The Surgeon's Daughter by Walter Scott (summer beach reads .txt) 📗

“Better death than dishonour,” replied the stern-looking old man, with a voice as harsh as his aspect; “and you, messenger,” he continued, “look what you do, and execute the warrant at your peril.”

“You hear,” said the man, appealing to the Doctor himself, “I must have immediate access to the lady.”

“In a lucky time,” said Mr. Gray, “here comes the town-clerk.—You are very welcome, Mr. Lawford. Your opinion here is much wanted as a man of law, as well as of sense and humanity. I was never more glad to see you in all my life.”

He then rapidly stated the case; and the messenger, understanding the new-comer to be a man of some authority, again exhibited his warrant.

“This is a very sufficient and valid warrant, Dr. Gray,” replied the man of law. “Nevertheless, if you are disposed to make oath, that instant removal would be unfavourable to the lady's health, unquestionably she must remain here, suitably guarded.”

“It is not so much the mere act of locomotion which I am afraid of,” said the surgeon; “but I am free to depone, on soul and conscience, that the shame and fear of her father's anger, and the sense of the affront of such an arrest, with terror for its consequences, may occasion violent and dangerous illness—even death itself.”

“The father must see the daughter, though they may have quarrelled,” said Mr. Lawford; “the officer of justice must execute his warrant though it should frighten the criminal to death; these evils are only contingent, not direct and immediate consequences. You must give up the lady, Mr. Gray, though your hesitation is very natural.”

“At least, Mr. Lawford, I ought to be certain that the person in my house is the party they search for.”

“Admit me to her apartment,” replied the man whom the messenger termed Moncada.

The messenger, whom the presence of Lawford had made something more placid, began to become impudent once more. He hoped, he said, by means of his female prisoner, to acquire the information necessary to apprehend the more guilty person. If more delays were thrown in his way, that information might come too late, and he would make all who were accessary to such delay responsible for the consequences.

“And I,” said Mr. Gray, “though I were to be brought to the gallows for it, protest, that this course may be the murder of my patient.—Can bail not be taken, Mr. Lawford?”

“Not in cases of high treason,” said the official person; and then continued in a confidential tone, “Come, Mr. Gray, we all know you to be a person well affected to our Royal Sovereign King George and the Government; but you must not push this too far, lest you bring yourself into trouble, which every body in Middlemas would be sorry for. The forty-five has not been so far gone by, but we can remember enough of warrants of high treason—ay, and ladies of quality committed upon such charges. But they were all favourably dealt with—Lady Ogilvy, Lady Macintosh, Flora Macdonald, and all. No doubt this gentleman knows what he is doing, and has assurances of the young lady's safety—So you must jouk and let the jaw gae by, as we say.”

“Follow me, then, gentleman,” said Gideon, “and you shall see the young lady;” and then, his strong features working with emotion at anticipation of the distress which he was about to inflict, he led the way up the small staircase, and opening the door, said to Moncada, who had followed him, “This is your daughter's only place of refuge, in which I am, alas! too weak to be her protector. Enter, sir, if your conscience will permit you.”

The stranger turned on him a scowl, into which it seemed as if he would willingly have thrown the power of the fabled basilisk. Then stepping proudly forward, he stalked into the room. He was followed by Lawford and Gray at a little distance. The messenger remained in the doorway. The unhappy young woman had heard the disturbance, and guessed the cause too truly. It is possible she might even have seen the strangers on their descent from the carriage. When they entered the room, she was on her knees, beside an easy chair, her face in a silk wrapper that was hung over it. The man called Moncada uttered a single word; by the accent it might have been something equivalent to wretch; but none knew its import. The female gave a convulsive shudder, such as that by which a half-dying soldier is affected on receiving a second wound. But, without minding her emotion, Moncada seized her by the arm, and with little gentleness raised her to her feet, on which she seemed to stand only because she was supported by his strong grasp. He then pulled from her face the mask which she had hitherto worn. The poor creature still endeavoured to shroud her face, by covering it with her left hand, as the manner in which she was held prevented her from using the aid of the right. With little effort her father secured that hand also, which indeed was of itself far too little to serve the purpose of concealment, and showed her beautiful face, burning with blushes and covered with tears.

“You, Alcalde, and you, Surgeon,” he said to Lawford and Gray, with a foreign action and accent, “this woman is my daughter, the same Zilia Moncada who is signal'd in that protocol. Make way, and let me carry her where her crimes may be atoned for.”

“Are you that person's daughter?” said Lawford to the lady.

“She understands no English,” said Gray; and addressing his patient in French, conjured her to let him know whether she was that man's daughter or not, assuring her of protection if the fact were otherwise. The answer was murmured faintly, but was too distinctly intelligible—“He was her father.”

All farther title of interference seemed now ended. The messenger arrested his prisoner, and, with some delicacy, required the assistance of the females to get her conveyed to the carriage in waiting.

Gray again interfered.—“You will not,” he said, “separate the mother and the infant?”

Zilia de Moncada heard the question, (which, being addressed to the father, Gray had inconsiderately uttered in French,) and it seemed as if it recalled to her recollection the existence of the helpless creature to which she had given birth, forgotten for a moment amongst the accumulated horrors of her father's presence. She uttered a shriek, expressing poignant grief, and turned her eyes on her father with the most intense supplication.

“To the parish with the bastard!”—said Moncada; while the helpless mother sunk lifeless into the arms of the females, who had now gathered round her.

“That will not pass, sir,” said Gideon.—“If you are father to that lady, you must be grandfather to the helpless child; and you must settle in some manner for its future provision, or refer us to some responsible person.”

Moncada looked towards Lawford, who expressed himself satisfied of the propriety of what Gray said.

“I object not to pay for whatever the wretched child may require,” said he; “and if you, sir,” addressing Gray, “choose to take charge of him, and breed him up, you shall have what will better your living.”

The Doctor was about to refuse a charge so uncivilly offered; but