Lucy (Chapter_03)

before him, was that tall, robust frame which he had so often seen with firm tread, and long stride, breasting the wintry storm, and dashing through the rainy torrent. That pallied face, the sun burnt and ruddy counterance of his friend--that hollow and rayless eye, which was now languidly fixed on vacancy, was that bright eye, whose flashes of anger had struck his soul with terror, or whose beams of kindness had so often gladden his heart. "Was this drooping, trembling, pale and hollow eyed old man--the sturdy Allan he had so lately parted from? Yes, it was indeed the same--but oh how changed! Alas sorrow and remorse had done more in these three miserable days than the ravages of many years. The old man, had not turned his head, when the door opened, and William had time to contemplate the ruin and desolation of the scene; he stood motionless, and unable to speak, till the dog, jumping up, and pulling at his old master's coat, round him from the stupour , into which he had sunk; he pushed away his dog--but the dog would not be repulsed and continued, pulling his coat and barking till raising his staff to strike the dog, he likewise raised his eyes, and saw William, standing { ?} and woe begone before him. "Is it you," said he in a feeble voice, and stretching out his trembling hand. Then snatching it back, covering his face, he burst into tears. The first tears he had shed, since his sorrow had fallen on him. Convulsive sobs shook his frame, he could not speak, but wept like an infant. William fell on his knees before him, exclaiming, "Forgive me, oh sir, forgive me!". "Forgive you, my dear boy," said he at last, "forgive you? but who will forgive me! Will the God of mercy forgive an unmerciful father? Will a dying wife forgive her murderer, will you forgive me. And oh oh will my poor out cast child forgive her cruel parent! William--William never can I forgive myself--never can the fist God of Heaven rest of page cut off

"And yet", continued he after a pause--"who ever loved a daughter, more than I love my Lucy? She was the pride,--the darling--the comfort of my life. Yet these cruel hands," said he clenching them together, "these cruel hands turned her from there door!" The loud exclamations of her husband, roused Mrs Donald from the death like stupour in which she lay. She turned her dim eyes and in seeing William, stretched out her feeble hand to him-He approached, and would have spoken would have enquired what all this meant; but suppressed sobs checked his utterance, and while he silently held her hand, learned from the brother and often interrupted recital of Allan--the melancholy truth. His Lucy had been turned forth, an unprotected wanderer and no where could she be found. Had he suspected such an event, how would be have watched her forth-coming, and taken the poor out cast to his bosom, made her his law-ful wife; and provided her with a home. But such a possibility had never crossed his mind. He felt that he alone was guilty, and expected that on him alone would have fallen the punishment. He knew indeed the vindictive, and furious temper of Allan, and often had he rescued the poor slaves, and even his offending children, from the effects of his sudden rage. But he knew too, his warm heart, his generous disposition, which forgave as easily as it was offended. But altho' his wife, his children, his slaves, and even William, had sometimes been sufferers from his momentary fury, never had his Lucy. There was an { ?} sweetness and mildness about his Lucy, which preserved her from ever irritating the angry passions of any one. How then could the fond lover, suppose it possible, that such sweetness and mildness could ever provoke such wrath. After hearing all that could be told, he started up exclaiming, "If she lives I will find her, yes ?? ?? snatching up his hat, "I will go and search

