Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 212: what you’re looking at

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

Pickwick Abroad. k6 plated the approaching wreck of all her daughter’s fondest designs and wishes: ‘* little does he think, while away—and fighting the battles of his country—little does he suspect—’”’ ‘“Mother—would’st thou drive me mad?’ exclaimed Marguerite, clasping her hands together in all the wildness of sorrow and despair. “Let me repel the advance of reflection—let me shun thought—let me not hear the name of one whose love I must renounce for ever !’’ “Q God! where is thy justice? does thine omniscience sleep?” cried Madame d’ Ermanville, whose mental sufferings were almost too great for human nature to support. ‘* Blaspheme not,” said Marguerite solemnly: ‘“‘ haply the Almighty has not yet abandoned us?’ It were in vain to endeavour to depict the wretchedness that filled the bosoms of those two unhappy women. Nor would it be possible to say how they passed the remainder of that day, and the ensuing night. A sleepless couch was doubtless pressed by either, and each pillow was watered with an abundance of heart-wrung tears. The morning dawned gay and jocund upon their sorrow, as it were in de- rision ; and the sun was bright, and nature was blythe and sportive, as if to mock the anguish that gnawed at the heart’s core of a miserable mother and a daughter whom Hope had nearly forsaken. _ ‘The morning’s repast was scarcely touched, and hardly a word was spoken on either side. Grief with them was now dumb—their wounds were deep, but the orifice was barely perceptible. An occasional exchange of looks betokening unutterable horror—occasional sighs, and occasional tears—were all that indicated the acuteness of a woe reciprocally felt. Hour after hour passed away; and at length mid-day was proclaimed by the iron tongue of the clock at the Loivre. Marguerite started at the sound—hastily rose from her seat—and hurried to her bed-room to arrange her toilet. A quarter of an hour was thus expended—the self-devoted victim decked herself out for slaughter—not in the mere- tricious garb of an alluring coquette—but in the sober and modest vestments befitting a maiden who might be almost said to resemble Jephthah’s daughter, the one being sacrificed by the commands of an imperious necessity, the other by those of a father,—the one issul forth to save a father, the other condemned by a father—but bot sufferers on account of those fathers ! Not a tear stood in Marguerite’s eye as she bade adieu to her heart- broken mother. An unnatural calmness pervaded her countenance— a placidity, that was in itself terrible to gaze upon, usurped the seat of a more expressive agony. ‘*Oh! no—thou shalt not go—thou must not leave me—stay—Oh ! stay—quit not the mother who bore you!’’ cried the distracted parent, as she folded her votive daughter in an agonizing embrace. ‘‘ Stay— Marguerite—rush not upon destruction—death, for us all, will be pre- ferable to your dishonour—Oh ! stay—stay !’’ ‘“‘ Mother!” said Marguerite ina tone scarcely audible, and rendered hoarse with inward emotion: “ again I say that my resolves are inflex- ible—a father’s existence depends upon my courage—filial duty has charged me with an important mission—and that vicarious task shall not be neglected.” Coa stow (©) (CO