did I repair the ravages time had made in this old mansion? Why strive to give an air of comfort to my habitation?—Because I deemed it would be the abode of bliss. She—my child, hath made it the abode of despair!—But, no matter, a few years of neglect, desolation will spread around, and hearth, roof, and tree will be ruined, like my happiness, and broken as my heart!—My daughter!—my Clara! Oh! misery! misery! She is gone! she is lost forever!’
As he thus spoke he rushed from the room, and my agony was so great that I could not help groaning aloud.
‘Oh! God!’ I exclaimed; ‘what will become of me?—I shall go mad!—Would that I had not ventured hither; I shall never be enabled to withstand the scene!—Never can I find resolution enough to meet his reproaches. Alas! he is too strongly prejudiced against me, ever to be persuaded that I am guiltless!—But where is Ellen?’
I had scarcely given utterance to the words, when the latter approached, and before I had time to speak to her, entered the house observing me, however, and motioning me to remain where I was, and to wait patiently. I cannot do justice to the anxiety of my feelings during the time I was waiting there. A thousand doubts, hopes and fears, flashed across my brain, and every moment seemed to be an hour. At length, I heard Ellen in joyful accents exclaim, as she came from the house,
‘Joy, Clara, joy!’
I sprang forward with rapture to meet her.
‘I have succeeded, my dear Clara, said the generous-hearted girl, exultingly; ‘she’ll come to you. Wait in the summer-house, and she’ll be with you presently.’
‘Thanks! thanks!’ cried I, ‘a thousand thanks, my dearest Ellen.’
‘She’s coming,’ observed Ellen, eagerly; ‘go, quick. I pray for your success from the bottom of my soul.’
Scarcely had I time to enter the summer-house, when my mother approached. Now was the moment of my trial at hand; a deadly sickness came over me, and it was with difficulty I could save myself from fainting. The next moment my mother entered the summer-house, and she no sooner beheld me, than she uttered a loud scream of astonishment, and became, as it were, paralyzed to the spot.
‘Mother! mother!’ I cried, in frantic tones, ‘if I may still call you by that dear name;—oh, pardon your imprudent, but not guilty daughter!’
I could say no more, but sank at her feet. A pause of several moments ensued! my mother being too much overpowered by her emotions to speak; but at length, in a voice choked with agony, she exclaimed:—
‘Wretched girl! dare you again to approach that home, those parents whose hearts you have rendered desolate? Guilty, miserable girl—’
‘Oh, no, no,’ I interrupted hastily, ‘imprudent, cruel, I have been, dear mother, but your child returns to you as pure as when she left you. I appeal to heaven to attest my innocence. Oh, my mother, pardon the poor prodigal, who erred alone through youth and inexperience, and who is now ready to make all the atonement in her power.’
‘Can this be true? Have you indeed not endeavored to deceive me?’ ejaculated my mother, eagerly, and her eyes beaming, fixed with a penetrating glance upon my countenance, as though she would read all that was passing in my soul. ‘But no, it is impossible. How can you be innocent, uncontaminated? did you not abandon your home, your parents, and throw yourself into the arms of a villain, who—’
‘Oh, mother, believe it not,’ I returned, with the tears at the same time streaming down my cheeks. ‘I acknowledge that by the most base and subtle means, and in a moment of thoughtlessness and imprudence, Mansville got me into his power, and bore me far away from my home. But I thought that he meant to act honorably towards me. He told me he would make me his bride. I was too ready to believe him, and day after day he made some plausible excuse to postpone the fulfilment of his promise. Think not, however, that I suffered nothing. That you were ever absent from my thoughts, or that the fondly cherished recollections of my home, that home I had quitted, ceased to torture my mind. Bitter, indeed, were the pangs I endured. Ofttimes would I have fled the place and returned hither, but I dreaded to meet the reproaches of my parents. When, however, Mansville threw aside the mask, I overcame that dread, and your unhappy daughter has come back to solicit your forgiveness, with her virtue as unsullied as when she left you.’
During the time I was speaking, the agony evinced by my mother needs no description, and when I had ceased, in a paroxysm of delirious transport, she snatched me from the earth and enfolded me in her arms, exclaiming—
‘My child—my long lost Clara! Yes, I do indeed believe you, and pardon you, Oh, this is a happiness that I never expected!’
‘Mother, dear mother!’ I cried, in a tone of gratitude and delight which I cannot adequately describe, ‘to be suffered once more to speak to you in this place—to hear those blest words—to know myself pardoned. My heart is so full. Thus, thus only can I thank you.’
Again I threw my arms around her neck, and pressing vehemently to her bosom, she wept tears of joy.
‘Unfortunate girl,’ at length she said, gently withdrawing herself from my enthusiastic caresses, ‘I believe you innocent; but a mother’s heart is more indulgent than the world. And, ah! there is yet one to be appeased. Hark! I hear footsteps. It is your father. Softly—stand out of sight! He comes, but must not know you yet.’
Hastily throwing a veil over me, my mother urged me into the summer-house, and the next moment my father and the father of Ellen came from the house. They were in conversation, and by the words which I overheard, it seemed that the latter had been endeavoring to persuade my father to join the wedding party.
‘But at any rate,’ said he, ‘for half an hour you might.’
‘No,’ returned my father mournfully, ‘I should only mar the festal hour. I am the scathed tree of the heath that cannot drop. The bolt that struck off my branches has left my old trunk erect in wretched loneliness.’
