Sir Walter Scott - "Waverley"

Leo Tolstoy/Lyof N. Tolstoi - "On the Significance of Science and Art"

George MacDonald - "Thomas Wingfold, Curate V2"

Brett Page - "Writing for Vaudeville"

Self Raised

E >> Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth >> Self Raised




"Yes, yes! Oh, my dear father! I can scarcely realize that I shall
see him so soon," said Claudia, with emotion.

The countess' programme was carried out. Claudia spent that day in
superintending the arrangements of a handsome suite of rooms for her
father.

On Sunday they went to church. But the text was an unfortunate one
for Claudia's spirits. It was taken from James iv. 13: "Ye know not
what shall be on the morrow." And the subject of the discourse was
on the vanity of human expectations and the uncertainty of human
destiny. Claudia returned home greatly depressed; but that
depression soon yielded to the cheerfulness of Lady Hurstmonceux's
manner.

On Monday they made their rounds among the poor; and Claudia forgot
her anxieties and felt happy in the happiness she saw dispensed
around her.

Yes, the programme of the countess was carried out, but her
previsions were not realized. Judge Merlin did not come that
evening, nor on the next morning, nor on the next evening.

On Wednesday morning Claudia, as usual, seized the "Times" as soon
as it was brought in, and turned eagerly to the telegraphic column.
But there was no arrival from America. Glancing farther down the
column, she suddenly grew pale and exclaimed:

"Oh, Berenice!"

"What is it, dear?" inquired the countess.

Claudia read aloud the paragraph that had alarmed her:

"The 'Oceana' is now several days overdue. Serious apprehensions are
entertained for her safety."

"Do not be alarmed, my dear. At this season of the year the steamers
are frequently delayed beyond their usual time of arrival," said the
countess, with a cheerfulness that she was very far from really
feeling.

"But if there should have been an accident!"

"My dear, that line of steamers has never had an accident. And their
good fortune is not the effect of luck, but of the great care
bestowed by the company and its officers upon the safety of those
who trust to them their lives and goods. Reassure yourself,
Claudia."

But that was easier said than done. Three or four more of anxious
days and nights passed, during which Claudia watched the papers for
the arrival of the ocean steamers; but all in vain, until the
Saturday morning of that week, when, as usual, she opened the
"Times" and turned to the telegraphic column.

She could scarcely repress the cry of anguish that arose to her lips
on reading the following:

"Arrival of the ocean steamers. The screw propeller 'Superior,' with
New York mails of the 15th, has reached Queenstown. On the Banks of
Newfoundland she passed the wreck of a large steamer, supposed to be
the 'Oceana.'"

"Oh, Berenice! Oh, Berenice! Can this be true? Oh! Speak a word of
hope or comfort to me!" cried Claudia, wringing her hands in the
extremity of mental agony.

"My dear, let us still hope for the best. There is no certainty that
it is the wreck of the 'Oceana.' There is no certainty that the
'Oceana' is wrecked at all. She is delayed; that is all which is
known. And that is often the case with the ocean steamers at this
season of the year, as I told you before," said the countess, trying
to inspire Claudia with a hope that she herself scarcely dared to
indulge.

But Claudia's face was drawn with anguish.

"Oh, the suspense, the terrible agony of suspense! It is worse than
death!" she cried.

The countess essayed to comfort her, but in vain.

All that day, and for many succeeding ones, Claudia was like a
victim stretched upon the rack. The torture of uncertainty was
harder to endure than any certainty; it was, as she said, "worse
than death," worse than despair! Some two weeks passed away, during
which her very breath of life seemed almost suspended in the agony
of hope that could not die.

At length one morning, on descending to the breakfast parlor, she
found Lady Hurstmonceux reading the "Times."

"Any news?" inquired Claudia, in a faint voice.

The countess looked up. Claudia read the expression of her face,
which seemed to say, prepare for good news.

"Oh, yes, there is! there is!" exclaimed Claudia, suddenly snatching
the paper, and turning to the telegraphic column, and then, with a
cry of joy, sinking into her seat.

"Let me read it to you, my dear, you are incapable of doing so,"
said Berenice, gently taking the paper from her hand and reading
aloud the following paragraph:

"News of the 'Oceana.'--The Oriental and Peninsular Steam Packet
Company's ship 'Albatross' has arrived at Liverpool, bringing all
the passengers and crew of the 'Oceana,' wrecked on the banks of
Newfoundland. They were picked up by the 'Santiago,' bound for
Havana, and taken to that port, whence they sailed by the 'Cadiz'
for the port of Cadiz, whence lastly they were brought by the
'Albatross' to Liverpool. Among the passengers saved were Chief
Justice Merlin of the United States Supreme Court, Ishmael Worth,
Esquire, a distinguished member of the Washington bar, and Professor
Erasmus Kerr, of the Glasgow University. The shipwrecked passengers
have all arrived in good health and spirits, and have already
dispersed to their various destinations."