every spot for our Lucy; so cheerup, for I surely shall find her! "Oh then," said the poor old man mournfully, and shaking his head, "you must go to the other world to look for her!" "Why, what is it you would say?" cried William starting with horror. The wretched parents answered only with groans. The hat fell from William's hands--he sunk on a chair, and his eyes rolled round the room as if searching for some horrible, some bloody sight. "You have not liked her," {cried} he--"you could not, oh you could not."--but where is the dirk?" And his frenzied eye rested on the nail, where from time immemorial it had hung. "Am I murderer--man?" Then dropping again into his seat, and covering his face with his clenched hands. "Yes, I am, I am!--but Oh William, with no dagger--not with a dagger did I kill my child, but with cruelty--more than a murderer's cruelty!" "Then she is not dead," said William, again reviving, "she is not dead. She would not, I know she would not kill herself. Oh no", said he bursting into tears, "for the sake of her unborn babe, for my sale, she would live--and I will seek--I will find her." And again he snatched up his hat, and not all the persuasions of the old man could prevail on him to wait till morning, or eat a mouthful before he went. The night was dark, but the way to the city was familiar to him, and he determined to go, since all the neighborhood had been already searched. He began at one end. He stopped at every house, at every door he enquired, "whether a likely young woman, in desperate distress, was there?", { ?} turing that among the rich she might have sought for employment or among the poor for shelter, But vain was his search. The servants of the rich often repulsed him with scorn and derision and poor girl {ies?} tho' they {joked?}

Still he{ persuaded?}--Tho' he often said as he sighed; "One could as easy find a needle in a load of hay, as a poor body like Lucy, in this wide city." One afternoon as he was going along Pennsylvania Avenue, he determined to apply at D--s Hotel, which he had passed before, thinking" that his Lucy would never have give to such a place, where were so many men and carriages." A crowd of hacks were before the door, hack-men and servants were laughing--cursing and swearing on the pavement; travellers were getting in and getting out of the stages which had just driven up, and all was hurry and confusion. He stood, looking round to see to whom he could speak with, the hope of being listened to, when three young gentlemen came along with their arms linked in each other; he was about drawing back to let them pass, when thinking" as how gentlemen would be cruel to a poor body", he took off his hat, and bowing, told them, he had a favour to { ?} of them. They stopped, whilest he with some embarrassment told them, "He was looking for a pretty, young woman, who perhaps was in that town, and would humbly thank them if they would help him to find her--he being a stranger in these parts". They all burst into a loud laugh, at the awkwardness of the enquirer and strangeness of the inquiry. "Help you, find a pretty young woman!", cried one, "zounds, man, I should like better to find one for myself." "Help you look for a pretty young woman, faith that good {spent?}", said another. "Nonsense", exclaimed the third, "you know we cannot stop--Here fellow,"tossing him a dollar, "here's what will find her and bind her too--nothing like silver." William shocked as he was with the treatment he had received, had turned to go away, but on hearing this, he looked round, at the last speaker with eyes sparkling with rage, and Last line cut off

No Sir, not all the silver, that you, or the President either have got, would bind the woman I'm looking after." The young officer, at whom William's fort had been round, darted forward, and was about levelling him with a stroke of his upraised cane, when a gentleman who had been standing for at the door and seen what had passed, and felt compassion for the pale and haggard youth, reached him in time to avert the impending blow. "For shame {osmin,armin ?} ", said he, interposing between him and William as he spoke, "do you not see this poor fellow is in distress!" The officer turned off on his heel, whilest the gentleman, said to William, "Follow me young man, and we will see what is to be done." They walked some time in silence, turn turning up seventh street, they soon reached a building; the gentleman stopped. He opened the door, and led the way to a small room, full of papers, writing tables such. "Sit down young man, and tell me how I can assist you," said he drawing a chair by the fire. William sat down, but for a while could not speak. His face was wiped more than once, and his handkerchief put back into the crown of his hat, again, and his hand was drawn several times across his eyes, to brush away the tears, before he could speak. "I always heard cities were bad places," said he, "and city folks hard- hearted, but I had no notion how bad they be! To laugh at a body for being in trouble!" "But all city folks are not hard-hearted my poor fellow, so let me hear your trouble." " Ah Sir--its a trouble, that won't long trouble me", said he, again wiping his eyes--"My heart is broken!--Poor thing; it would be for better she was in her grave, than in this city and if, as its but too likely she is there, I trust I shall soon be laying beside her." After some time, his story was told, "and so Sir, I come here thinking as how poor thing, she might have come to seek for a service--seeing as Lucy a