‘’Tis a shame, neighbor,’ observed his companion, ‘it is a shame, I say, for a strong mind like yours to give itself up to sorrow in this way. You might as well put a pistol to your head at once, for you will be sure to kill yourself by it, sooner or later, and self-murder in one form is quite as criminal as in another.’
‘When you have seen the being for whom you’ve lived,’ retorted my father, ‘the object of every solicitude—the child you’ve reared with unceasing watchfulness, wrenched from you by a villain’s grasp, then come to me and talk of patience, and I’ll listen.’
‘Well, well, I’ll not weary you any longer,’ observed Mr. Greenly; ‘from my soul I’m grieved to see you thus abandoned to fruitless sorrow. Farewell, my friend, and may days be at hand when we shall see you smile once more.’
Thus saying, and grasping the hand of my father most cordially, the father of Ellen retired through the gate.
‘Smile,’ soliloquized the former, as his friend left him; ‘smile! Oh, happy father!—happy to see his daughter safe in her native innocence—safe from the bane of wealth. I once hoped that such a fate would beam on me; but fate was jealous. Lost, lost, wretched girl!’
While my unhappy father was thus speaking, my mother entered the summer-house, and leading me forth, she placed her finger on her lips to enjoin me to silence. We stood aside, and watched him, unobserved.
‘As I gaze there,’ he continued, ‘methinks I see her in her days of innocence, when first her little steps began: laughing, she ran, with arms extended towards me; then I trembled lest her young feet should fail, and she should fall. But she passed through those fearful times unharmed. She escaped those thousand dangers. Now she falls—falls to the earth, never to rise! She’s gone—she’s lost! My Clara! Oh, my child!’
My heart was ready to burst, and I was almost choked with endeavouring to repress the heavy sobs that heaved my bosom. My father threw himself into a chair, and my mother advanced towards him, and touched him on the shoulder.
‘A tear,’ she observed, in gentle accents. ‘Did I not hear our Clara’s name too? Did not your lips utter the name of our child?’
‘No, no,’ he replied, hastily rising; ‘let us, if possible, not think or speak of her again.’
‘Well, well, dearest husband,’ returned my mother, ‘I will not urge it now; but here is a poor creature, the daughter of—’
‘Away—away!’ hastily and vehemently interrupted my unhappy parent. ‘I have no daughter now.’
‘No,’ replied my mother; ‘but this repentant child, the daughter of a neighbor, is on her way to ask forgiveness of her offended father. She faints with shame and grief, and dares not meet him. Do speak a word or two of comfort to her, and teach her in what words she should address him to gain his blessing, and to sooth his anguish.’
‘None,’ replied my father, hastily, and his eyes beaming wild, ‘none. Let her not dare to look upon him. Let not her presence insult the home her infamy has disgraced. Perhaps, too, she had a mother, rich in every virtue. Let her shun that mother, for contamination is in her touch. Virtue can hold no intercourse with vice, though vice, with double baseness, kneels affecting reverence for virtue.’
I found it impossible to help groaning aloud, as I listened to my father’s observations, and I threw myself into my mother’s arms. He turned his eyes steadily upon me for a minute or so, and then resumed—
‘Yet hold! I will not judge too harshly; for there are shades of guilt, and hers, perhaps, may not be of so deep a dye as to preclude forgiveness. Perhaps her father was not affectionate—Perhaps (poor child!) he was morose and frigid. Perhaps neglectful, cold, unindulgent.’
‘Oh, no!’ I sobbed, and sank on my knees before him with clasped and upraised hands, ‘he was most kind, affectionate, and good.’
‘What,’ eagerly demanded my poor parent, ‘did he love you better than all the world?—did he rear you in domestic tenderness, and train you in the paths of virtue?—did he clasp you to his doting heart, and in his foolish pride proclaim his child the paragon of earth?—and did you then blast all of his fond hopes, and clinging to another, leave him in his storm of grief?’
Again I groaned with the almost insupportable power of my anguish, and still remained on my knees before him.
‘Dearest husband,’ said my mother, ‘do not aggravate the dear child’s misery. She is repentant—she is the shorn lamb, temper the storm to her affliction, but do not add another wound to a heart already too much lacerated.’
‘Well, well,’ returned my father, ‘be it so. I will forget my own, and try to sooth her sorrows. Young woman, rise.’
He raised me from the earth, and taking my hand tenderly, continued:—
‘What your miseries are, I well can guess; but what your father’s sufferings are I too well know. You fear to meet his eye; you dread to hear his curse. A father’s curse is heavy; shall I paint this agonizing suffering to you, child! I can do so; for I have felt it. I have it now. I once had a daughter.’
‘Oh, sir, do not name her!’ I cried, with a feeling of agony, too powerful for utterance.
‘Oh, how I doted on that daughter,’ he continued, and his countenance betrayed the terrible mental agony he was enduring. ‘How I adored her, words cannot tell; thoughts cannot measure! Yet—she sacrificed me to a villain,—her ingratitude has bleached this head,—her wickedness has broken this heart, and now my detestation is upon her! Oh, do not you resemble her,—remain not a moment longer from your father,—fly to him ere his heart give way, as mine does now—ere he curses you as I now curse—’
‘Oh, no more!’ I interrupted, darting forward in excessive agitation; ‘in mercy, oh, no more.’
‘Ha!’ groaned my father, as he recognized me and retreated from me, ‘away! away! away!’
