He instantly sat down to his writing-desk, and penned as strong a recommendation as he could possibly compose to Lord Cullamore, after which he threw himself again upon the sofa, and exclaimed: 

“Well, that act is done, and an iniquitous one it is; but no matter, it is gone off to the post, and I’m rid of him.’  Now for Lucy, and my ambition; she is unquestionably with that shameless old woman who could think of marrying at such an age.  She is with her; she will hear of my illness, and as certain as life is life, and death death, she will be here soon.”

In this he calculated aright, and he felt that he did so.  Mrs. Mainwaring, on the evening of their visit to the city, considered it her duty to disclose, fully and candidly, to Lucy, the state of her father’s health, that is, as it appeared to her on their interview.  Lucy, who knew that he was subject to sudden attacks upon occasions of less moment, not only became alarmed, but experienced a feeling like remorse for having, as she said, abandoned him so undutifully.

“I will return immediately,” she said, weeping; “he is ill:  you say he speaks of me tenderly and affectionately—­oh, what have I done!  Should this illness prove serious—­fatal—­my piece of mind were gone forever.  I should consider myself as a parricide—­as the direct cause of his death.  My God! perhaps even now I am miserable for life—­forever—­forever!”

Mrs. Mainwaring soothed her as well as she could, but she refused to hear comfort, and having desired Alley Mahon to prepare their slight luggage, she took an affectionate and tearful leave of Mrs. Mainwaring, bade adieu to her husband, and was about to get into the chaise, which had been ordered from the inn in Wicklow, when Mrs. Mainwaring said: 

“Now, my dear Lucy, if your father should recover, and have recourse to any abuse of his authority, by attempting again to force your inclinations and consummate your misery, remember that my door, my arms, my heart, shall ever be open to you.  I do not, you will observe, suggest any act of disobedience on your part; on the contrary, I am of opinion that you should suffer everything short of the last resort, by which I mean this hateful marriage with Dunroe, sooner than abandon your father’s roof.  This union is a subject on which I must see him again.  Poor Lord Cullamore I respect and venerate, for I have reason to believe that he has, for one contemplated error, had an unhappy if not a remorseful life.  In the meantime, even in opposition to your father’s wishes, I say it, and in confirmation of your strongest prejudices------”

“It amounts to antipathy, Mrs. Mainwaring—­to hatred, to abhorrence.”

“Well, my dear child, in confirmation of them all, I implore, I entreat, I conjure, and if I had authority, I would say, I command you not to unite your fate with that young profligate.”

“Do not fear me, Mrs. Mainwaring; but at present I can think of nothing but poor papa and his illness; I tremble, indeed, to think how I shall find him; and, my God, to reflect that I am the guilty cause of all this!”