Attempt > Volume 1 and Select writings

THE ATTEMPT
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him for a time. The note was a very sad one, filled with sorrowful forebodings about
her father, whom the writer feared would not be long spared to her, and Charles, as he
read, felt more than ever how much she needed comfort, and inwardly vowed anew that,
come what would, he would be true to her. Depressed and saddened by the events of
that day, he slowly retraced his steps to that home which he felt must be his no longer,
and trusting that he might see Kate, he betook himself, on entering the house, to her
especial sanctum, a small room fitted up after her own fancy, and where she spent most
of her time, when not with her father. He hoped that she would once more listen to
his sorrows, and in some measure sympathize -with him, and then he would nerve
himself to say farewell to the dear companion of his childhood, who had shared every
joy, however trivial, and had soothed every pain, however sharp ; and on the morrow,
as he had arranged to leave his father’s house before any of its inmates were astir, go
at once to Alice, tell her his whole story, which now he wished he had done before,
and entreat her to be his, that he might have the right to protect her when, as she
feared, she would so soon be left an orphan, and her father’s dying moments would be
comforted by the assurance of his child’s safety. Such were his plans, but, alas! for
their fulfilment!
When he entered the house he was met by Catherine, who was weeping
unrestrainedly, and when he tried to comfort her, she upbraided him as the cruel
originator of all her sorrow, telling him in passionate language that her father was
dying, and he had been the cause of it. So violent and unconnected was his sister’s
story, that it was some time before Charles could understand what really was wrong,
but at last he learnt that his father had been seized with paralysis, brought on, the
doctor said, by violent emotion; that he was lying speechless, attended by his confessor
and two medical men; and that if he even heard his son’s name mentioned, it
brought on such paroxysms as, was feared, might hasten his end. Poor Charles was
nearly distracted on learning these sad tidings, and to none could he turn for comfort.
All looked coldly on him, and no one seemed to think that he even felt grieved for
his father’s illness. Father Clement was the only one who had the least consideration
for him. As he was sitting alone in the deserted library, trying in vain to catch
some sounds from the sick-room above that might give him hope, the priest entered,
and sitting down beside him, reasoned with him, and bade him not blame himself as
he was doing, for that, no doubt, good would come out of this trial, and that in the
meantime his honoured master was somewhat better. Charles felt most thankful for
these tidings, and when the priest told him that if he would cross the Frith, and
proceed to the ancient town of Dunfermline, he would direct him to the house of a