“That I will never consent to it,” she replied, firmly.
“Very well—you will not. Then it must be done without your consent. I am fixed; neither your refusal, or your tears, will avail any thing; so you may as well make up your mind to yield, madam, without further argument.” So saying, Mr. Oakly turned coolly on his heel and left the room.
Now wo to the poor wife—for well did she know her husband’s unfaltering determination. If it is possible for a woman to be too amiable, Mrs. Oakly was so; while her husband, far from appreciating such a character, ruled over her like some petty despot. Her only hope now rested upon the belief that the widow could never be induced to give up one of her children for the unfortunate Agatha.
“O, would she were ten times more repulsive!—my poor child!” cried the unhappy mother, “I should still love her, but she would shrink from an object so unsightly.”
It was at the close of a chill, rainy day, near the middle of September, that a handsome traveling-carriage drew up at the door of a small inn, in a retired country town. Such an occurrence was rare; and no sooner, therefore, was it seen entering the long street of straggling houses, than it was followed by a noisy set of bare-footed urchins, yelping dogs, and idle loungers, so that by the time it reached the inn, a motley assemblage was formed around it.
As the carriage stopped, the glass was let down; a thin, sallow face looked sharply forth, and a voice not the most gentle, demanded,
“Here, some of you—can you tell me where one Widow Oakly lives?”
The landlord, who by this time had reached the scene of wonder, imperatively thrust aside all other aspirants to the honor of answering the stranger, and himself began.
“The Widow Oakly—ah, yes. The Widow Oakly you said, sir?”