University of Virginia Library

18. CHAP. XVIII.

Byron.

On the second day previous to that appointed
for the marriage, the Recluse came to the castle,
and requested an interview with Ellen. He was
admitted into her chamber, for she was too unwell
to leave it. She was alone. He was shocked at
the alteration which a few weeks had made in her
appearance. She who so lately was blooming in
the luxuriance of health and beauty, now appeared
before him the image of death, pale and emaciated,
and sunk in almost speechless sorrow. His
heart smote him.

“I have neglected thee too long, suffering innocence,”
said he; “but if heaven permits thee to
live, it is not yet too late to save thee from misery.”

“Father, what wouldst thou say?” she asked,
scarcely understanding him.

“My child, if this dreaded marriage be the
cause of thy affliction, I will deliver thee from it,”
he replied.

“Ah! thou canst not,” said she, “unless my

grandfather withdraws his injunctions, for I will
obey him.”

“Thy grandfather will never enjoin thee to be
wretched,” said he.

“Alas! sir, he does enjoin it.”

“Then, disobey him,” exclaimed the Recluse,
with energy, “O thou best of daughters, and the
sin be on my head!”

“What sayest thou?” cried she, starting, “Wouldst
thou counsel me to disobedience?”

“I would, and will save thee from ruin,” he replied.
“Yea, at the foot of the altar, if I found
thee there, I would snatch thee from the contaminating
touch of the viper who has deluded thy
grandfather, and would make thee his own to make
thee wretched. No, never shall that saint who bore
thee, sweet, suffering maiden, accuse thy father of
standing by in heedless apathy, to see thee immolated!
That father, thy own father, my child, has
the first claim on thy obedience; and he forbids
thee as thou wouldst value his blessing, to become
the wife of Sir Geoffrey Carebrow.”

“What! Oh sir,” she cried, “does my father
live? Does he know of my misfortunes? Am I, indeed,
so happy?”

“He lives,” said the Recluse. “He knows of thy
sufferings; and no danger will prevent him from
rescuing, and protecting thee. For what other end
does he, can he live?”

“Oh! sir, where, when shall I see him? Where
shall I fly to him? Only let me embrace him, and
I will bless thee.”

“Yes; beloved of my heart,” he returned.
“Daughter of my Eliza! thou shalt embrace him.
The terrors of law shall no longer prevent it. Behold
thy father in this disguise! I once saved thee
from insult; I shall now snatch thee from wretchedness.
Embrace me, my only child!”

“Oh father,” cried she, straining him to her
bosom; “Why did I not know thee sooner. O God!
thou art merciful—my father lives! Now let me
die in his arms, since I have indeed seen him. I
am no longer an orphan.”

Here her head sunk on his breast; for the
shock of her joy was almost too powerful for her
debilitated frame.

“God preserve thee, child of my love! Darling
of my heart,” he cried, alarmed at the changing
hue of her countenance. “Am I to loose thee, in
the moment thou hast found me? Art thou to be
unhappy both in joy and in sorrow?”

A gush of tears from his eyes fell upon her
countenance. But in the agitation of joy, although
the first shock may resemble that of grief, yet the
difference of its effects on the frame, is soon apparent.
In place of exhausting it soon invigorates.
The rays of delight soon sparkled from her dark
eyes; and the flush of joy again beamed on her
countenance.

“It is enough,” cried she. “Kind heaven! I
thank thee. I cannot now be unhappy. Take me
with thee, my father. Let me live alone under thy
protection.”

He now explained to her the necessity for his
remaining concealed, on account of a sentence of
outlawry under which he lay, for having killed
Sir Nicholas Carebrow, the elder brother of this
Sir Geoffrey, in a duel.

“He persecuted thy mother,” said he, “with a
disgusting and criminal passion, as his brother, almost
his equal in wickedness, has persecuted thee.
To avenge an insulted, virtuous and tenderly beloved
wife, I fought him, and his death was the expiation
of his offence. His friends raised a prosecution
against me. I was obliged to fly. By their
influence, I have been outlawed, and if this true
heir to his brother's wickedness, as well as his

title and estates, should discover that it was your
father that thwarted his designs on you, he would
prosecute me with the relentless rancour of disappointed
passion. I should have either to leave
the country and once more deprive you of my
protection, or become the victim of his revenge.”

“Oh! my father,” said she, “I will save thee.
I will have thee restored to me. I will deliver myself
to him; I will become his—Oh! can I, can I
name it?—yet it is for a father's safety—I will become
his wife, on condition that he shall cancel this
prosecution, and procures a reversal of the outlawry.”

