No well-dressed servants welcome him with
their smiles and grimaces; no Franconia greets him with her
vivacity, her pleasing conversation, her frankness and fondness for
the old servants. No table is decked out with the viands of the
season-Marston's viands have turned into troubles,--loneliness reigns
throughout. It is night, and nothing but the dull sound of the
keeper's tread breaks the silence. His (Maxwell's) mission is a
delicate one. It may be construed as intrusive, he thinks. But its
importance outweighs the doubt, and, though he approaches with
caution, is received with that embrace of friendship which a
gentleman can claim as his own when he feels the justice of the
mission of him who approaches, even though its tenor be painful.
Maxwell hesitated for a few moments, looked silently upon the scene.
Trouble had already left its prints of sadness upon Marston's
countenance; the past, full of happy associations, floated in his
mind; the future--ah! that was--. Happily, at that moment, he had
been contemplating the means by which he could save Clotilda and the
children. He rises, approaches Maxwell, hands him a chair, listens
to his proposal. "If I can assist you, we will save them," concludes
Maxwell.
"That," he replies, doubtingly, "my good friend, has engaged my
thoughts by night and day--has made me most uneasy. Misfortune likes
sympathy; your words are as soothing as praiseworthy. I will defend
my children if every creditor call me swindler.
Pages:
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241