The Soldier's Wife — page 178: what you’re looking at

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

, THE SOLDIER’S WIFE. disagreeable companions. The distance from Manchester to Midcleton was about eighty miles: the wagon only went at the slow rate of about four miles an hour, exclusive of stop- pages—and these were frequent. Altogether it wok nearly four-an=-twenty hours to reach the piace of destination. We will not dwell upon the particulars of tls, route: suffice it to ery that every possible discomfort was endured by poor Lucy—while on the other hand she dd her best to make jer son feel as little as possible the inconvenie:zes and annoyances of this tedious, wearisome, ignominious mode of traveling. t was about six o’clock on the following morning that the huge wain entered the town of Middleton. The streets were almost com- pletely deserted: it was still too early for more than a few stragglers to be abroad. Cheerless indaed was the “aspect of the sleeping town; and Lucy, who had given all her warmest gar- ments to little Frederick to wrap him up dur- ing the night, was nearly perished with the cold. Indeed the chill had appeared to pene- trate to the very marrow of her bones; her tecth chattered—her limbs were stiff-——she felt entirely wretched. The wagon stopped at a public-house, which seemed to be one of the only places as yet open at that hour in the morning; and here Lucy was constrained to take up hertemporary quarters. It was some time before a dirty, slinshod drab of a girl, who seemed but haif awake, could coax the fire to light in the room to which she conducted Mrs. Lonsdale and Freddy: then it was another haif- hour before they could be accommodated with a bed-chamber wherein to perform their abln- tions; and quite another hour after that, before éi< slightest vreparations for breakfast were made. However, at length tne nre tnrew out a geiial warmth—a somewhat more comforta- ple meal than could have been expected from first appearances, was served up—and Lucy smiled as cheerfully as she could, in order to prevent her beloved boy from catching the in- fection of her own low spirits. There was at least one source of gratification—the wearisome journey was over, and a saving of at least thirty shillings had been accomplished by tak- ing that mode of conv eyance. After breakfast Lucy sallied forth with Fred- erick in search of a lodging. Nearly eight years had elapsed since she was last at Middle- ton: that was when she had accompanied nor father on the memorable journey to Coven- try on the occasion when he sought to compel her to wed Gerald Redburn. She knew Mid- 1eton well; every street was familiar to her; and as she now passed.through those thorough- fares, they irresistibly revived the recollections of other times. She sought a poor part of the town: for she required but a humble lodging and after some research she at length found what she wanted. A single room, ready fur- nished at half-a-crown a week, was thus secur- ed in the dwelling of an old couple, and where there were no other lodgers. Lucy was on her way back to the public- “house to vay her bill and have her boxes forwarded to her new home, when, as she was turning she corner of 157 .a street—holumg little Freddy by the hand she encountered her father. But, heavenst how altered was he! His countenance bore the unmistakable signs of intemperance: his breath indicated that he had already taken a dram that morning. Though dressed in good clothes, his appearance was slovenly and dirty —his linen was soiled—he looked, in short the confirmed drunkard. A faint ery of mingled joy and suspense burst from Lucy’s lips: for she did not instantaneous- ly perceive how very much altered was his ap- pearance—and the hope sprang up in her heart that she would not be rejected now. This hope, however, was blended with an apprchen- sion that it might be otherwise. Mr. Davis gazed upon her “with that kind of vacant stare which characterizes the drunkard; and she knew not from the nature of his look whether the hope or the fear would be realized. But now at a glance she perceived how changed he was; and bursting into tears, she seized his hand. murmuring, ‘‘ Father—dear father—will you not forgive me?” ** No—never!” he suddenly exclaimed, snatch- ing away that hand—retreating a pace or two and stopping short again. Little Frederick looked up into his mother’s countenance with some degree of alarm: and when he saw that she was weeping, he clung to the skirts of her dress, begging her to come away—tor he liked not the look of the individ- ual whom she had called her father. “No,” continued Davis, stern and implaca- ble: “the word forgiveness, Lucy, shall never be spoken by my lps. Years ago, at Ports- mouth, | gave you the lust chance: I shall not renew it. As you have made your bed, so you mer le init. You might be a lady at this moment: what are you? You look pale and careworn: have you yet come to your right senses in respect to the course you took? Can you meet my eyes and tell me you are stihl happy with ycur husband?” Lucy could give no response: the tears were streaming down her cheeks—her bosom was convulsed with sobs. She leant against a wall for support, with her son still clinging to her in affright. ‘“T understand that your husband’s regiment is coming here in a few days,” resumed her fae ther; ‘‘and business keeps me in this town. Tell him, should he meet me, to beware how he ventures to address me: for I will spurn him as | would a dog. And you, Lucy—the next time we may chance to encounter each other, do you pass me by as you would any other stranger.” Thus speaking, Mr. Davis turned abruptly away, and plunged into the nearest publics house. Fortunately, the scene we have just described took place in a secluded part of the town; otherwise it was but toc well calculated to attract disagreeable notice. For a few moe ments Lucy was unable to command her feels ings. Oh! she felt that her circumstances were precisely those in which her father’s forgiveness —if indeed he had anything to forgive—but at all events a reconciliation with him, would have been a source of comfort and solace! I (SOLU! 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