In a wild delirium of agony, I followed him on my knees, exclaiming, in frantic accents,—
‘Your vengeance cannot make you deaf to the agony of a despairing child; behold me on my knees; I bring the sacrifice of a broken spirit. I do not ask your love till you know I am worthy of being loved. I do not ask your confidence till you feel I can be trusted; but do not deny me the shelter of your paternal roof.’
‘My father spurned me violently from him, and as he did so, he cried, in hoarse tones,—
‘Hence! hence!—I know you not! My sight rejects you—spurns you! If you have wasted all the spoils of guilt, there—there’s gold! Your idol, gold! for which you bartered all your hopes of bliss!’
He dashed a purse furiously to the earth as he spoke, and hastened towards my mother, fixing upon me looks of scorn and hatred. Oh, Heaven! how each glance penetrated to my soul! How every word burnt to my heart! It was wonderful that reason could retain her empire in that trying scene.
‘Father! father!’ I implored, with redoubled vehemence, ‘hear me, I beseech you.’
‘Husband, dearest husband!’ supplicated my mother, ‘hear her, she is innocent.’
‘Innocent!’ he reiterated, ‘she innocent! No, no, impossible!—she left us; left her happy parents—her happy home—to follow a villain!’
‘Father, dearest father!’ I cried, ‘temper mercy, I pray you, with your severity. I am not the poor, guilty, degraded being that you suppose me to be. Your child is still virtuous—still unpolluted; her only crime has been in loving one too fondly, who sought to betray her! In the name of Heaven, I assert my innocence, and if I speak not the truth, may its most awful vengeance descend upon my head! But you cannot, you will not, longer doubt me. I see you will not! Oh, bless you for this, father, father!’
I could say no more; but sobbing convulsively, I threw myself into his arms! He wept;—yes, I could feel his chest heave with the power of mental anguish, and the big round tear of sorrow fell from his eye upon my cheek; he pressed me with all the fervour he had ever been wont to do to his heart, and ere he pronounced it, I knew that I was forgiven.
‘My child! my Clara!’ he at last cried, ‘is it possible that I again hold you innocent to my bosom? But no, the bliss is too great to be real! And yet it is her! yes, it is my child; it is her lips that have asserted her innocence and appealed to Heaven to attest it, and I can no longer doubt! Oh, happiness supreme! My long-lost, reclaimed child! Receive a parent’s thanks.’
He could say no more for a minute or two, but again did he clasp me with ecstasy to his bosom, and weep tears of gratitude upon my cheek. Then he would, withdrawing himself from me, with an expression I find it impossible to describe, gazed in my countenance, and clasping his hands together, raised them towards Heaven, in humble thanksgiving for its goodness in restoring me, uncontaminated to his arms; while my poor mother’s emotion was equal to his own, and she gazed on the scene with a sensation of the deepest gratitude and joy.
‘But where is the villain who has been guilty of this outrage?’ he at length demanded; ‘let me hasten to him, and demand satisfaction for the wrongs he has done us; the many days and nights of bitter misery he has caused your unfortunate parents! Tell me to what insult, what anguish did he expose you? I am mad to hear the guilty tale!’
‘Pray defer it, my dear husband, till your feelings are more composed;’ said my mother.
‘No, no, no,’ hastily ejaculated my father, and with the greatest impatience depicted in his countenance. ‘I will hear it now! I will no longer hesitate!’
In as few words as possible, I complied with my father’s request, and related all the particulars of the earl’s conduct to me during the time I was in his power. During the recital, the violent agitation of my father was plainly visible, and when I had concluded, he walked backwards and forwards for a short time, with disordered steps, and muttering incoherent sentences to himself.
At length he turned to me, and clasping me vehemently to his bosom, exclaimed:—
‘My child!—my own one!—my still innocent Clara!—Can I longer doubt you? Oh, no! you are restored to my arms; guiltless as when in a moment of imprudence you were snatched away from your paternal roof! Oh! God! I thank you for this! The trial has been a heavy one! But my child has withstood the temptation, the artifices of the libertine, and the tempter, and I am again happy! Bless you, bless you, my Clara!—Oh, I was too severe to imagine for a moment that you could be the guilty being I supposed you to have become!—Bless you again!—Here in this fond embrace!—This kiss of fervent affection, let me at once seal your pardon for the indiscretion of which you were guilty. We will never again part, till death shall interpose between us.’
Thus saying he snatched me fervently to his heart, and imprinted warm kisses upon my cheeks, my lips, my temples! How shall I describe the feelings that rushed through my veins at that moment? Language is by far too weak to do justice to them. They must be left to the warm imagination of the susceptible reader!—I was unable to return any answer; emotion choked my utterance, and stifled the words of ecstasy that would otherwise have flowed from my lips. Again I felt the ardent embrace of that father whose forgiveness I had despaired of ever being able to obtain; once more I felt the glow of his kiss upon my lips, and heard him pronounce his forgiveness for the many, many hours of bitter agony, of doubt, of fear, I had caused him.—Surely an age of anguish would have been trifling to purchase such a few moments of bliss, of exquisite transport, as those I then experienced. Again and again he enfolded me to his heart, and wept: like a child did the poor old man weep tears of inexpressible joy and gratitude upon my bosom. My mother, too; what pen could sufficiently depict her emotions upon that occasion.—She joined my father in the embraces he bestowed upon me, and then we all three knelt, and with hearts of sincerity, poured forth our gratitude to that Omnipotent being who had thrown the Almighty shield of His protection around me in hours of such eminent peril, and restored me innocent to the home wherein I had passed so many days of virtue and happiness, and which the wily seducer had endeavored so artfully to make me disgrace for ever!
