Returning to her home,
weighing the circumstances, she resolves to devise some method of
ascertaining the true position of the children. "Women are not to be
outdone," she says to herself.
We must again beg the reader's indulgence while accompanying us in a
retrograde necessary to the connection of our narrative. When we
left Mr. M'Fadden at the crossing, more than two years ago, he was
labouring under the excitement of a wound he greatly feared would
close the account of his mortal speculations.
On the morning following that great political gathering, and during
the night Harry had so singularly disappeared, the tavern was rife
with conjectures. On the piazza and about the "bar-room" were a few
stupefied and half-insensible figures stretched upon benches, or
reclining in chairs, their coarse garments rent into tatters, and
their besotted faces resembling as many florid masks grouped
together to represent some demoniacal scene among the infernals;
others were sleeping soundly beside the tables, or on the lawn. With
filthy limbs bared, they snored with painful discord, in superlative
contempt of everything around. Another party, reeking with the fumes
of that poisonous drug upon which candidates for a people's favours
had built their high expectations, were leaning carelessly against
the rude counter of the "bar-room," casting wistful glances at the
fascinating bottles so securely locked within the lattice-work in
the corner. Oaths of touching horror are mingling with loud calls
for slave attendants, whose presence they wait to quench their
burning thirst.
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