11. CHAPTER XI.
FRUITS OF ERROR.
Lieutenant Franklin did not meet his friend
Ainslie on the road to London as he had expected.
On his arrival in town, he hastened to Portland
Place. The blinds of his father's splendid mansion
were closed, and every thing about it wore an aspect
of gloom. The door was opened by a servant whose
countenance indicated some terrible calamity.
Franklin hastened towards his mother's apartment,
but was met on the stairs by one of his brothers,
who had been summoned home from Eton. From
him he learnt, that his father lay apparently at the
point of death, having ruptured a blood vessel; that
his mother had been by his bedside almost incessantly,
since the accident had happened, and that
the whole family were in a state of the greatest
alarm and trepidation.
As he entered the sick chamber, the closed windows,
the low whisperings of the attendants, the
odours of medicinal preparations, and most of all,
an occasional stifled sob from one of the children,
who was permitted to be in the apartment for a few
moments, brought home to his bosom the conviction
that he was about to become fatherless. He approached
the bed. His father lay perfectly motionless
and silent, with closed eyes, watched by the partner
of all his sorrows, who bent over him like some
kind angel, with a ministry unremitted and untiring.
An indifferent gazer might have read upon the marble
forehead and classic features of the patient, noble
and generous feelings, commanding talents—a promise
of every thing that was excellent in character
and desirable in fortune—all blighted by once yielding
to the impulse of guilty passion.—The wife and
the son saw nothing but the mysterious hand of Providence,
visiting with severest affliction one whom
they had ever regarded with reverence and love.
Franklin placed himself near the bed, and pressing
the hand of his mother, waited in unutterable
suspense the moment when his father should awake.
At length he slowly opened his eyes, and fixing
them on his son, with a faint smile he spoke, in a
low voice, “My dear boy, I was this moment
thinking of you. It gives me happiness to remember,
how soon you are to be blest with the society
of one you love, and who deserves your affection.
I have not been so tranquil for years, as I am
just now, in this thought. I wish that I could see
her. I think I could read in her features the
promise of your happiness, and then go to my
account in peace.”
Franklin pressed his father's hand. The big tears
of mingled love, gratitude and sorrow, coursed down
his cheeks. He could not speak in reply. He saw
by his father's countenance, that it was too late to
comply literally with his request, but in the same
moment, it occurred to him that he could almost
accomplish his wish, by showing him the miniature
of Lucy's mother, which he had playfully taken
from her on the day of his departure, and in his
haste and alarm, at the sudden summons, had forgotten
to restore.
“I have a picture of her mother,” said he, putting
his hand in his bosom, “it is a good resemblance
of herself.”
He drew forth the miniature, and held it up before
his father, who rose up, seized it with a convulsive
grasp the moment the light fell on the features,
and looking upon the initials on the back of it,
shrieked out—
“It is—it is come again to blast my vision in my
last hour!—The woman you would marry is
my own daughter!—Just Heaven!—Oh! that I
could have been spared this!—Go, my son! Go to
my private desk—you will there find the record of
your father's shame, and your own fate!”
Nature was exhausted by the effort. He fell back
on the bed, supported by his trembling wife, and
in a few moments, the wretched Franklin, the once
gay, gallant, happy Montraville, was no more.