‘But I will seek out the villain,’ cried my father, in vehement tones, after the first ebullitions of our joy and gratitude were over;—‘yes I will go to him and upbraid him for his base and brutal conduct, and demand of him all the satisfaction he can afford!—The feelings of affectionate parents are not to be racked and insulted with impunity!—No, by Heaven, he shall find, that in spite of his rank, he shall not escape the just indignation of those humble individuals whom he would have disgraced and rendered eternally wretched. To-morrow I will repair to the titled rake, and demand—’
‘Oh; my dearest parent,’ I interrupted, ‘pray do not think of such a thing; rather leave him to his own conscience, which, depend upon it, will sooner or later, be a severe monitor to him, and amply punish him for his guilt. The journey is too long, at your time of life, and besides, the result of such an act, without affording any satisfaction, might be such as I dread even to think upon.’
‘Clara!’ observed my father, ‘think you I can tamely brook the injuries I have received from the Earl Mansville? Oh, my child, did you but know, could you but form the least conjecture of the intense agony your disappearance, and the fears, the suspicions, that naturally resulted from it, caused both me and your poor mother, you could not thus advise.’
‘Alas! my dear father,’ I returned, ‘you do me an injury to suppose that I have not keenly, severely, felt the misery yourself and my dear mother must have undergone; in the midst of the luxury and magnificence that were displayed to ensnare me, it would rise in such vivid colors to my imagination, that many a time it surprises me how I can have retained my senses. Then would suspicion of the truth of Mansville rush tumultuously upon my brain, and only that I had dreaded to meet your reproaches, long ere this I should have made my escape from him, and return to your fostering arms. Not able to form any conjectures of your suffering?—Oh, my father, the imagination constantly haunted me;—sleeping or waking, it was ever present to my mental vision; but the deceptive art of Mansville, of which he is so consummate a master, never failed to use all the powers of his eloquence to soothe me, and by specious promises, day and day to quiet my apprehension—I will own my weakness;—such was the powerful ascendancy he had obtained over my heart, that I was too ready to listen to him; too willing to believe that he spoke the truth—Oh, my beloved parents, do me not the injustice to suppose that I could for a moment learn to become insensible of the imprudence I had committed, or of the consequent anguish that I knew it would involve you in.’
‘And do you not love Mansville now, my child?’ demanded my father, looking earnestly in my face.
‘Love him,’ I repeated, and a blush of indignation mantled my cheek as he spoke;—‘Oh, how degraded, how fallen I should be, could I now feel anything but the utmost disgust and abhorrence for one who has acted with such duplicity to me, and who would have destroyed the happiness of my parents for ever! No, my dear father, the youthful passions that are more powerfully excited in favor of any particular object, are more likely to become changed to those of hatred and scorn, when it is discovered that the being who has created them, has acted the part of a heartless traitor,—the vile deceiver,—It is thus with me, Mansville is torn from me forever; the place which his image occupied once, is now replaced by the deepest scorn and detestation.’
‘Darling child!’ cried my father, clasping me again in his arms. ‘There is sincerity in every word you utter. Oh, how could I ever suspect that you’d yield to the temptations of the guilty, and abandon the paths of virtue, in which you were brought up? This—this indeed is a joyful day; such a one as I never expected to experience again.—Come, come, child, into the house; let the blissful news be conveyed to all our neighbors, that this day restores a daughter, imprudent once, but guiltless, to her doting parents’ arms.’
‘And let the past be forgotten in the happiness of the present,’ said my mother, tears of ecstasy starting to her eyes:—‘oh, Clara, you have returned at a time when joy predominates in the bosoms of those dear friends, with whom we have been so long associated. Little did Ellen expect such a happy occurrence on the day of her nuptials.’
Encircling my waist with their arms, my parents led me affectionately to the house, and in a short time I was seated at the breakfast table, and about to eat of the repast beneath the roof in which I had been reared, and from which I had been so near being discarded for ever.—How shall I describe my feelings on that occasion, or those, it was evident, were passing in the minds of my parents.—I could scarcely believe that I had undergone what I had;—that I had ever even for a moment quitted my parental roof. Everything seemed as it was on the eventful morning when I had been borne away, and the whole seemed like some vision to warn me from the imprudent step I had actually been guilty of. The change effected in my father and mother in so short a time was most astonishing. The heavy care, the anguish of my father seemed dissipated, and was succeeded by joy and gratitude; looks of love and intense feeling which he constantly beamed upon me; while my mother could scarcely control her happiness within bounds of reason.
It might be imagined that my heart was too full—but it was not so—on the contrary, I partook of the repast with a relish I never before enjoyed since I had quitted my paternal home. I was again at home! in the home of my childhood restored to the love of my parents; and never was the contrast of the comforts of a virtuous home, with the empty luxuries of wealth and magnificence, presented more powerful to my mind.
Never shall I forget the felicity I enjoyed on that day. In the course of an hour or two my brother returned to the farm. He embraced me affectionately, but his indignation against Mansville was equal to that of my father.
It appeared that both my father and brother, had been indefatigable in endeavoring to trace the earl, but without success.
