Part 5 (1/2)
”Sir,” said Harley, ”let me tell you”--the blood ran quicker to his cheek, his pulse beat one, no more, and regained the temperament of humanity--”you are deceived, sir,” said he, ”you are much deceived; but I forgive suspicions which your misfortunes have justified: I would not wrong you, upon my soul I would not, for the dearest gratification of a thousand worlds; my heart bleeds for you!”
His daughter was now prostrate at his feet.
”Strike,” said she, ”strike here a wretch, whose misery cannot end but with that death she deserves.”
Her hair had fallen on her shoulders! her look had the horrid calmness of out-breathed despair! Her father would have spoken; his lip quivered, his cheek grew pale, his eyes lost the lightning of their fury! there was a reproach in them, but with a mingling of pity. He turned them up to heaven, then on his daughter. He laid his left hand on his heart, the sword dropped from his right, he burst into tears.
CHAPTER XXIX--THE DISTRESSES OF A FATHER
Harley kneeled also at the side of the unfortunate daughter.
”Allow me, sir,” said he, ”to entreat your pardon for one whose offences have been already so signally punished. I know, I feel, that those tears, wrung from the heart of a father, are more dreadful to her than all the punishments your sword could have inflicted: accept the contrition of a child whom heaven has restored to you.”
”Is she not lost,” answered he, ”irrecoverably lost? d.a.m.nation! a common prost.i.tute to the meanest ruffian!”
”Calmly, my dear sir,” said Harley, ”did you know by what complicated misfortunes she had fallen to that miserable state in which you now behold her, I should have no need of words to excite your compa.s.sion. Think, sir, of what once she was. Would you abandon her to the insults of an unfeeling world, deny her opportunity of penitence, and cut off the little comfort that still remains for your afflictions and her own!”
”Speak,” said he, addressing himself to his daughter; ”speak; I will hear thee.”
The desperation that supported her was lost; she fell to the ground, and bathed his feet with her tears.
Harley undertook her cause: he related the treacheries to which she had fallen a sacrifice, and again solicited the forgiveness of her father. He looked on her for some time in silence; the pride of a soldier's honour checked for a while the yearnings of his heart; but nature at last prevailed, he fell on her neck and mingled his tears with hers.
Harley, who discovered from the dress of the stranger that he was just arrived from a journey, begged that they would both remove to his lodgings, till he could procure others for them. Atkins looked at him with some marks of surprise. His daughter now first recovered the power of speech.
”Wretch as I am,” said she, ”yet there is some grat.i.tude due to the preserver of your child. See him now before you. To him I owe my life, or at least the comfort of imploring your forgiveness before I die.”
”Pardon me, young gentleman,” said Atkins, ”I fear my pa.s.sion wronged you.”
”Never, never, sir,” said Harley ”if it had, your reconciliation to your daughter were an atonement a thousand fold.” He then repeated his request that he might be allowed to conduct them to his lodgings, to which Mr. Atkins at last consented. He took his daughter's arm.
”Come, my Emily,” said he, ”we can never, never recover that happiness we have lost! but time may teach us to remember our misfortunes with patience.”
When they arrived at the house where Harley lodged, he was informed that the first floor was then vacant, and that the gentleman and his daughter might be accommodated there. While he was upon his enquiry, Miss Atkins informed her father more particularly what she owed to his benevolence. When he turned into the room where they were Atkins ran and embraced him;--begged him again to forgive the offence he had given him, and made the warmest protestations of grat.i.tude for his favours. We would attempt to describe the joy which Harley felt on this occasion, did it not occur to us that one half of the world could not understand it though we did, and the other half will, by this time, have understood it without any description at all.
Miss Atkins now retired to her chamber, to take some rest from the violence of the emotions she had suffered. When she was gone, her father, addressing himself to Harley, said, ”You have a right, sir, to be informed of the present situation of one who owes so much to your compa.s.sion for his misfortunes. My daughter I find has informed you what that was at the fatal juncture when they began.
Her distresses you have heard, you have pitied as they deserved; with mine, perhaps, I cannot so easily make you acquainted. You have a feeling heart, Mr. Harley; I bless it that it has saved my child; but you never were a father, a father torn by that most dreadful of calamities, the dishonour of a child he doated on! You have been already informed of some of the circ.u.mstances of her elopement: I was then from home, called by the death of a relation, who, though he would never advance me a s.h.i.+lling on the utmost exigency in his life-time, left me all the gleanings of his frugality at his death. I would not write this intelligence to my daughter, because I intended to be the bearer myself; and as soon as my business would allow me, I set out on my return, winged with all the haste of paternal affection. I fondly built those schemes of future happiness, which present prosperity is ever busy to suggest: my Emily was concerned in them all. As I approached our little dwelling my heart throbbed with the antic.i.p.ation of joy and welcome.
I imagined the cheering fire, the blissful contentment of a frugal meal, made luxurious by a daughter's smile, I painted to myself her surprise at the tidings of our new-acquired riches, our fond disputes about the disposal of them.
”The road was shortened by the dreams of happiness I enjoyed, and it began to be dark as I reached the house: I alighted from my horse, and walked softly upstairs to the room we commonly sat in. I was somewhat disappointed at not finding my daughter there. I rung the bell; her maid appeared, and shewed no small signs of wonder at the summons. She blessed herself as she entered the room: I smiled at her surprise. 'Where is Miss Emily, sir?' said she.
”'Emily!'
”'Yes, sir; she has been gone hence some days, upon receipt of those letters you sent her.'
”'Letters!' said I.