"This is too much joy! Oh, Berenice, it is too much joy!" cried
Claudia, bursting into tears and throwing herself into the arms of
Lady Hurstmonceux, and weeping freely on the sympathetic bosom of
that faithful friend.

"Claudia, dear," whispered that gentle lady, "go to your room and
shut yourself in, and kneel and return thanks to God for this his
great mercy. And so shall your spirits be calmed and strengthened."

Claudia ceased weeping, kissed her kind monitress, and went and
complied with her counsel. And very fervent was the thanksgiving
that went up to Heaven from her relieved and grateful heart. She had
finished her prayers and had arisen from her knees and was sitting
by her writing-table indulging in a reverie of anticipation, when a
bustle below stairs attracted her attention.

She listened.

Yes, it was the noise of an arrival!

With a joyous presentiment of what had come to the house, Claudia
rushed out of the room and down the stairs to the lower entrance
hall, and the next moment found herself clasped to the bosom of her
father.

For a few moments neither spoke. The embrace was a fervent, earnest,
but silent one.

The judge was the first to break the spell.

"Oh, my child! my child! Thank God that I find you alive and well!"
he exclaimed, in a broken voice.

"Oh, my father, my dear, dear father!" began Claudia; but she broke
down, burst into tears, and wept upon his bosom.

He held her there, soothing her with loving words and tender
caresses, as he had been accustomed to do when she was but a child
coming to him with her childish troubles. When Claudia had exhausted
her passion of tears, she looked up and said:

"But, papa, you have not been in the drawing room yet? You hare not
seen Lady Hurstmonceux?"

"No, my dear, I have but just arrived. Claudia, immediately upon my
landing I took the first train north, and reached Edinboro' this
morning. I sent my party on to Magruder's Hotel and took a fly and
drove immediately out here. I have but just been admitted to the
house and sent my card in to the hostess. And, ah, I see that my
messenger has returned."

A servant in livery came up, bowed, and said:

"My lady directs me to say to you, sir, that she will see you
immediately in the drawing room, unless you would prefer to go first
to the apartments which are prepared for you, sir."

The judge hesitated, and then turned to his daughter and whispered
the inquiry:

"How do I look, Claudia? Presentable?"

Lady Vincent ran her eyes over the traveler and answered:

"Not at all presentable, papa. You look just as one might expect you
to do--black with smoke and dust and cinders, as if you had traveled
in the train all night."

"Which of course I did."

"And I think you would be all the better for a visit to your rooms,
papa. Come, I will show you the way, for I am as much at home here
as ever I was at dear old Tanglewood. James," she said, turning to
the footman who had brought the message, "you need not wait. I will
show my papa his rooms; but you may order breakfast for him, for I
dare say he has had none. Come, papa!"

And so saying Claudia marshaled her father upstairs to the handsome
suite of apartments that had been made ready for him. When he had
renovated his toilet, he declared himself ready to go below and be
presented to his hostess. Claudia conducted him downstairs and into
"my lady's little drawing room."




CHAPTER XL.

FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

How deep, how thorough felt the glow
Of rapture, kindling out of woe;
How exquisite one single drop
Of bliss, that sparkling to the top
Of misery's cup, is keenly quaffed
Though death must follow soon the draught.
--_Moore_.



The countess was sitting on one of the armchairs near the fire when
Claudia led the judge up before her, saying only:

"Lady Hurstmonceux, my father."

The countess arose and held out her hand with a smile of welcome,
saying:

"It gives me much joy to see you safe, after all your dangers, Judge
Merlin. Pray sit near the fire."

The judge retained her hand in his own for a moment, while he bowed
over it and answered:

"I thank you for your kind expressions, dear Lady Hurstmonceux. But,
oh! what terms shall I find strong enough to thank you for the noble
support you have given my daughter in her great need?"

"Believe me, I was very happy to be serviceable to Lady Vincent,"
replied the countess gently. Then, turning to Claudia, she said:

"Your father has probably not had breakfast."

"No; but I assumed the privilege of ordering it for him," replied
the latter.

