Hardscrabble; or, the fall of Chicago. a tale of Indian warfare by John Richardson


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Page 67

It was a lovely evening towards the close of May, and
after a somewhat sultry morning which had been devoted
to a ride on horseback along the lakeshore--Mrs. Headley
and Mrs. Elmsley, who had accompanied them, having returned
home, that Ronayne and his betrothed sat in the little
summer-house already described. Mrs. Heywood who had been
so far recovered from her weakness by the change of air,
as to take slight exercise in the garden, supported by
her daughter, and the young officer, had on this occasion
expressed a wish to join them, in order that she might
inhale the soft breeze that blew from the south, and
enjoy once more the scenery of the long reach of the
river, which wound its serpentine course from the direction
of the farm. To this desire no other objection was offered,
than what was suggested by her companions, from an
apprehension that the fatigue of the ascent would be too
great for her. She, however, persisted in her wish,
declaring that she felt herself quite strong enough--an
assertion for which her returning color gave some evidence.
They ceased to oppose her. It was the first time the
invalid had been in the summer-house, since the same
period the preceding spring, and naturally associating
the recollection of her husband, with the familiar objects
in the distance, she took her daughter's hand, and said
in a low and husky voice, that proved how much she had
overrated her own strength:

"How is it, Maria, my love, that we have seen nothing of
your father, lately? I have never known him, since we
have been in this part of the country, to be so long
absent from us at one time."

"Nay, dear mamma," returned the pained girl, the tears
starting to her eyes, in spite of her efforts to restrain
them, "I do not exactly know what can detain him. Perhaps
he is not at the farm," and here her tears forced their
way--"you know, dearest mamma, that he is very fond of
long hunting excursions."

"Yes, but, my child, why do you weep? Surely there is
nothing in that to produce such emotion. He will soon be
back again."

"Oh! yes, I hope so. Forgive me, my dear mamma, but I
have a very bad head-ache, and never felt more nervous
than I do this evening. Perhaps it is the effect of my
ride in the heat of the sun. Shall we go on. It is nearly
sunset, and I dread your being exposed to the night-air."

"Oh! it is so delicious," softly returned the invalid;
"I feel as if I had not lived for the last twelve months,
until now. Only a little while longer, shall I not, Mr.
Ronayne? Perhaps I may never have an opportunity of
ascending to this summer-house again."

During this short conversation, trifling in itself, but
conveying, under the circumstances, so much subject for
deep and painful reflections, the young officer had
evinced much restlessness of manner, yet without interposing
any other remark than to join Miss Heywood's entreaties
that her mother would suffer herself to be conducted
home, before the dew should begin to fall. In order,
moreover, as much as possible to leave them uninterrupted
in the indulgence of their feelings, he had from the
first risen, and stood with his back to them, within the
entrance of the summer house, and was now, with a view
to drown their conversation to his own ear, whistling to
Loup Garou, sitting on his haunches outside the garden-gate,
looking fixedly at him.

Touched by the account he had received of the fidelity
of the dog, he, had, with the consent of Sergeant Nixon,
who was glad to secure for his favorite so kind a protector,
become possessed of him from the moment of his return
home; and time, which had in some degree blunted the
sorrow of the animal for the loss of one master, rendered
equally keen his instinct of attachment for the other.
Within the month he had been his, every care had been
taken by Ronayne himself, as well as by his servant, to
wean the mourner from the grave of Le Noir, on which,
for the first few days, he had lain, absorbed in
grief--refusing all food, until, yielding at length to
the voice of kindness, his memory of the past seemed to
have faded wholly away.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Tue 10th Feb 2026, 15:40