He thought of all the sordid, vulgar, but heart-thrilling misery which by his means was brought on Elizabeth; and he sought his heart for excuses for the success for which he had pined. They came ready; no desire of vulgar vengeance had been his; his motives had been exalted, his conduct straightforward. The divine stamp on woman is her maternal character--it was to prove that his idolized mother had not deserted the first and most sacred duty in the world that had urged him--and he could not foresee that the innocent would suffer through his inquiries. The crime must fall on its first promoter--on Falkner's head must be heaped the consequences of his act; all else were guiltless. These reflections, however, only served to cheat his wound of its pain for a time--again other thoughts recurred, the realities, the squalid realities of the scene, in which she, miserable, was about to take a part. The thief-takers and the gyves--the prison, and the public ignominious trial--Falkner was to be subjected to all these indignities, and he well knew that his daughter would not leave his side. "And I, her son, the offspring of these sainted bones--placed here by him--how can I draw near his child! God have mercy on her, for man will have none!" Still he could not be satisfied. "Surely," he thought, "something can be done, and something I will do. Already men are gone, who are to tear him from his home, and to deliver him up to all those vile contrivances devised for the coercion of the lowest of mankind--she will accompany him, while I must remain here. To-morrow these remains will be conveyed to our house--on the following day they are to be interred in the family vault, and I must be present--I am tied, forced to inaction--the privilege of free action taken from me." Hope was awakened, however, as he pursued these thoughts, and recollected the generous, kindly disposition of Lady Cecil, and her attachment to her young friend. He determined to write to her. He felt assured that she would do all in her power to alleviate Elizabeth's sufferings--what she could do, he did not well understand--but it was a relief to him to take some step for the benefit of the devoted daughter. Bitterly as he thought of these things, did he regret that he had ever seen Elizabeth? So complicated was the web of event, that he knew not how to wish any event to have occurred differently; except that he had not trusted to the hollow pretences of his father. He saw at once how the generous and petty-minded can never coalesce--he ought to have acted for himself, by himself; and miserable as in any case the end must have been, he felt that his own open, honourable revenge would have been less cruel in its effects than the malicious pursuit of his vindictive father. CHAPTER XXXVII