"The 'privilege' was yours without assumption, my dear. You did
exactly right," said the countess.

"I see that my daughter is quite at home with you, madam," observed
the judge.

"Oh, I adopted her. I told her that I should be her mother until the
arrival of her father," replied Lady Hurstmonceux, smiling.

At this moment the footman put his head in at the door to say that
the judge's breakfast was served. Lady Hurstmonceux led the way to
the breakfast parlor, and then saying:

"You will make your father comfortable here, Claudia, I hope," she
bowed and left them alone together.

Claudia sat down to the table and began to pour out the coffee.
James, the footman, was in attendance.

"Dismiss the servant, my dear," said the judge, as he took his seat
as near to his daughter as the conveniences of the table would
allow.

"You may retire, James. I will ring if you are wanted."

The man bowed and went out. The father and daughter looked up; their
eyes met and filled with tears.

"Oh, my child, how much we have to say to each other!" sighed the
judge.

"Yes, but, dear papa, drink your coffee first. You really look as
though you needed it very much," replied Claudia affectionately.

The judge complied with her advice; though, if the truth must be
told, he ate and drank indiscreetly fast in order to get through
soon and be at liberty to talk to his daughter. When he arose from
the table Claudia rang the bell for the service to be removed, and
then led the way again to my lady's little drawing room.

It was deserted. Lady Hurstmonceux had evidently left it that the
father and daughter might converse with each other unembarrassed by
the presence of a third person.

"My dear," said the judge, as he seated himself on the sofa beside
his daughter, wound his arm around her shoulders, and looked
wistfully into her face, "do you know that I am surprised to see you
looking so well? You must possess a great deal of fortitude,
Claudia, to have passed through so much trouble as you have and show
so few signs of suffering as you do."

"Ah, papa! if you had arrived a few days ago and seen me then, you
would have had good cause to say I looked well. But, for the last
week, the intense anxiety I have felt on your account has worn me
considerably."

"My poor girl! Yes, I know how that must have been. The news of the
shipwreck arrived long before we reached England, and everyone must
have given us up for lost."

"I did not. Oh, no! I could not! I still hoped; but, oh, with what
an agony of hope!"

"Such hope, my child, is worse than despair."

"Oh, no! I thought so then. I do not think so now; now that I have
you beside me."

"Now that it is ended. But, oh, my dear child, how hard it was for
you to have anxiety for my fate added to all your other troubles!"

"Papa, anxiety for your fate was my only trouble," said Claudia
gravely.

"How! what! your only trouble, Claudia? I do not understand you in
the least."

"All my other troubles had passed away. And now that anxiety is at
an end, that trouble is also passed away and I have none."

"None, Claudia? How you perplex me, my dear."

"None, papa! I left them all behind at Castle Cragg."

"I do not--cannot comprehend you, my dear."

"No, papa, you cannot comprehend me; no one could possibly
comprehend me who had not been placed in something like my own
position. But--can you not imagine that when a victim has been
stretched upon the rack and tortured by executioners, it is comfort
enough simply to be taken off it? Or when a sinner has been in
purgatory tormented by fiends, it is heaven enough only to be out of
it? Oh, papa, that is not exaggeration! That is something like what
I suffered at Castle Cragg; something like what I enjoy in being
away from it. Think of it, papa," said Claudia, gulping down the
hysterical sob that arose to her throat; "think of it! me, an
honorable woman, the daughter of Christian parents, to find myself
living in the house, sitting at the table in daily communication
with creatures that no honest man or pure woman would ever willingly
approach! Think of me being not only in the company, but in the
power, and at the mercy of such wretches!"

"'Think,' Claudia! I have thought until my brain has nearly burst.
Oh, I shall--no matter what I shall do! I will threaten no longer,
but, by all my hopes of salvation, I will act. The remorseless
monster! the infamous villain! I do not know how you lived through
it all, Claudia!"

"I do not know myself, papa. Oh, sir, I never fully realized my life
at Castle Cragg until I got away from it and could look back on it
from a distance. For the trouble then grew around me gradually;
slowly astonishing me, if you can conceive of such a thing;
benumbing my heart; stupefying my brain; deadening my sensibilities;
else I could not have endured it so quietly. Ah, it would have ended
in death, though--death of the body, perhaps death of the soul! But
still I knew enough, felt enough, to experience and appreciate the
infinite relief. of being delivered from it. Oh, papa, looking back
upon that home of horror, that den of infamy, I understand in what
hell consists--not in consuming fire, but in the company of devils!
Oh, sir, if you could once place yourself in my position and feel
what it was for me to leave that polluted atmosphere of sensuality,
treachery, and hatred, and to come into this pure air of refinement,
truth, and love, you would understand how it is that I can feel no
trouble now!"

