“Don’t provoke me into anger, Flora, by talking in such a childish manner, and placing reliance upon an exploded superstition. Women are so fond of prognosticating evil, that I believe they are disappointed if it does not happen as they say.”
“Well, reason may find fault with us if she will,” said Flora; “but we are all more or less influenced by these mysterious presentiments; and suffer trifling circumstances to give a colouring for good or evil to the passing hour. My dear, cross philosopher, hand me the toast.”
Flora’s defence of her favourite theory was interrupted by the arrival of two very dear friends, who had come from a distance, through the storm, to bid her good-bye.
Mr. Hawke, the elder of the twain, was an author of considerable celebrity in his native county, and a most kind and excellent man. He brought with him his second son, a fine lad of twelve years of age, to place under Lyndsay’s charge. James Hawke had taken a fancy to settle in Canada, and a friend of the family, who was located in the Backwoods of that far region, had written to his father, that he would take the lad, and initiate him in the mysteries of the axe, if he could find a person to bring him over. Lyndsay had promised to do this, and the boy, who had that morning parted with his mother and little brothers and sisters, for the first time in his life, in spite of the elastic spirits of youth, looked sad and dejected.
Mr. Hawke’s companion was a young Quaker, who had known Flora from a girl, and had always expressed the greatest interest in her welfare.
Adam Mansel was a handsome, talented man, whose joyous disposition, and mirthful humour, could scarcely be trammelled down by the severe conventional rules of the Society to which he belonged. Adam’s exquisite taste for music, and his great admiration for horses and dogs, savoured rather of the camp of the enemy. But his love for these forbidden carnalities was always kept within bounds, and only known to a few very particular friends.
“Friend Flora,” he said, taking her hand, and giving it a most hearty and cordial shake, “this is a sad day to those who have known thee long, and loved thee well; and a foul day for the commencement of such an important journey. Bad beginnings, they say, make bright endings; so there is hope for thee yet in the stormy cloud.”
“Flora, where are your omens now?” said Lyndsay, triumphantly. “Either you or friend Adam must be wrong.”
“Or the proverb I quoted, say rather,” returned Adam. “Proverbs often bear a double meaning, and can be interpreted as well one way as the other. The ancients were cunning fellows in this respect, and were determined to make themselves true prophets at any rate.”
“What a miserable day,” said the poet, turning from the window, where he had been contemplating thoughtfully the gloomy aspect of things without. His eye fell sadly upon his son. “It is enough to chill the heart.”