He had
never been weary of testifying his devotion, his passionate love; and
yet, before she had been his wife three months, she left him for
another.
While he stood before the open window, with these bitter thoughts in
his mind, he heard the sound of wheels in the corridor without. The
wheels belonged to an invalid chair, used by Captain Copplestone when
the gout held him prisoner, a self-propelling chair, in which the
captain could make his way where he pleased.
The captain knocked at his old comrade's door.
"Let me in, Oswald" he said; "I want to see you immediately."
"Not this morning, my dear Copplestone; I can't see any one this
morning," answered the baronet.
"You can see _me_, Oswald. I must and will see you, and I shall stop
here till you let me in."
A loud knock at the door with a heavy-headed cane accompanied the close
of his speech.
Sir Oswald opened the door, and admitted the captain, who pushed his
chair dexterously through the doorway.
"Well," said this eccentric visitor, when Sir Oswald had shut the door,
"so you've not been to bed all night?"
"How do you know that?"
"By your looks, for one thing: and by the appearance of your bed, which
I can see through the open door yonder, for another. Pretty goings on,
these!"
"A heavy sorrow has fallen upon me, Copplestone."
"Your wife has run away--that's what you mean, I suppose?"
"What!" cried Sir Oswald.
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