"I do; but still I wonder to see you so well."

"Oh, sir, you know, severe as my tortures were, they were only
superficial, only skin-deep; they did not reach the springs of my
spirits. That is the reason why, in being relieved, I am so
perfectly at ease."

"Then you never loved that scoundrel, Claudia?"

"No, father, I never loved him. Therefore, the memory of his
villainy does not haunt me, as otherwise it might. Not loving him, I
ought never to have married him. If I had not, I should have escaped
all the suffering."

"Ah, Claudia, would to Heaven you never had married him," sighed the
judge, without intending to cast the least reproach on his daughter.

She felt the reproach, however, and exclaimed, with passionate
earnestness:

"Oh, father, do not blame me--do not! I could not help it! Oh, often
I have examined my conscience on that score and asked myself if I
could! And the answer has always come--no, with my nature, my
passions, my pride, my ambition, I could not help doing as I have
done!"

"Could not help marrying a man you could not love, Claudia?"

"No, papa, no! There were passions in my nature stronger than love.
These spurred me on to my fate. I was born with a great deal of
pride, inherited from--no one knows how many ancestors. This should
have been curbed, trained, directed into worthy channels. But it was
not. I was left to develop naturally, with the aid only of
intellectual education. I did develop, from a proud, frank, high-
spirited girl into a vain, scheming, ambitious woman. I married for
a title. And this is the end. How true is it that 'pride goeth
before a fall and a haughty temper before destruction!'"

"Oh, Claudia, Claudia, every word you speak wounds me like a sword-
thrust! It was my 'theory' that did it all, I said I would let my
trees and my daughter grow up as nature intended them to do. And
what is the result? Tanglewood has grown into an inextricable
wilderness that nothing but a fire could clear, and my daughter's
life has run to waste!" groaned the judge, covering his face with
his hands.

"Papa, dear, dearest papa, do not grieve so! I did not mean to give
you pain. I did not mean to breathe the slightest reflection upon so
kind a father as you have always been to me. I meant only to explain
myself a little. But I wish I had not spoken so. Forget what I have
said, papa," said Claudia, tenderly caressing her father.

"Let it all pass, my dear child," said the judge, embracing her.

"And, papa, my life has not run to waste; do not think it. I told
you that my troubles had not touched the springs of my soul; they
have not. Is not my mind as strong and my heart as warm and my
spirit as sweet as ever? Papa, this day I am a better woman for all
the troubles I have passed through. I have never before been much
comfort to you, my poor papa; but I will go with you to Tanglewood
and make your home happier than it has ever been since mamma died.
And you will find that my life shall be redeemed from waste."

"Claudia, are you sure that you do not love that rascal--not even a
little?"

"Papa, I do not even hate him; now judge if I ever could have loved
him."

But the judge was no metaphysician, and he looked puzzled.

"Papa, if I ever had loved that man, do you not suppose that his
unfaithfulness, neglect, and insults, to say nothing of his last
foul wrong against me, would have turned all my love into hatred?
But I never loved him, therefore all that he could do would not
provoke my hatred. Papa, he is as much below my hatred as my love."

"Oh, Claudia, Claudia, that you should be compelled to speak so of
one whom you made your husband!"

"Papa, dear, you asked me a question and I have replied to it
truthfully."

"My dear, I had a motive for putting that question. I wished to know
whether a spark of love for that man survived in your heart to make
his punishment a matter of painful interest to you. For to vindicate
you, Claudia, it may become necessary to prosecute him with the
utmost rigor of the law; necessary, in fact, to disgrace and ruin
him," said the judge solemnly.

"Papa, dear, what are you talking about? Prosecute him to the utmost
extent of the law? Disgrace and ruin him? Why, it appears to me that
you do not know the circumstances, as of course you cannot. He has
schemed so successfully, papa, that he has everything his own way.
All the evidence, the false but damning evidence, is in his favor
and against me. It seems to me, reflecting coolly upon the
circumstances, to be quite impossible that he should be punished or
I should be vindicated--in this world at least."

"Claudia, I know more of these circumstances than you think I do. I
know more of them than you do; and I repeat that, in order to
vindicate your honor fully, it may be necessary to prosecute
Malcolm, Lord Vincent, with the utmost rigor of the law; to bring
him to the felon's dock; to send him to the hulks. Now, are you
willing that this should be done?"

