Untitled

booksnow2.scholarsportal.info

Untitled

412 TYLNEY HALL.

the cushion beneath my feet ! seat me thus upon a sofa,

and you shall see a score languishing for the sign of my

finger that invites the favoured one to my side." An ap-

propriate motion of the hand accompanied the last sentence,

and the sparkling eye, and flushing cheek of the speaker,

betrayed that the picture of the future was but a reflection

of past triumphs.

"

Never," said the Creole, speaking as much to himself

as his companion, ' f never :

it might do in St. Christopher's,

but not here ;

"

even

a vagrant a gaol bird, marked with stripes

His auditor started to her feet like a storm :

personified

her brows loured, her eyes lightened, and her voice thun-

dered. " Dare not, Walter Tyrrel," she cried, ' f dare not

to degrade your own mother. Such words as you have

used should sear your lips ! Down on your knee down,

and beg my pardon. Let the whole world beside fail me

"

in respect, but I will have ! yours

"

Peace, woman, peace," cried the Creole, with equal

vehemence, and likewise rising from his seat.

" But mad,

or not mad, there is no one here to heed your ravings.

Now hearken yourself. Mother of mine, or mother not

mine, makes no difference. Granting you to be what you

allege, my father did not separate himself from you without

some good reason of his own ; and I mean dutifully

to walk in his steps ; but out of respect to him, I will

consent to allow you a decent competence; but it must be

on one condition, that you return to the Western Islands,

and place the Atlantic between me and yourself."

So saying, he made a movement to leave the hut, but

Marguerite anticipated his intention, and resumed her old

position in the ' c

doorway You pass not here," she cried,

"

except over my body, till I am recognised."

"

I have named my terms," answered the Creole, deliberately

folding his arms, in token of his determination. "If

I call you mother, it must be when you are in St. Kitts."

A sharp shrill cry burst from it Marguerite, sounded

like a trumpet note of retreat from a field of battle, where

she had lost her all. But she fought as she fled. " Wretch!"

she

"

cried, cold-blooded wretch, unworthy of father or of

More magazines by this user
Similar magazines