Sir Oswald abandoned himself to despair.
There was no longer any hope: his wife had fled from him. Bitter,
indeed, was the penalty which he was called upon to pay for his
romantic marriage--his blind confidence in the woman who had fascinated
and bewitched him. He bowed his head beneath the blow, and alone,
hidden from the cruel gaze of the world, he resigned himself to his
misery.
All that night he sat alone, his head buried in his clasped hands,
stunned and bewildered by his agony.
His valet, Joseph Millard, knocked at the door at the usual hour,
anxious to assist at his master's toilet; but the door was securely
locked, and Sir Oswald told his servant that he needed no help. He
spoke in a firm voice; for he knew that the valet's ear would be keen
to mark any evidence of his misery. When the man was gone, he rose up
for the first time, and looked across the sunlit woods.
A groan of agony burst from his lips as he gazed upon that beautiful
landscape.
He had brought his young wife to be mistress of this splendid domain.
He had shown her that fair scene; and had told her that she was to be
queen over all those proud possessions until the day of her death. No
hand was ever to rob her of them. They were the free gift of his
boundless love! to be shared only by her children, should heaven bless
her and her husband with inheritors for this ancient estate.
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