“When did she go?”
“At the beginning of the year—in January.”
“She left you six months ago, and in all that time you never told me she was gone.”
“I did not want you to know, for fear you should be worried or vexed.”
“I should have been both; but you ought to have told me. I had a right to know. I left you in her charge, Isola. You are much too young and too pretty to be living alone without some kind of dragon—and I knew Tabitha would be a very gentle dragon—a good motherly soul, able to wait upon you and look after your health, and yet grim enough to keep marauders off the premises. Indeed, my pet, you should have let me know of her departure without an hour’s delay. She was very wrong to go. It was a breach of faith I could never have expected.”
“Pray don’t be angry with her, Martin.”
“But I am angry. I have a right to be angry. I’ll go to Falmouth to-morrow, and have it out with her.”
“No, no, pray don’t! We parted good friends. She can say nothing to you more than she said to me. Pray don’t let there be any bad blood between you. What could be gained by your going? To-morrow, too—our first day together!”
“Well, it shall not be till the day after; but go I must. To-morrow I will revel in the delights of home, and my dear one’s society. To-morrow I will be drunken with joy. The day after will do for Tabitha.”
“I think it is making a great deal too much of her to go to Falmouth on purpose to see her,” said Isola, with a grain of pettiness; and then, after a pause, during which the colonel had been trying to appease a sharp appetite with the muscular leg of an elderly fowl, she said nervously—