Joseph Wilmot, or, The Memoirs of a Man-Servant — page 44: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ee Oe OO ees esse JOSEPH WILMOT; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A MAN-SERYANT. ol threats as diabolical as that which had so shocked | sound of purest silver: “do not weep for me! No and alarmed me on the first evening of my resi- | amount of sorrow can amend my position; and denee at his house. it distresses me to see that you are likewise un- happy.’ one “ Unhappy, Annabel!” I exclaimed: “how can I be otherwise when I see you weeping thus ?” “Sit down again, Joseph,” she answered, sud- denly wiping away her: tears, and indicating the chau from which I had sunk upon my kiiees: then, with a manner of most melancholy scrious- ness, and a singularly touching pathos in her tone and looks, she went on to say, ‘* You see, Joseph, how ill my poor mother is: or perhaps you do not see it with the same amount of apprehension that Ido. But she ts ill—very ill; and I begin to think that there is something more in this long indisposition of he’s than I had hitherto imagined. For three or four weeks past these misgivings have been gradually creeping into my mind; and now they haunt me like spectres. You know not, Joseph, how I love that dear mother of mine. She has ever been so good and afiectionate to- wards me; and if anything should happen But here Annabel stopped short; aud her grief burst forth anew. Nevertheless she essayed to stifle and subdue it as much as possible,—while her sweet azure eyes were flung in trembhnge apprehension towards the door; and I understood but too well wherefore. She feared lest her sobs and the sounds of weeping should reach the ears of her father: for it was a great crime in his estimation to give way to an extreme of feeling of any kind. Indeed, I believe that whether Anna- bel’s silver laugh had pealed merrily through the house—or whether her voice sent forth the bit- terest lamentations—it would have been equaily sure to arouse his ill-humour and provoke the coarsest upbraidings on his part. “ Annabel—dear Annabel, do not go on thus!” I said. “ Your mother is not dangerously ill: she is weak and feeble—and a few days’ repose in her own chamber will restore her to health.” Annabel shook her head mournfully; and again conquering her emotions, she said in a whispering voice, ‘‘ You know, Joseph, that you only tell me this to cheer me; but that you yourself think as I do in respect to my poor mother’s illness. Ob! for the last few weeks I have given way to reflec. tions which seem to have opened my mind to the better comprehending of many things, and to the widening of my experiences. It is a dreadful thing for a daughter to be compelled to speak thus of a ‘father, ih she went on to observe, in the lowest whisper, and with another trembling glance towards the door; “ but it is the truth—it is the truth!—his conduct is killmg my poor mother by inches! When we were poor and we have been very, very poor, Joseph Oh! we have known such poverty, I shudder when I look back upon it my poor mother toiled all day, and half the night likewise, with her needle to support us. She was always ailing and sickly, ever since I can remember; and that close application to her work injured her health more seriously still. Does she not, therefore, deserve kinder treatment? Oh! CHAPTER VIII. SORROW AND STRIFE, One day—about six weeks after my a eadnation to Mr. Lanover’s residence—Annabel and I were seated alone together in the parlour. Mrs. Lan- over, being much indisposed, was confined to her ewn chamber; and as Annabel had been sitting with her for several hours, the kind and affectionate mother had desired her attentive daughter to descend to the parlour for at least a little while, so as to have a change of scene from the sick-room. Mr. Lanover was occupied in his oflice, which has been before described as the back room on the ground-floor, and therefore behind the parlour where Annabel and I were seated. The young girl first of all took up her work: but I saw that she was in no mood to devote her- self to it. She was unhappy—very unhappy, though she essayed as much as possible to conceal her feelings; and when I addressed her, she en- deavoured to givesmiling answers. But they were sickly ‘smiles; and it was a sad, sad thing to behold such an expression come over the countenance of one so young, and so ingenuously, chastely, delicately beautiful. I conjectured but too well that she was sorrowing on her mother’s account: I did not therefore like to allude to the subject; and the conversation drooped, until it ceased altogether. She bent that sweet face of her’s over the work, which she however frequently laid down; and as I gazed upon her, I thought to myself that if I were rich and my own master, it would be the happiest moment of my life to place Annabel and her mother in complete independence of a man who was a brutal husband and a harsh, stern father. I remember that my young heart swelled almost to bursting, and the suffocating feelings came up into my very throat, as I contemplated that charm- ing girl, and reflected that she was unhappy. Presently I beheld two large tears trickling slowly down her alabaster cheeks, and she appearing to be altogether unconscious that the emotions which were agitating in her soul were thus finding a vent. I could endure it no longer; but falling on my knees at her feet, I seized one of her hands; and while my own feelings burst forth in passionate sobs, I said, “ O Annabel—dear Annabel, do not weep! It goes to my very heart to see you thus unhappy!” Never shall I forget the look of mingled astonish- ment, gratitude, and pure sisterly love which Lan- over’s daughter fixed upon me as I gazed up into her countenance. She did not immediately speak : her young bosom was swelling with ineffable emotions; and then the tears gushed forth from her eyes, tracing their pearly path over the cheeks to which her varied angupapited emotions conjured up a gentle flush. she has been a good wife and a good mother: and “Do not weep for me, Joseph,” she said should she be called hence, what will become of eciving that my tears were flowing also ; he | me, Joseph >—what will become of me?’ tones of her fluid voice, though tremulo Poor Annabel literally wrung her hands as she broken, as well as soft and low, were Cle thus spoke; and it was shocking indeed to behold CORNICLOO@