Lucy (Chapter_03)

Solemn and stern, Allan traversed his little room, lost in thought, until Lucy when perfectly recovered from her fit, refused to be longer restrained by her fond mother, but rushed in, and threw herself on her knees before her father, he looked sternly on her for a moment, then as if possessed by some new fury, he snatched her by the arm, dragged her to the door, and pushing her out, slammed it to. Then gazing into the inner room, he gathered up some of her clothes which were scattered about, tied them in a handkerchief, and taking her bonnet from the nail on which it hung, trod hastily back, opened the door, and throwing it to her, bade her "begone, and never again to blast his sight." The distracted mother, now {fin?} comprehending the meaning of the words she had heard, as she had tremblingly hid herself from his fury in another room, declaring, if he turned her daughter out of doors he might {blame?} in turn her too, and ran forwards as if to follow Lucy. The door was shut, and in her struggle with her husband to open it , she slipped and fell with such violence against the corner of a table that stood in the middle of the room, that her head was severely cut, the blood gushed out, and ran in such torrents, that she soon fainted. The frantic old man, thinking he had killed his wife, kneeled by her in an agony, no words can describe. The labouring , the children who ran in on hearing to the confusion, without giving the least assistance. William and Lucy, who always in case of accidents, acted and advised, were not there; no one knew what to do. The sight of the old man's violent agitation, his strange exclamations, and more than all, the sight of the rusty dirk, drawn from its sheath, lying on the floor, a sight they had none of them ever before beheld, filled thfem with such fright, that they were absolutely awe-struck, and rooted to the spot. It was a long while, before Mrs Donald came to herself, and it was longer still before she could look round her,- - She cast her eyes on those that stood near her, turned them on every side of the room as if in search

of some one, and not seeing the daughter she sought, she again fainted. Allan, relieved from the horror, which the idea of her death had inspired, now recovered his presence of mind. He ordered water to be brought, washed her face and hands, put a little into her mouth; bade the children, who stood crying and screaming, to run and look all over the fields for their sister Lucy, and to bring her back with them. Gladly did the little creatures obey. Meanwhile with the black woman's assistance, he pulled off the blood covered clothes, put on day ones, tied a handkerchief over the wounded head of his poor wife, and then sat, penetent and sorrowful by her side. She would not answer, she would not speak; but on the least noise turned her head to the door. Allan well understood that look, and answered to it. "Lucy will soon be here, I have sent the children to call her back." On this, the softened mother, gave him her hand. An hour passed, but neither Lucy nor the children came. At last the old man grew uneasy and calling the black girl to sit by her mistress, he took down his hat, and went himself in search of his poor daughter. He at first pursued a road which led to the city, enquiring from those he met, if his Lucy had been seen: but finding that person's returning from Washington had not met her, he turned back to look about the out-houses and farm. Here he met the children, crying and wringing their little hands. "Sister is gone, gone"--said Fanny, "we cannot find her any where," -"-oh poor poor sister," said another,"where is sister?" Allan, was now seriously alarmed. He was not sensible of the length of time which had passed since in his distraction he had turned his child out of doors. He had acted under the influence of sudden and ungovernable passion, but as that subsided love tenderness returned, and he longed to fold his poor lamb, as he called her to his bosom, to forgive, to cherish her! He had no idea she could be far off ; but when he looked up, and saw the sun, tho' darkened with clouds, saw it almost set, he was aware ?? ?? ?? last line on page cut off