The day passed away, and at night, for the first time in some months, I retired to my chamber with the blessings of my parents. What ecstatic feelings thrilled through my veins, when I entered the little room where for so many years I had slept, and gazed upon every well known object, which had undergone no perceptible change since I had before reposed in it. It seemed indeed, to have been unoccupied since the time I had been from home; and every article I looked upon, appeared not to have been disturbed. There was the same little clean bed, with its furniture arranged with such admirable care and precision—the humble toilet—and everything the same as when I had last used it. There was the prayer book, the one which had been presented to me by my father many years before, and in which was inscribed his name, with the leaf turned down at the particular prayer I remember to have used the night before my elopement. With a heart overflowing with gratitude, I knelt down, and fervently breathed that prayer, and to it added one of thanks to Heaven, for the manner in which I had been saved from the sorrow and disgrace with which I had been threatened, and invoked its blessings on the heads of my parents and my brother. Then, with a lighter heart than I had experienced for many a day, I retired to my couch, and soon fell off into a calm slumber. No painful vision haunted my imagination that night; my dreams were those of bliss. Of the joys of home, and the affection of adoring parents; and in the morning I awoke to a renewal of that happiness and content, which had ever been mine before I became acquainted with the Earl of Mansville.
But what were my sentiments now as regarded Mansville? Need I try to portray them? I am certain that I need not! They were fully embodied in the observations I had made use of to my father. The mask which the deceiver had thrown off, having shown me his character in its real light, I thought of him only with disgust and abhorrence, and had he even then offered to make all the reparation in his power, by bestowing upon me his hand, I felt confident that I should have rejected it with scorn. Great as had been my trial, and painful as had been the circumstances by which it had been attended, I felt I had no cause to regret it now, but, on the contrary, to feel, in a manner thankful that it did occur, as it had taught me a lesson I shall never forget, and had afforded me that experience in the deceptive practices resorted to by the wealthy and unprincipled of mankind, which would prevent me for the future from approaching the precipice of destruction, down which I was so near being plunged.
I arose the following morning at the early hour to which I had been accustomed, and found my father, mother, and brother, already assembled in the little parlor, and the morning’s repast spread upon the table. I could perceive, as soon as I entered, that they had been discussing something particular, and it was not long ere I was made acquainted with it. I found that my father and my brother had come to the determination of going to the Earl Mansville, in spite of my entreaties, and the observations I had the previous day made use of, to induce them to abandon their design, and such was their eagerness to see Mansville, and demand an explanation of him, that they had resolved not to delay any longer than the following day.
‘I fully appreciate your motives, my dear child,’ said my father, ‘but, after mature deliberation, I cannot consent to comply with your wishes. Were we to suffer the matter to rest where it is it would be yielding a cowardly submission to guilt, which my heart revolts from; and, moreover, would give the foul tongue of slander an opportunity of propagating surmises derogatory to your reputation. No, nothing will satisfy me, but a plain acknowledgment of his guilt, and your innocence from his own lips, and a sufficient apology to satisfy the world at large. Were I to seek reparation in a court of law, his wealth and high rank would be a sure protection for him.’
‘It would,’ coincided my brother, ‘and I see no other means of obtaining any satisfaction than the course we are about to pursue.’
In this opinion, my mother coincided, and, much as I dreaded the consequences that might attend it, I was at a loss for arguments to combat their resolutions. This day passed away in the same manner as the previous one, and the following morning, after a most affectionate farewell, my father and brother took their departure by the coach, for the mansion of the Earl Mansville.
After my father and brother had left, my mind underwent several gloomy presages, and though I perfectly agreed with the propriety of the arguments my father had made use of, I could not but sincerely regret that they had not abandoned their design.
My mother endeavored to sooth me by all the arguments in her power; and said that, doubtless Mansville, for his own credit’s sake, would be ready to make all the reparation that was in his power.
‘Alas!’ thought I, ‘what recompense can he make me for the injury he has inflicted on my peace of mind? Nothing can make amends for the pain of discovering that the only object upon which we have placed all our young heart’s warmest affections is base, treacherous, and unworthy of that passion; and I now as thoroughly despised Mansville as I had before loved him, for that he had thrown a blight upon my mind from which I could never thoroughly recover.’
We expected the return of my father and brother in about three or four days from the time they had left home, as they would have nothing to detain them after they had obtained the interview they sought with the Earl Mansville, as they were fully aware that if they protracted their presence, it would excite our utmost alarm. The fourth and fifth day, however, elapsed, and still they remained absent. Our apprehensions began to be excited in the utmost degree, and all the fearful forebodings that had before haunted my mind, returned with redoubled force.
In spite of all her efforts to appear to the contrary, the fears of my mother, were, if possible, more excited than my own, and conjecture was exhausted in vain, to endeavor to account for the procrastination of their return.
Another day elapsed in this manner, and yet we heard nothing of them, and then, indeed, our terrors were aroused to an almost insupportable pitch, and we no longer sought to disguise from each other the real state of our feelings upon the agonizing subject. I expressed to my mother all those forebodings I had before indulged in, and she could not but admit the too great probability of them. Now did she join with me in deeply regretting that my father and brother had not yielded to my advice, or that she should have made one to urge the propriety of the course they had taken. What step to pursue we were at a loss to conceive.
‘I cannot wait in this horrible state of suspense any longer,’ my mother ejaculated, when the seventh day dawned, and we heard no tidings of them; ‘I’ll instantly take G—m, and learn at once the cause of this mysterious delay, and whether or not anything has happened to them. This dreadful state of doubt and suspicion is worse than the most terrible certainty.’
