“Say the cause of justice, if you please, Lucy—­the rights of a landlord.”

“But, papa, if the unfortunate tenantry by whose toil and labor we live in affluence and; luxury do not find a friend in their landlord, who is, by his relation to them, their natural protector, to whom else in the wide world can they turn?  This, however, is not the subject on which I wish to speak.  I do believe that Thomas Corbet is deep, designing, and vindictive.  He was always a close, dark man, without either cheerfulness or candor.  Beware, therefore, of him and of his family.  Nay, he has a capacity for being dangerous; for it strikes me, sir, that his intellect is as far above his position in life as his principles are beneath it.”

There was much in what Lucy said that forced itself upon her father’s reflection, much that startled him, and a good deal that gave him pain.  He paused for a considerable time after she had ceased to speak, and said,

“I will think of these matters, Lucy.  I will probably do more; and if I find that they have played me foul by imposing upon me—­” He paused abruptly, and seemed embarrassed, the truth being that he knew and felt how completely he was in their power.

“Now, papa,” said Lucy, “after having heard my opinion of this young man—­after the wanton outrage upon all female delicacy and virtue of which he has been guilty, I trust you will not in future attempt to obtrude him upon me.  I will not see him, speak to him, nor acknowledge him; and such, let what may happen, is my final determination.”

“So far, Lucy, I will accede to your wishes.  I shall take care that he troubles you with no more wicked exhortations.”

“Thank you, dear papa; this is kind, and I feel it so.”

“Now,” said her father, after she had withdrawn, “how am I to act?  It is not impossible but there may be much truth in what she says.  I remember, however, the death of the only son that could possibly be imposed on me in the sense alluded to her.  He surely does not live; or if he does, the far-sighted sagacity which made the account of his death a fraud upon my credulity, for such selfish and treacherous purposes, is worthy of being concocted in the deepest pit of hell.  Yet that some one of them has betrayed me, is evident from the charges brought against me by this stranger to whom Lucy is so devotedly attached, and which charges Thomas Corbet could not clear up.  If one of these base but dexterous villains, or if the whole gang were to outwit me, positively I could almost blow my very brains out, for allowing myself, after all, to become their dupe and plaything.  I will think of it, however.  And again, there is the likeness; there does seem to be a difficulty in that; for, beyond all doubt, my legitimate child, up until his disappearance, did not bear in his countenance a single feature of mine but bore a strong resemblance to his mother; whereas this Tom is my born image!  Yet I like him.