The Argosy — page 163: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

148 The Invalids’ Corner. to make her stretch out her hands to him and take back the troth he had broken so many years ago ? As the quick days went on, bringing Christmas nearer and nearer, Edith longed to speak. Major Priestly lay there so lonely—so very, very lonely. No one ever sat by him. No one ever came and asked him how he was. Every morning his servant would arrange the rug and chair in the same unsatisfactory manner, and after turning the newspaper for his master, where only the advertisements were visible, notwithstanding strict orders to the contrary, would disappear, only to return with the mid-day letters. And again, when the sun went down, he would come with the white pony that drew the chair back again to the hotel, where the Major spent long, sad evenings, thinking over the past. Every word Edith spoke to her companion, that he occasionally overheard, made him more than ever convinced that she was married. And, although at times Dugald Scott had tried to begin a conversation with him, when he was left alone, while Edith sought for shells or tiny very late, or very, very early flowers, that even at Christmas were to be found in the chines. The Major’s angry state of mind would not allow him to avail himself of these advances, and he received them so coldly that even Dugald’s good-nature would not stand such constant rebuffs, and he soon gave up trying to make the Major speak. Ursa Major, Dugald called him; and Edith would often wince at the descriptions her brother-in-law gave of his sulky companion ; and more than once she was going to take him into her confidence, simply as a means of stopping his heedless talk. But the remembrance of the way in which she had been jilted kept her silent, and there seemed small chance of the two lonely souls, who were longing to forgive and be forgiven, ever speaking to each other again: when quite a small thing occurred which might have been a tragedy, and only ended, as things ought to end, in wedding-bells. The night before Christmas Eve had been terrible. The great north wind had risen when the sun set angrily behind the lovely range of hills to the right of the Invalids’ Corner, and came sighing and moan- ing through the pine trees, that presently began to creak and groan like the masts of a ship at sea. Then a ragged, grey cloud drifted by, and the rain came swirling down through the air: the sea began to roar and lash the cliffs, now foaming at their feet, then rolling in with an angry howl that could be heard all over the town. And in less time than it takes to tell it, the whole atmosphere seemed turned into a battle-field, where the wind and the rain fought and strove together for mastery. The morning broke peacefully, the blue sky, flecked with puffs of white cloud, looked like April; a late thrush sang lustily, and the robins seemed as vocal as larks. There was no one at all in the invalids’ Corner when the Major’s pony arrived there. ‘The damp of the night before was rising from the shore and cliffs, under the warm CORNRICOOOKS eC)