His murmurs were, perhaps, natural; for those who concede least to the feelings of others invariably exact most for their own.
It is true, Lord H----, occupied with thoughts that engrossed him altogether, dismissed the aide-de-camp without remembrance of his needs as well as without any feeling of resentment, and omitted a courtesy which no resentment assuredly would have curtailed. But the young man, swelling with indignation and offended dignity, mounted sullenly, and proceeded but slowly on his way. He had not gone one-half the distance, however, between Mr. Prevost's house and Fort Edward, when Lord H---- and the commissary passed him at great speed; and he did not reach head-quarters till half an hour after they had announced their own return.
[CHAPTER XXXVII.]
The storm, prognosticated from the red aspect of the setting sun on the night before, had not descended when Edith Prevost left the door of her father's house. No raindrops fell, no wind even stirred the trees; and it was only a sort of misty obscurity to the westward which gave token, to eyes well acquainted with the forest, that the promise of the preceding sunset would yet be fulfilled. Overhead, all was clear and blue; and the sun, though some white haze hung round its broad disk, was powerful for the season of the year.
Edith's companions were only Chando the negro, the good woman Sister Bab, whose kindness, faithfulness, and intelligence had all been tried, and Woodchuck, who refused to take a horse from the stable, but set out on foot by Edith's side.
"You can't canter a step of the way, Miss Edith," he said; "so I can keep up with you, I guess; for the road, such as it is, is better fitted for two feet than four."
As she turned from the door, tears were in Edith's eyes, arising from many a mingled source. She had seen her father and him whom she loved as well, though differently, depart suddenly to danger and to battle. Her brother was far away, and she could not help thinking him still in peril. Not only was the future of all uncertain--for so the future of every one is--but the uncertainty was dark, and, as it were, more tangible than is generally the case with the dim, misty approach of the coming time. There was not only a cloud, but the cloud was threatening.
Nor was this all. There are times in the course of almost every life, when some little event, some marking point in the journey of existence, causes the mind to pause and review the past--to compare the present state with a state gone by. It is rarely that the contemplation has not something painful in it, both on account of the heart's self-deceit and waywardness, which teaches us always to estimate gains less than losses; and, also, because in our warfare with the world (except in very early youth) the gains, however highly we may estimate them, are, as in all other warfares, really less than the losses. We may have attained that which we desire; but, nine times out of ten, we find that we have over-appreciated the object; and, when we come to sum up the cost in health, happiness, purity of mind, exertion, care, anxiety, and all the pieces of coin with which man purchases success, we frequently find that we have bought the victory too dear--that that which we have obtained was not worth all we have exchanged for it.
The moment of departure from her father's door was one of those pausing-places of the mind for Edith Prevost. She did not cast her thoughts far back: she took in but a little range; six months was the limit. But she remembered how calmly happy she had been in that dwelling six months before. Her father, her brother, were both there with her; sweet natural affections had garlanded the doorposts, and tranquil hours of unagitated enjoyment had been the sunshine of her path. All that was necessary, much that was superfluous, she had possessed; and if she, as all other mortal beings, had not been absolutely content--if she, like every other girl, had felt a want, a vacancy of the heart, a capability of love unexercised, which neither filial nor fraternal affection could supply,--still it had been but a vague, indefinite feeling that there was something more in life than she had yet known--one crowning blessing not yet possessed. She had been very happy, though there had been the one thing wanting.
Now, that one thing had been attained--Heaven knows without her seeking it. She loved, and was beloved. But, oh! how sadly changed was all the rest! Her brother afar, with a dark fate hanging over him--her father gone upon a path of peril. And love, what had love left her? Anxiety, keen, terrible anxiety, which might well counterbalance for some portion, at least, of all the sweetness of the bright blessing.