“No, my child! You shall not make such a sacrifice.
None of my blood, I trust, shall ever be
allied to such a wicked and unprincipled family.
Should such a misfortune take place, all my satisfaction
in this world would be at an end. Better
I should die than see such a day! In my present
concealment, I am safe, and in residing so near
you, I am happy. I would have discovered myself
to you sooner; but I found you happy in the
love and under protection of your grandfather;
and I did not wish to disturb your tranquillity, by
apprising you of my danger in residing here.”

“Father! be it as you will. Wisdom speaks
from your lips. Instruct me in your wishes. It is
my duty, and it shall be my study not to controvert,
but to obey. Even though my venerated but mistaken
grandfather should force me to the altar, I
will there perish, ere the irrevocable vow which
consigns me to your enemy, shall pass my lips.”

“Blessed girl, image of thy sainted mother!
your grandfather will not urge you. I shall, this
evening, send you a letter inclosing one to him,
which by showing him that there is still in existence,
one who has superior claims to your obedience,
and who forbids your compliance in this affair,

will make it his duty to relinquish his authority;
and, you know, the moment your grandfather
perceives his duty, that he will perform it. In the
meantime, adieu, my daughter! Be comforted. I
am safe, and thou shalt be protected. May the
blessing of heaven be ever thine!” and straining
her to his paternal bosom, he left her in a transport
of joy and gratitude to God for her deliverance.
On her knees she addressed the Author of
all good, and poured forth the fulness of her delighted
and grateful heart for this signal instance
of his merciful interposition in her favour.

When her aunt and Miss Agnew visited her,
they were surprised to find her so cheerful.

“Dear Ellen,” asked her aunt “are you really
become satisfied, for you appear as if you were,
with this match?”

“This match shall never take place,” she replied,
“it is this which causes my satisfaction.”

“Indeed!” said Miss Agnew—“Has your grandfather
at last relented. The first time I find him
dozing in his elbow chair I shall kiss him for his
goodness.”

“I thought” said Mrs. Brown, “that obstinate
as he appeared, he could not carry his cruelty so
far.”

“My dear friends,” said Ellen, interrupting her
aunt, “you mistake. He has not yet relented, but
he will relent. I dare not at present tell you more.
To-morrow, perhaps to-night, I may be free to tell
you all. In the meantime, be assured that this
hateful marriage will not take place, neither shall I
have any occasion to infringe upon my duty to my
grandfather.”

“Heaven be praised for such an escape!” cried
Miss Agnew. “We shall again be as merry as
crickets; and laugh at the old curmudgeon of a
disappointed knight. What had an old half rotten

fellow of fifty, to do with a fresh blooming damsel
of nineteen? It was truly abominable.”

The buoyancy of this young lady's spirits now
burst forth unrestrained, as if to make amends for
their late depression; and she had wrought her
companions into such a state of good humour,
when O'Halloran entered towards the evening,
that he was both surprised and delighted.

“You are, at last, reconciled, my dear Ellen?”
said he “to this indispensable measure?”

“Obedience to your commands, shall always
yield me pleasure,” she replied.

Before he could answer, a servant entered with
a letter for Ellen, which, he said, a stranger had
just brought to the castle.

On opening it, she found one enclosed for O'Halloran.
“I expected this,” said she, as she handed
it to him, “only within these few hours. I believe it
will reveal to you the cause of my present satisfaction.
I have received intelligence that my father
lives and prohibits my marriage with Sir Geoffrey
Carebrow.”

O'Halloran broke the seal and read as follows:

Nothing short of parental regard for my daughter's
happiness, induces me to address you at present,
or to interfere with an arrangement which I
understand you have made, no doubt from the best
of motives, for settling her in the marriage state.

“It is said, that contrary to her inclinations, you
have urged her, and obtained her consent, to become
the wife of Sir Geoffrey Carebrow. By the
authority of a father, I have commanded her never
to receive the hand of that man, whom I know to
be the worthless inheritor of all his brother's
baseness and wickedness. I am sorry to learn
that with a view to the accomplishment of his desires
with respect to my daughter, he has, by a

feigned patriotism, succeeded in impressing you
with a favourable opinion of his character. But
on the word of whom you never knew to utter a
falsehood, I assure you that his patriotism is hypocricy,
and his pecuniary accommodations to your
cause, artifice.

“It is not from any want of confidence in either
your honour or your friendship, that I refrain from
discovering to you at present my place of residence;
it is from a fear that such a disclosure
might involve us into a correspondence, which, by
some accident, might be the means of making me
known to my enemies; and after my present interference,
which I do not wish concealed from Sir
Geoffrey, you will perceive that there will be an
increased necessity for precaution on my part; for
should lie now discover me, he would be goaded
on by the implacable rancour of revenge for the
disappointment I have occasioned him, to bring
down, without mercy, that penalty which the law
now holds suspended over me for his brother's
death. A time may come, and I hope it is at no
great distance, when I shall with safety be publicly
acknowledged by my friends. Till then, cherish
my daughter as you have hitherto cherished
her. But withdraw, I conjure you, as you value
her, or your own peace of mind, that command, in
obedience to which she has consented to marry a
man she detests, and who deserves her detestation.