Claudia turned very pale and answered:

"Let the man have justice, papa, if it places him on the scaffold."

"There are two courses open to us, Claudia. The first is--simply to
let him alone until he brings his suit for divorce, and then to meet
him on that ground with such testimony as shall utterly defeat him
and destroy his plea. In that case you will be vindicated from the
charge that he has brought against you, but not from the reproach
that, however undeserved, will attach to a woman who has been the
defendant in a divorce trial, and he will go unpunished. The second
course is to prosecute him at once in the criminal court for certain
of his crimes that have come to my knowledge, and so put him out of
the possibility of suing for a divorce. And in that case your honor
would go unquestioned, and he would be condemned to a felon's fate--
penal servitude for years. Now, Claudia, I place the man's destiny
in your hands. Shall we defend ourselves against him in a divorce
court, or shall we prosecute him in a criminal court?"

"Papa," said Claudia, hesitating, and then speaking low, "what does
Ishmael advise?"

"Ishmael? How did you know that he was with me, my dear?"

"I saw his name in the list of passengers, and I knew that he had
come on with you as your private counselor."

"Yes, he did, at a vast sacrifice of his business; but then I never
knew Worth to shrink from any self-sacrifice."

"What is his advice?" asked Claudia, in a low voice.

"He does more than advise; in this matter he dictates--I had almost
said he commands; at least he insists that the divorce suit shall
not be permitted to come on; that it shall be stopped by the arrest
of Lord Vincent upon criminal charges that we shall be able to prove
upon him. And that after the conviction of the viscount you shall
bring suit for a divorce from him; for that it would not be well
that your fate should remain linked to that of a felon."

"Then, papa, let it be as Mr. Worth says; and if the prosecution
should place the viscount on the scaffold--let it place him there."

"It will not go so far as that, my dear--not in this century. If he
had lived in the last century, and amused himself as he has done in
this, he would have swung for it, that is certain."

"Papa, what is it that you have found out about him? Was he
implicated in the death of poor Ailsie Dunbar? And, if so, how did
you find it out? Tell me."

"My dearest, we have both much to tell each other. But I wish to
hear your story first. Remember, Claudia, those alarming letters you
sent me were very meager in their details. Tell me everything, my
child; everything from the time you left me until the time you met
me again."

"Papa, dear, it is a long, grievous, terrible story. I do not know
how you will bear it. You are sensitive, excitable, impetuous. I
scarcely dare to tell you. I fear to see how you will bear it. I
dread its effects upon you."

"Claudia, my dearest, conceal nothing; tell me all; and I promise to
restrain my emotions and listen to you calmly."

Upon this Claudia commenced the narrative of her sufferings from the
moment of parting with her father at Boston to the moment of meeting
with him at Cameron Court. The reader is already acquainted with the
story, and does not need to hear Claudia's narration. Judge Merlin
also knew much of it; as much as old Katie had been able to impart
to him; but he wished to hear a more intelligent version of it from
his daughter. It was, as she had said, a long, sorrowful, terrible
story; such as it was not in the nature of woman to recite calmly.
Some parts of it were told with pale cheeks, faltering tones, and
falling tears; other parts were told with fiery blushes, flashing
eyes, and clenched hands.

At its conclusion Claudia said:

"There, papa, I have hidden nothing. I have told you everything. Now
at last you will believe me when I tell you how perfectly relieved I
feel only to be out of that purgatory--only to be away from those
fiends! Now at last you will see how it is that I can say without
ruth, 'Let Malcolm, Lord Vincent, have justice, though that justice
consign him to penal servitude, or to the gallows!' But, papa, when
I said I had no trouble left, I spoke in momentary forgetfulness of
my poor servants; Heaven forgive me for it! Though, really,
uncertainty about their fate is the only care I have."

"My dear," said the judge, who had comported himself with wonderful
calmness through the trying hour of Claudia's narration; "my dear,
cast that care to the winds. Your servants are safe and well and
near at hand."

"'Safe and well, and near at hand!' Oh, papa, are you certain--quite
certain?" exclaimed Claudia, in joy modified by doubt.

"Quite certain, my dearest, since I myself lodged them at Magruder's
Hotel this morning," said the judge.

"Oh, thank Heaven!" exclaimed Claudia fervently. "But, papa, tell me
all about it. When, where, and how were they found?"

"About three weeks ago, in Havana, by Ishmael," answered the judge,
speaking directly to the point.

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