Upon the head of my ill-starred parent, it was fated that the phial of wrath should be poured; and, sadder still, the first blow that smote him, came from the hand of one who would have laid down life to avert an hour of suffering from a father he loved so tenderly.
My brother returned; the quarter-master had shaken him by the hand,—I, pressed him to my heart,—and our cottage once more looked what it had ever been—the abiding place of peace and joy. As evening closed, William strolled to his favourite haunt, the cliffs; my father pulled in his easy chair, lighted his pipe, and settled himself in humble luxury beside a well-trimmed fire.
I retired to my own room. Mine were indeed melancholy musing.
I recalled to memory how brief the period of my wedded happiness had been, and sighed to think that in the story of a human life, bliss and misery should be so intimately blended. But I was young, and “gay hope by fancy fed” whispered that there was happiness in store. I rallied my spirits,—wiped every trace of sorrow from my cheek,—and, in another hour, was seated opposite my dear father, and plying my needle as demurely as if I had never listened to a light dragoon, nor given my hand and heart irrevocably away, and sealed that imprudence by a secret ceremony.
A footstep approached the cottage,—the latch was lifted,—and the slender figure of the lawyer filled the door-way.
“You are not busy, Dick?” croaked my uncle Josiah.
“Only with my pipe,” replied my father.
“Then I’ll sit down a little, and take a drop of your Geneva.”
I rose,—handed my uncle a chair,—Josiah took off’ his hat, and seated himself The lawyer having mixed his grog, I resumed my needle-work. Since Seymour had left, never had my heart felt lighter than it did that evening; but from the moment my dreaded uncle announced himself, a weight seemed pressing on my bosom; for every time he spoke, like a serpent’s breath, Josiah’s words seemed to wither the happiness of all who heard them.
“I wonder,” said he, “where that fellow you were so fond of went to?”