The furniture, the plate, the paintings, the lights, were in perfect keeping with each other. In the panorama of life many such a scene may be discovered. It was evidently the dwelling-place of wealth—but not the abode of happiness.
Four persons occupied the chamber, and formed a striking group. The partie carrée consisted of two persons of either sex. On a sofa, a man past the meridian of life seemed in earnest conversation with a lady, who was still in the pride of matronly beauty; the expression of her face was that of settled melancholy; and it appeared that he who sate beside her was offering consolation—but in vain. The lady was my mother—the gentleman, her brother, and mine honoured uncle.
At the opposite side of the apartment the other twain were seated, and thither, after one hurried look at those upon the sofa, my gaze was turned and there remained. My father, with Isidora on his knee, encircled her waist with his solitary arm, while her head was resting on his bosom, and her hands clasped wildly round his neck.—Oh! what a change a few brief months had made! The sweet bud of promise I had first seen in its mountain solitude, had flowered into loveliness—and the woman, not the girl, was before me. Her face was turned towards the window, and as the lights fell upon it, every feature was distinct as if I stood beside her. Her’s was not the calm sorrow of my mother—it was the wilder outbreak of the youthful heart, which vents its sufferings in sobs and tears; and while my uncle and his sister conversed in whispers, the voices of my father and my mistress were audible outside the window. I could have easily suspected the cause of all this grief, had I but looked upon the table and the floor. On the former lay an open post-bag, and several letters with broken and unbroken seals: on the latter, a newspaper was spread out at my father’s foot, and, no doubt, the evil tidings it had contained occasioned the anguish and distress I witnessed.
“Oh! tell me not to hope,” exclaimed the fair girl, “I cannot dare not.”
It was painful to listen to the reply. The voice endeavoured to assume a steadiness which its broken tones belied; and the feelings of the father and the soldier conflicted sadly, as the tongue held out false and feeble hopes, which the speaker’s heart secretly believed to be illusory.
“Grieve not, my sweet girl,” said the veteran, “He is only returned ‘missing.’ No doubt Hector has been made prisoner, carried into the place, probably wounded—”
“Wounded!” exclaimed the listener, “No—no—no—Dead dead and I am for ever wretched”—and again the head of the fair sufferer sank on the bosom which had supported it before.
I cannot describe my feelings; my heart was bursting to announce my safety, and I only hesitated to know how it could be most safely done—a moment ended the doubt.
“Do not despair, Isidora—my own, own daughter.” The words came choakingly from his lips—the word daughter was too trying the chances were that he was now childless—and he hastily turned his head away. I saw a tear stealing down his cheek—and when the soldier’s eye is moist, the heart, indeed, is full.
“Cheer up, my dearest Isidora, all may yet be well—Hector may live—”