The Soldier's Wife — page 126: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE SOLDIERS WIFE derick suggesting that when in a few weeks’ 107 The boy, who had hithertc been playing at time ber health, which had recently suffered/the farther end of the room, now timidly a much, shculd be completely restcred, she might proached his parents: for he thought that they earry out the other part of her plan and pro- cure needle-work. “ And now,” he observed, when the discussion of theif affairs was over, “I am going to tell yeu, my dear Lucy, what I purpose to do. I intend to write to the Postmaster-General, and inform him that I have every reason to believe the villain Bates opens the letters which pass through his hands. How could he have known we were at Calais, unless he had opened that letter which you had penned to your father “Oh! fatal, fatal ietter!” ejaculated Lucy: “would to heaven I had never written it?” “Do not blame yourself, my dearest wife,” responded her husband: “you have no need to do so. But to return to what | was saying. That letter which deluded us away from Calats, could only have been written by some person who had read the one which you addressed to your father. We know that Bates must have tampered with the correspondence between Gerald Redburn and your father seven years ago—or else he could not have written that let- ter to Sergeant Langley which made me aware of what was going on. Oh! to be revenged ypon that villain—to be revenged upon him: Oh, it will prove the sweetest moment of my life !” Our hero spoke with a sudden access of bit- terness that positively frightened Lucy. She started—she gazed in wild and anguished dis- may upon him: for there was something of almost fiend-like implacability in his words and his looks at that instant. . “Much as we have suffered—deeply as you have suffered, my beloved husband,” she said at length giving utterance to her feelings—and she spoke in a low tremulous voice as she looked up with plaintive earnestness into his counte- nance,—* yet revenge is an evil sentiment to cherish. Oh, Frederick! I beseech you—lI be- seech you to banish it from your heart—that heart which is so good, so magnanimous!” “That was, you mean, Lucy!” he exclaimed: “but it is warped—cruelly warped towards all the world, except yourself and our dear child.” “Oh! say not so—speak not thus, dear Frede- rick,” murmured Lucy, now stricken with the saddest presentiments. “At all events do no- thing rashly: take time to refleet-——Your mind,” she continued hesitatingly, “ will soon recover a healthier tone——” “Lucy!” suddenly interrupted our hero, “1 have suffered enough to change the nature of asaint! It is not alone for myself that I feel so deeply: it is for you and our dear child that I have thus suffered. Oh! when I think of the the unparalleled were quarrelling—although he kad never in his life seen the slightest dispute arise between them. But the supposition was new natural enough on his part, as he could not possibly comprehend wherefore they were thus speaking in so excited a manner. : “My dear child,” exclaimed Lucy, snatching nim up 1n her arms, “do not look thus sorrow- fal.” “But papa was scolding you,” he said, be- ginning to cry. “No, no—your papa never scolded me!” and at this assurance the little fellow’s countenance brightened up. ‘We must talk this matter over alone, Lucy,” sald Lonsdale, having caressed his little son “Take him to the woman of the house for a few minutes, and let her buy him him a toy.” The child was thus disposed of for a little while; and when Lucy returned to the cham- ber, she found her husband pacing to and fro In a moody manner, with his arms folded across his chest. He did not immediately perceive her re-appearance ; and her ear caught an eja- culation which fell half subdued frém_ his lips, and which sent a fresh thrill of anguished pre- sentiment through her heart. “The miscreant—I will be avenged, I will be avenged!”—such were the words which Lucey had thus caught; and almost immediate- ly afterwards Frederick saw that she had come back. “Now, my dear wiie,” he continued, taking her hand and pressing it in -his own, “you must permit me to have my way in this. I feel that the only solace to my wounded spirit will be the punishment of that remorse Jess villain. Surely, surely, you, dear Lucy, must hate him as I do?” “If he came starving to our door,” she re- sponded, “I do believe that I should have the courage to refuse him a morsel of bread: and still I have not the heart—forgive me for say- ing so, dear Frederick—to take steps of niy own accord to involve a fellow-creature in ruin. [ ain sure that when the sense of bitter suffering has somewhat yielded to the lapse of time on your part—tor time has a healing influence—” “Oh! there are some wounds,” ejaculated Frederick, “ which time can never heal! But pray, dear Lucy, think not the worse of me if I persist in doing that which an unconquerable impulse urges me to accomplish.” “JT will say no more, my dear husband,” she rejoined: but it was with a profound mournful- ness alike of tone and voice that she spoke. Lonsdale hastened to take writing materials: and seating himself at the table, he penned a 2 which we so recently possessed—|letter to the Postinaster-General, expressing & yin which we dwelt—and then of|conviction, from various circumstances which treachery which lured us had come to his knowledge, that Obadiah thence, it is enough to drive me mad—My God, | Bates, of the post-office at Oakleigh, was ac it is enough to drive me mad!” “Frederick, [ beseech you not: to talk thus,” customed to violate the sanctity. of the corres pondence passing through his hands. Lucey said Lucy, unable to restrain the tears that|watched her husband with the most painful were pouring down her cheeks. say—-what can I do to comfort you? what can I de ” Oh, “What can I|feelings as he penned this letter. She saw that he gloated over the work he was doing; and when she reflected how changed his nature CORMIE OOOLKS (E(O)