She had scarcely given utterance to these words when a knock was heard at the outer door, and a letter was presented to my mother, which she knew immediately to be in the hand-writing of her husband. Trembling violently with apprehension, she broke the seal, but had not read more than two lines when, with a piercing scream, she fell senseless to the floor. I flew to her, raised her in my arms, and then, taking up the fatal letter, began to read the contents. The commencement of it was enough to smite my heart with horror; and it is marvellous how, under such trying circumstances, I retained possession for an instant of my faculties. My unfortunate father and brother were in gaol, accused of murder—of the murder of my deceiver, the Earl Mansville!
My frantic cries soon brought the servants of my father to the room, who immediately conveyed my mother to her chamber, while I was reduced to such a state by the shock which my feelings had sustained, that it was found necessary to call in medical advice to me, as well as the former. I remained in a state of almost utter unconsciousness for several days, during which period I continually raved of the murdered Mansville, and the awful charge which I would fain have believed my unhappy parent and brother were innocent of; but which, under peculiar circumstances, seemed, alas! but too probable.
My mother had been restored to comparative composure much earlier than might have been anticipated from the violence of the shock her feelings had received; and when I regained my senses, I found that she had started, the day following the one on which she had received the fatal letter, for G—m, to seek an interview with her wretched husband and son, and to obtain an explanation of the horrible circumstances. The person who attended me had the utmost difficulty in persuading me not to follow her; and it was only by the determined tone in which the medical man spoke, stating that the consequences of such a journey, in my then state of mind, might be productive of the most fatal results, that I was prevented from putting my wishes into effect.
Too soon, alas! the horrible particulars reached my ears, which I will proceed to relate as they were afterwards detailed by my father.
It appeared that after my father and brother had left home, they immediately repaired to the coach-office, where they had booked their places the evening before, and took their departure for G—m, whither they arrived the evening without anything occurring worthy of being particularly noticed. As it was rather late, they resolved not to visit the earl till the morning, and accordingly took up their lodgings at an inn in the place. Not feeling disposed to go to rest for the present, they thought they would take a bit of a walk in the neighboring fields previous to supper, and accordingly they walked forth, and instinctively directed their footsteps towards the mansion of Mansville. They had proceeded across several fields, and had entered upon a dark and gloomy lane, which, they had been informed, led to his house, when suddenly they beheld, by the dim light of the moon, the shadows of two men before them, one of whom was a short way in advance of the other. They did not take particular notice of this at first, as there was nothing at all extraordinary in the circumstance; yet, when they perceived that one of them still kept in the rear of the other, and that he was evidently fearful of being seen, they determined to watch his actions more narrowly. They, therefore, kept as close to the hedge as possible, so that they might not be observed, and yet cautiously kept advancing towards the two men, and taking particular notice of their actions. The one in advance made a motion as though reflection was almost too dreadful for him would turn round, when the other immediately stepped aside so that he could not be seen; and it then became very clear that he was after no good purpose, or why appear so anxious for concealment? My poor father and brother, therefore, redoubled their speed, entertaining strong suspicions that the fellow was a highwayman, and that they might be the means of preventing, probably, robbery and murder.
They had not proceeded far when a turning in the lane hid them from observation, and directly afterwards the report of a pistol vibrated on their ears.
Fearful, from all they had observed, that murder had been committed, they now ran with all their speed in the direction which the two persons had taken; and having arrived at a dark and lonely spot, to which they were attracted by groans of agony, they beheld, by the faint light of the moon, whose rays now penetrated through the thick foliage above their heads, the form of a man elegantly attired, stretched upon the earth and weltering in his blood, while by his side lay the pistol with which the fatal and cruel deed had been committed, and which the assassin had left behind him.
My father raised the unfortunate man in his arms, and the moonlight streaming full upon his countenance, my brother suddenly exclaimed, in a voice of mingled astonishment and exultation—
‘Ah! by Heaven, retribution has overtaken the guilty! It is the villain, the betrayer, Mansville!’
The fatal words had scarcely escaped my brother’s lips when a party of men, who had also been attracted by the report of the pistol, rushed to the spot; and having overheard what he said, and seeing the wounded nobleman stretched upon the earth, and my father and brother standing over him—the latter with the weapon of death in his hand, believed them to be the perpetrators of the bloody deed; and accusing them accordingly, and seizing them, in spite of their remonstrances and solemn protestations of their innocence, they bore them away to the nearest prison, while the wounded Mansville was conveyed to his mansion.
My God! how my very soul trembles when I recall to my memory this dreadful event, and my blood freezes in my veins with the most indescribable sensation of horror. Alas! who shall say that my sufferings have not indeed been severe!—It is really wonderful how I have found strength of mind to endure them all; how one so young, and, until lately, a complete stranger to misery, should be able to bear up under such an almost unprecedented accumulation of horrors. But my troubles were far from being yet complete.
The unfortunate Mansville was mortally wounded, and breathed his last before morning, never having rallied from the first, and having been unable to speak after he was first discovered. And here must I pause to reflect upon the terrible fate of the Earl Mansville; as I do so, the remembrance of his faults, and his conduct towards me, are forgotten in the one strong and irresistible feeling of pity which inhabits my breast. His fate was marked by the most signal retribution of Heaven. The week following that of his assassination, he was to be united to a young, beautiful, and wealthy heiress, to whom he had been paying his devoirs, at the same time he was pleading the most powerful passion for me, and most solemnly protesting, from time to time, that he would make me his bride. Ill-fated, but guilty Mansville! Heaven pardon you for the deception of which you were guilty, as I now do.
My father and Edwin underwent several examinations before the justices, and evidences of their guilt appeared so numerous, that few, if any, attempted to defend them.
