He started as she entered, and then stared
at her between his dazed wits and a mute inquiry that she could
understand.
"He has not come, papa. And mamma--oh! she is severe."
Vesta, trembling at the throat a moment, rushed into her father's
wide-open arms, and buried the sob in his breast.
"Poor soul! Poor lamb! Poor thing!" he said, over and over, while his
temper slowly rose, that seldom rose of recent years, since pleasure and
carelessness had taken its masculine sting away, but Vesta felt his
tones change while he petted her, and at last heard him say, hoarsely:
"By God!"
"Sh--h!" she whispered, raising her hand to his mouth.
"I will kill somebody," he went on, finishing his sentence, and as she
drew away he strode across the room and back again, a noble exhibition
of passion that had a noble origin, in fatherly pity.
"Don't lose your true pride, papa, after you have persevered so long,"
Vesta said. "It is Sunday. Do you think he will come? What can have
happened?"
"He will either come or fight me," Judge Custis remarked. "I have tried
to be a peaceable man and Christian magistrate, albeit a poor hypocrite
in some, things, but I am pushed too far. My wife's smallness is worse
than insanity and wickedness put together. Between her and this
money-broking fiend, and my neglected child entrapped into such a
marriage, by God! I will clean my old duelling arms, and appeal to
injustice itself to set me even.
Pages:
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173