have passed since she left his sight; his old limbs shook with the anguish, which tore his heart-"My child!--my child--where is my child," said he, sitting down on an old stump, by the wood side, and leaning his head on his hands. The children stood crying around him, not knowing what to do. It had been a cold and blustering day; the winds now blew louder and colder through the branches of the old storm-stricken tree, that waved over his head. A loud blast which whistled past him, blowing aside the grew locks which hung over his face, made him shudder. He started up, looked piteously towards the heavens, now darkened with the coming storm, and clasping his hands exclaimed again, "my child, my child! where is my child." ---e stood irresolute--pondering on what was to be done. "William," said he--"oh if William was but here--he would soon find the poor thing." He inwardly groaned, seemed fearful of returning to the house without his child. Betty took one hand and Fanny the other, and tried to pull him along; he after stopped, turning on every side, his longing eyes, but no where could he discern a shadow of her they sought. As he passed the barn yard, he saw the black-man drawing up the cattle, beneath a shed. "The very kine," sighed he, "have shelter, but where will my poor darling rest her head this night! Oh cruel wretch that I was, what could possessed me to turn my child from my doors!" Slowly did he open his door; he dreaded the first look of his almost dying wife. And well might he dread it. When she saw him return without their daughter, she uttered screams which might have appalled a stouter heart than his. As he approached to soothe her, she turned away with a look of horror, that spoke daggers to his soul. The black-man and woman were now dispatched to the neighbours, and ordered not to return without their young mistress. The old man sunk into a chair, { last line of page cut off }

unhappy mother. All was dark and gloomy; no bright fire, now glowed upon the hearth, no { ?} hands prepared the cheerful supper--the poor children cried themselves to sleep, as they lay on their mother's bed, and not a sound interrupted the stillness, but the blast of the storm, as they roared round the house, or the deep groans from two breaking hearts. At midnight the servants returned, but without any news of the wanderer. The old man walked the room in agony, while the wretched mother weak and exhausted by the blood she had lost, passed the long night groans and tears. William had fled with the precipitation of one pursued by an unrelenting enemy; the curses of the father, whose confidence he had derived, rung in his ear the knell of departed happiness, and he hastened forwards without purpose or design. By chance he had taken the road, which led to Montgomery-court house, near which lived an old uncle, the only relation he had in the world. Mechanically he pursued the path he had so often trod, and reached the house just before the family had gone to bed. His pale and haggard appearance alarmed his good-natured kinsman, who after setting food before him, would feign hear the cause of his unexpected appearance. In broken sentences William told of all that had happened, and his uncle, who had not those high notions, and rigid scruples of the old { ? man}, "could see no such mighty harm," as he said in the matter, urged him to return, to be of good heart, to pluck up spirit, and all would be well again. But the young man who knew better with whom he had to deal, shook his head, as he sat { ?} chimney corner, hearing over the expiring embers, or at times started up in agony, wringing his hands and exclaiming. "No--no--it is all over--had I {killed?} his daughter he might have forgiven me," but I have betrayed her innocence--and that he will never

wretch that I was--ungrateful wretch! --When I had no where to lay my head, he took me to his own home--When I had no father--he became a father to me--He made me the keeper of his flocks, and worse than the ravenous wolves, he lambs he trusted to my care, I have destroyed. Oh uncle you know not, what a sweet, innocent she is{ dear thing?} she thought no harm, and felt as safe with me, as the babe in its mother's arms. --but I knew better--and often { ?} has the old man said, when he saw my ever fondness for his Lucy, "take care boy--the flesh warmth with the spirit, but let it not prevail,--be faithful over that I have trusted to thee. Silver and gold are but dress, but maiden innocence is a flower, which of once destroyed, can never be restored. Five years service, my { ?} lad, and then she, and a snug cabin, and a part of all I have is there." Wretched creature that I am, I could not wait, to earn any reward, but like a vile thief I broke in and stole it. Oh {woe, ? ? ?} me, but I deserve it all." Then would his head sink down again on his knees, and he would sob, as if his heart would break-His uncle's advice, seconded by his own feeling, induced him after a day or two, to return, and try what was to be done by humbling himself to the offended father. It was late in the evening of the third day after his; departure, that he returned to the { ?} humble roof where he had passed so many happy days. He slowly approached. The old house -dog leaped upon him, licked his hands and face and wagging his tail, gladly led the way to the door, which he pushed open for William, who hesitated to do so himself. He was prepared for a loud and angry repulse; for meeting the stern and enraged father.--but he was not prepared for the sight that met his eyes. On a bed, lay Mrs Donald, looking more like a corpse, than a living-being. In the chimney corner sat Allan, leaning his head against the wall, so pale and wasted, his eyes so wild and hollow, that William started back, as if he had seen a ghost, and could not believe that the feeble and sloven form