It was well known in what manner they were related to me, and the circumstances under which I had been placed with the murdered Mansville, and, therefore, what had brought my father and brother to G—m, but to seek revenge? Besides, it was proved by the landlord of the inn where they had taken lodgings, that they had left his house at a late hour in the evening together, and, that, previous to doing so, he had a conversation with them, in course of which they had asked several strange questions respecting the deceased Earl Mansville, which were quite sufficient to strengthen the suspicions that were already excited against them; and more particularly they had made several inquiries as to the nearest way to the murdered nobleman’s mansion, and had been directed the exact way in which they had been discovered. An inquest was held upon the deceased, the jury upon which unhesitatingly returned a verdict of wilful murder against my father and brother; and ultimately they were committed to the assizes for trial.
This was precisely the state of the affair, when we received the letter which was from my father; need it, therefore, excite any astonishment that our feelings were almost maddening?—The circumstantial evidence against them was very strong, and alas! how many innocent persons had suffered under far less suspicious circumstances?—The idea was enough to freeze the blood with horror, and here again did I find cause most bitterly to reproach myself for one act of indiscretion which had thus been productive of this awful misery, and might be the occasion of bringing my father and brother to an awful and ignominious fate, for a crime of which they were entirely innocent.
The day after this, I received a letter from my mother, in which she described, in language I should fail to do adequate justice to, were I to try, the interview she had had with her husband and son at the gaol in which they were confined, but sought to inspire me with hope that something would take place to establish their innocence, and bring the real perpetrators of the horrid crime to justice. I tried to think so too. Never, I reflected will the Almighty suffer two innocent beings to suffer for the sanguinary crime of the real assassin! They will be saved, and the monster who has committed this atrocious crime brought to that punishment which his guilt merits.
These were but for a short time my reflections, then would the heavy weight of circumstantial evidence, which would be adduced against them on their trial, recur to my memory, and despair would again begin to settle upon my heart.
My mother mentioned in her letter that the assizes were expected to commence in about a fortnight, and that, until the result of this awful affair was known, she intended to reside near the gaol, so that she might be enabled to visit the unfortunate prisoners every day. She added, that, if I thought myself capable of the task, and able to support an interview, I might also repair to the spot, leaving the farm for the time we were absent to the care of Ellen and her husband. To remain where I was, alone, with no one but Ellen to offer me the least consolation or advice, I felt would be worse than death; and, therefore, having made a powerful effort to conquer my emotions, I arranged the business with Ellen and her husband, and with the prayers of my friends for the happy termination of the trial, I set forward upon my melancholy journey.
What tongue could give utterance to the intense agony of my feelings, when the coach arrived at G—m, the place which I had so lately quitted to seek the forgiveness of my parents. Alas! under what different, what horrible circumstances did I now return to it. He who had first tempted me to act wrong had met with an untimely fate, and my father and brother the inmates of a prison, accused of his assassination.
The day after my arrival at G—m, I had an interview with my unfortunate relatives, but I must pass over that deeply agonizing scene; I cannot recall it to my memory without harrowing up my feelings. They both, however, attempted to appear more composed than I might have expected them to have been, and endeavoured to inspire me and my mother with the most sanguine hopes as to the result of the trial. We, however, could see but very little to excite any such ideas, and although, for the sake of calming their feelings, we pretended to place some reliance in what they said, we were very far from actually entertaining any such feelings.
I will pass over the time which intervened previous to the trial, and come at length to the morning on which the fate of all my family, I might say, depended. The hall of justice was densely crowded, and the trial excited the most uncommon interest. Myself and my mother were accommodated with seats near the dock in which the accused were, and whenever, by chance, I happened to look up, I caught the eyes of the spectators fixed alternately upon me and my mother; but in the brief glance which I suffered myself to take, I beheld that the expression with which they contemplated us was more of pity than any other feeling.
I know not how it was, but I felt a degree of firmness on that awful occasion which I never thought it would be in my power to assume, and my mother was perfectly calm and resigned. As for the prisoners, their whole demeanour showed the dignified firmness of perfect innocence, and a firm reliance on the goodness of Providence for the issue.
The jury having been called over and sworn, the trial commenced, and the charge having been made, my father and brother both answered in a firm voice to the usual interrogatory put to them, as to whether they were guilty or not guilty—
‘Not guilty!’
The trial then proceeded, which is quite unnecessary for me too recapitulate.
The jury retired to consider their verdict—and oh, God! what a moment of horrible suspense was that! All eyes were turned alternately upon me and my mother, and then the prisoners in the dock. But the latter were as firm as if they had only been spectators themselves, and frequently turned upon me and my poor mother glances that were meant to encourage us.
The jury were absent about twenty minutes, which seemed as many hours to those who were so deeply and painfully interested in this important trial, and at length they returned into the court.
The foreman of the same, in a deep voice said—
‘Guilty!’
An appalling shriek followed the pronunciation of the verdict; it proceeded from my mother, who sank insensible in my arms. It seemed at that time as if I were endowed with superhuman power; my faculties were all restored to me, and I was enabled to support with firmness that was most extraordinary. The verdict had fallen upon my ear, in a manner of speaking, with complete indifference, and it appeared as if a voice at that moment whispered to me hope instead of despair. But I feared to look at my father and his unhappy son. I was apprehensive that their bare glance of horror and despair would be sufficient to deprive me of my senses. The judge then proceeded to pass sentence of death, but ere he had uttered half-a-dozen words a gentleman suddenly arose from his seat, and with his whole frame convulsed with emotion, exclaimed—
‘Hold my lord!—proceed not to sentence men who are entirely innocent of the charge.’
