My
voice, although harsh, had nothing terrible in it; I thought, therefore,
that if, in the absence of his children, I could gain the good-will and
mediation of the old De Lacy, I might, by his means, be tolerated by my
younger protectors. “One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed the ground,
and diffused cheerfulness, although it denied warmth, Safie, Agatha, and
Felix, departed on a long country walk, and the old man, at his own
desire, was left alone in the cottage. When his children had departed,
he took up his guitar, and played several mournful, but sweet airs, more
sweet and mournful than I had ever heard him play before. At first his
countenance was illuminated with pleasure, but, as he continued,
thoughtfulness and sadness succeeded; at length, laying aside the
instrument, he sat absorbed in reflection. “My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of trial, which
would decide my hopes, or realize my fears. The servants were gone to a
neighbouring fair. All was silent in and around the cottage: it was an
excellent opportunity; yet, when I proceeded to execute my plan, my
limbs failed me, and I sunk to the ground. Again I rose; and, exerting
all the firmness of which I was master, removed the planks which I had
placed before my hovel to conceal my retreat. The fresh air revived me,
and, with renewed determination, I approached the door of their cottage. “I knocked. ‘Who is there?’ said the old man—‘Come in.’

“I entered; ‘Pardon this intrusion,’ said I, ‘I am a traveller in want
of a little rest; you would greatly oblige me, if you would allow me to
remain a few minutes before the fire.’

“‘Enter,’ said De Lacy; ‘and I will try in what manner I can relieve
your wants; but, unfortunately, my children are from home, and, as I am
blind, I am afraid I shall find it difficult to procure food for you.’

“‘Do not trouble yourself, my kind host, I have food; it is warmth and
rest only that I need.’

“I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that every minute was precious
to me, yet I remained irresolute in what manner to commence the
interview; when the old man addressed me—

“‘By your language, stranger, I suppose you are my countryman;—are you
French?’

“‘No; but I was educated by a French family, and understand that
language only. I am now going to claim the protection of some friends,
whom I sincerely love, and of whose favour I have some hopes.’

“‘Are these Germans?’

“‘No, they are French. But let us change the subject. I am an
unfortunate and deserted creature; I look around, and I have no relation
or friend upon earth. These amiable people to whom I go have never seen
me, and know little of me. I am full of fears; for if I fail there, I am
an outcast in the world for ever.’

“‘Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate; but the
hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvious self-interest, are full
of brotherly love and charity. Rely, therefore, on your hopes; and if
these friends are good and amiable, do not despair.’

“‘They are kind—they are the most excellent creatures in the world;
but, unfortunately, they are prejudiced against me. I have good
dispositions; my life has been hitherto harmless, and, in some degree,
beneficial; but a fatal prejudice clouds their eyes, and where they
ought to see a feeling and kind friend, they behold only a detestable
monster.’

“‘That is indeed unfortunate; but if you are really blameless, cannot
you undeceive them?’

“‘I am about to undertake that task; and it is on that account that I
feel so many overwhelming terrors. I tenderly love these friends; I
have, unknown to them, been for many months in the habits of daily
kindness towards them; but they believe that I wish to injure them, and
it is that prejudice which I wish to overcome.’

“‘Where do these friends reside?’

“‘Near this spot.’

“The old man paused, and then continued, ‘If you will unreservedly
confide to me the particulars of your tale, I perhaps may be of use in
undeceiving them. I am blind, and cannot judge of your countenance, but
there is something in your words which persuades me that you are
sincere. I am poor, and an exile; but it will afford me true pleasure to
be in any way serviceable to a human creature.’

“‘Excellent man! I thank you, and accept your generous offer. You raise
me from the dust by this kindness; and I trust that, by your aid, I
shall not be driven from the society and sympathy of your
fellow-creatures.’

“‘Heaven forbid! even if you were really criminal; for that can only
drive you to desperation, and not instigate you to virtue. I also am
unfortunate; I and my family have been condemned, although innocent:
judge, therefore, if I do not feel for your misfortunes.’

“‘How can I thank you, my best and only benefactor? from your lips first
have I heard the voice of kindness directed towards me; I shall be for
ever grateful; and your present humanity assures me of success with
those friends whom I am on the point of meeting.’

“‘May I know the names and residence of those friends?’

“I paused. This, I thought, was the moment of decision, which was to rob
me of, or bestow happiness on me for ever. I struggled vainly for
firmness sufficient to answer him, but the effort destroyed all my
remaining strength; I sank on the chair, and sobbed aloud. At that
moment I heard the steps of my younger protectors. I had not a moment to
lose; but, seizing the hand of the old man, I cried, ‘Now is the
time!—save and protect me! You and your family are the friends whom I
seek. Do not you desert me in the hour of trial!’

“‘Great God!’ exclaimed the old man, ‘who are you?’

“At that instant the cottage door was opened, and Felix, Safie, and
Agatha entered. Who can describe their horror and consternation on
beholding me? Agatha fainted; and Safie, unable to attend to her friend,
rushed out of the cottage. Felix darted forward, and with supernatural
force tore me from his father, to whose knees I clung: in a transport of
fury, he dashed me to the ground, and struck me violently with a stick. I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion rends the antelope. But my heart sunk within me as with bitter sickness, and I refrained. I
saw him on the point of repeating his blow, when, overcome by pain and
anguish, I quitted the cottage, and in the general tumult escaped
unperceived to my hovel.”




CHAPTER VIII. “Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that instant, did I not
extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly bestowed? I
know not; despair had not yet taken possession of me; my feelings were
those of rage and revenge. I could with pleasure have destroyed the
cottage and its inhabitants, and have glutted myself with their shrieks
and misery. “When night came, I quitted my retreat, and wandered in the wood; and
now, no longer restrained by the fear of discovery, I gave vent to my
anguish in fearful howlings.