The sojourn of Mrs. L’Oiseau and Jacquelina at Luckenough was an experiment on the part of the commodore.  He did not mean to commit himself hastily, as in the case of his sudden choice of Edith as his heiress.  He intended to take a good, long time for what he called “mature deliberation”—­often one of the greatest enemies to upright, generous, and disinterested action—­to hope, faith, and charity, that I know of, by the way.  Commodore Waugh also determined to have his own will in all things, this time at least.  He had the vantage ground now, and was resolved to keep it.  He had caught Sans Souci young, before she could possibly have formed even a childish predilection for one of the opposite sex, and he was determined to raise and educate a wife for his beloved Grim.

CHAPTER VI.

The blighted heart.

In February the deepest snow storm fell that had fallen during the whole winter.  The roads were considered quite impassable by carriages, and the family at Luckenough were blocked up in their old house.  Yet one day, in the midst of this “tremendous state of affairs,” as the commodore called it, a messenger from Benedict arrived at Luckenough, the bearer of a letter to Mrs. Waugh, which he refused to intrust to any other hands but that lady’s own.  He was, therefore, shown into the presence of the mistress, to whom he presented the note.  Mrs. Waugh took it and looked at it with some curiosity—­it was superscribed in a slight feminine hand—­quite new to Henrietta; and she opened it, and turned immediately to the signature—­Marian Mayfield—­a strange name to her; she had never seen or heard it before.  She lost no more time in perusing the letter, but as she read, her cheek flushed and paled—­her agitation became excessive, she was obliged to ring for a glass of water, and as soon as she had swallowed it she crushed and thrust the letter into her bosom, ordered her mule to be saddled instantly, and her riding pelisse and hood to be brought.  In two hours and a half Henrietta reached the village, and alighted at the little hotel.  Of the landlord, who came forth respectfully to meet her, she demanded to be shown immediately to the presence of the young lady who had recently arrived from abroad.  The host bowed, and inviting the lady to follow him, led the way to the little private parlor, the door of which he opened to let the visitor pass in, and then bowing again, he closed it and retired.

And Mrs. Waugh found herself in a small, half-darkened room, where, reclining in an easy chair, sat—­Edith?  Was it Edith?  Could it be Edith?  That fair phantom of a girl to whom the black ringlets and black dress alone seemed to give outline and personality?  Yes, it was Edith!  But, oh! so changed! so wan and transparent, with such blue shadows in the hollows of her eyes and temples and cheeks—­with such heavy, heavy eyelids, seemingly dragged down by the weight of their long, sleeping lashes—­with such anguish in the gaze of the melting, dark eyes!