After the lapse of a minute or two for the court to recover themselves from the confusion into which this event had thrown them, the judge demanded of the gentleman the meaning of his interruption.
‘In a few words, it is this,’ said the gentleman, ‘you behold before you an unhappy wretch, who ought to have been placed in the dock now occupied by those much injured, and wrongly accused men. Nay, you may well be surprised, and it will doubtless be increased, when I tell you that in me you behold the actual murderer of the Earl Mansville, and I, therefore demand that justice be done upon me!’
Nothing could now equal the extraordinary sensation which prevailed, and it was at first, no doubt, imagined by many that the gentleman’s feelings who had thus denounced himself had been worked upon and excited by the circumstances of the trial, and that insanity had suddenly seized upon his brain; but they were soon convinced of the contrary, for the self-accused having paused awhile to suffer the excitement to subside, continued—
‘It was this hand which perpetrated the hellish deed upon the unfortunate Mansville, the pistol which was found by the side of the deceased will be seen to have my initials engraven upon it.’
The pistol was here handed up to the judge, when the initials were found.
‘The awful tale is soon told,’ continued he.
‘The late Earl Mansville and myself had been companions at college. Soon after our return from the university, I formed an attachment to a young lady, and was permitted to pay my addresses to her. This courtship went on for a period of two years, when it was suddenly broken off. In vain I sought an explanation. Nothing more relative to this affair transpired until about a month ago, when, judge my resentment and surprise, to learn that the late Earl Mansville, was the admitted lover of the lady, and that their nuptials were actually fixed to take place on a certain day. On ascertaining the truth of this, I demanded an explanation of such extraordinary conduct; but all that I obtained in return, was the most provoking raillery! I quitted the unfortunate nobleman vowing the most dreadful vengeance. On the evening that I committed the hellish crime, I quitted my own house, with the pistols now produced in my possession, fully bent to way-lay and murder my rival. Once he turned to look round, and then I jumped into a dry ditch, and concealed myself. He resumed his journey, and acting under the influence of a sudden impulse, I presented the fatal weapon at him, and fired, just as he prepared to walk on. What followed has already appeared in the evidence brought against those two men, most wrongfully accused. As the day of trial approached, so did my agony increase. Could I be guilty of a three-fold murder? I could not; so, this day, I resolved to be present, and confess. I admit, that my resolution failed me so much, that I was unable to put this into effect, until after the trial had proceeded to the present length; but I have now acquitted my conscience of that additional and heavy sin, and I feel content to abide by the consequences. I repeat that the men in the dock are entirely innocent, and that I only am the murderer of the late Earl Mansville. I demand that justice be done, and thus give myself up to this tribunal to be tried and punished by the laws of my offended country.’
A murmur of surprise, horror, and satisfaction ran through the court at this remarkable confession, and for a few moments, the business was entirely suspended. My mother had recovered, and overheard all that had passed. But suddenly, the court was aroused by all the judges rising, and declaring it as their unanimous opinion, that the two individuals who had been tried had been charged and convicted by the jury of the murder of the Earl Mansville, were now shewn to be clearly innocent, that the court, therefore, annul the verdict, and ordering them to be discharged out of custody, command Richard Archibald Holland, to be placed at the bar and indicted, upon his own confession, for the wilful murder of the said Horatio, Earl Mansville.
My father and brother were immediately released from the dock, while, the real assassin was placed at the bar.
But misfortune and I had still got to be longer acquainted; and too soon her heavy afflictions came upon me with overwhelming force. The shock which my mother’s feelings had undergone by the recent events had made fearful inroads on her constitution, and it soon became too alarmingly apparent, that she was sinking under a rapid decline. All the medical resources were of no avail, and she at length yielded to the fearful malady.
My father and all of us, were inconsolable for her loss.
Only three months after my poor mother’s death, my brother was seized with a violent typhus fever, which my father quickly caught of him. A few short months only, consigned those two dear relatives to the grave also. Would that it had pleased the Almighty to take me also, then I should not have had to undergo the miseries, the degradations I have too much reason to fear it is yet my lot to suffer. Illness and incessant trouble had involved my father’s affairs in difficulties, from which I found it impossible to extricate them. Let me draw my melancholy recital to a conclusion. Hard necessity drove me at last to seek the protection of relatives, whose jibes and cruelties drove me to the life I now lead, and the letter you brought me was from the clergyman of our parish, who having learnt of my whereabouts, addressed me an exhortation to repentance; recalling all the incidents of the bitter past. Here Clara burst into a fresh flood of tears, and owned her intention to quit her present shameful mode of life.
‘And now, Mr. Monteagle,’ continued Clara, ‘to prove to you that I am really penitent; I will divulge to you a contemplated crime, which was planned in this very house, and this night it is to be carried into effect. Belcher Kay and Blodget one night killed a rich old drover, and buried him in an old adobe hut. They have since learned that Inez, the daughter of old de Castro, had taken shelter in the building from a storm and witnessed all their proceedings. The Vigilance Committee are already apprised of the facts, but in Miss de Castro’s terror at the fearful scene, she forgot the names by which they addressed each other; but she is convinced that she will know their persons if ever she meets them. You know these villains will never consent to live in hourly fear of arrest and punishment. They have, therefore, determined to attack the mansion of de Castro, at the Mission, rob it, and I fear kill his daughter to prevent her appearing as a witness against them.’