“Should you persist in urging her to this match,
which I cannot believe you will, by that prior authority
which nature has given me over her, I
command her to disobey you. I peremptorily
enjoin her, as she values a father's love, never in
wedlock to bestow herself on Sir Geoffrey Carebrow.

“Receive my thanks for the tenderness with
which, until this occasion, you have ever treated

my child, and assure yourself that I am as heretofore,
your dutiful and affectionate

When O'Halloran had finished reading this letter,
silence for a few minutes ensued. The ladies
were struck dumb with amazement. At length he
approached Ellen. “My child,” said he, “I rejoice
that your father still lives. He was a worthy
man, notwithstanding his unhappy duel. His
interference on this occasion is, perhaps, fortunate.
At all events it relieves me from any responsibility
as to the result. I shall inform Sir
Geoffrey, that I no longer possess the requisite authority
to constrain your acceptance of him. I see
you are all gratified. I confess that I am not much
displeased myself, at the turn this affair has taken.
He then withdrew.

The reader need not be detained with an account
of the felicitations which Ellen received
from her female confidents on this occasion. Any
sensible good hearted aunt can easily imagine how
Mrs. Brown expressed herself, and any lively good
natured young maiden, may do the same with respect
to Miss Agnew. It may be recorded, however,
that this young lady observed, that she never
saw O'Halloran smile so bewitchingly as when he
left the room.

“Where he only thirty or forty years younger,”
said she, “I should certainly fall in love with him
for that sweet smile. As it is, however, I shall
certainly have the kiss that I threatened to steal
from him, the first time I should find him asleep
in his elbow chair.”

Immediately on leaving the ladies, O'Halloran
despatched a messenger to Sir Geoffrey, requesting
his attendance at the castle as early as convenient
the next morning. On his arrival he acquainted
him with what had taken place.

“I thought it right,” he observed, “to lose no
time in giving you this information, that you might
be occasioned no disappointment in your arrangement
for the solemnity, that I could prevent.”

With eyes flashing fire, Sir Geoffrey started to
his feet. “Then you withdraw all controul over
your granddaughter in this case?” he demanded.
“I do”—was the laconic and firm reply.—“And
Francis Hamilton, my brother's murderer, is now
in the country,” exclaimed the rejected knight,
“and has caused this; but I shall find him, and
dreadful will be my revenge.”

O'Halloran was thunder-struck at such a manifestation
of malignity in the man he had lately so
much esteemed. He fixed his eyes steadfastly on
Carebrow, and with inexpressible dignity, calmly
said, “Is this the disinterested affection you professed
to bear for my granddaughter? You would
show your love for her by the destruction of her
father?

Sir Geoffrey resumed his seat. He remained a
few moments absorbed in reflection. He saw that
O'Halloran was not a man to be frightened; and
concluded that he would play a surer game by
pretending to submit calmly to his misfortune.

“I am wrong,” said he, “my friend. Excuse
the impetuosity of my feelings. They are agonized
by the intelligence you have given me. The
warmth of my expression was occasioned by the
madness of my disappointed love. But I submit.
My anger was but momentary. From this instant,
I shall cast the remembrance of the whole affair
from my mind. But there is one piece of information,”
said he, somewhat sarcastically, “which, in
my turn, I will lose no time in communicating, lest
you, in some of your arrangements, should also be
disappointed. I find it inconvenient to pay you the

remaining twenty thousand pounds contracted for
in the mortgage.”

“That is unfortunate,” replied O'Halloran, “for
there is now little time to raise it elsewhere.”

“The cause must then do without it,” said the
other.

“It will greatly cripple our exertions;” continued
O'Halloran; “besides the sum being secured in
the mortgage, you should in honour exert yourself
to procure it, or else allow that instrument to be
altered.”

“As to that,” said Sir Geoffrey, “the less that is
either said or written on such dangerous matters,
in these troublesome times, the better. The mortgage
cannot be altered. But do not think that I
intend to defraud you. Only, now that I think of
it, our communications this evening have been mutually
disagreeable. We had better, therefore,
end the conference. Good night; and recollect
that by withholding my bride, you have lost only
twenty thousand pounds.”

The man's real character now stared O'Halloran
full in the face. He scorned to detain him, or
reason with him. He, therefore, let him go without
interruption, rejoiced that the good fortune of
his beloved grandchild, had preserved her from
becoming the wife of such a man.