A Soldier under Garibaldi [pp. 179-190]

A4 Soldier Under Garibaldi.
The old man, supporting himself
unsteadily in the doorway, leered cunningly at his nephew. The word "business" had an agreeably suggestive
sound. Perhaps Weston was about to
take pity upon his dependent condition
and make him a small allowance. At
the worst, it opened an easy avenue for
striking the visitor for a comfortable
loan.
"Come tomorrow, at noon," he whispered. "She'll be gone then."
About this time Miss Agatha, notwithstanding Weston's amiable demeanor and cordial parting, became conscious,
in a confused way, that there were warring elements in the atmosphere, sure
token of an impending storm. Womanlike, or more correctly speaking, Miss
Agatha like, she accused herself of having been in some way remiss in her
attentions to their guest, or tormented
herself with a suspicion that she had so
changed as to make her presence and
companionship positively distasteful to
her old lover.
The following day was Sunday, and
after her usual custom she hurriedly finished her work and went out to take
charge of the class in the little mission
Sunday-school where she had taught for
a decade of years. She left her father
morosely blowing clouds of smoke
through the sitting room, after a spell
of rare ill temper and fault finding.
No sooner had she gone than the Major, like a cunning old fox, laid aside his
pipe and proceeded to brush his hair and
clothes, and make himself as presentable
as possible for the promised business
interview.
Promptly to the hour Weston made
his appearance, but he was stern and
pale, and had no answer for his uncle's
effusive greetings. He followed the old
man into the room where he had been
sitting, but declined the chair his host
would fain have offered him, closing the
door and standing up with his back
against it. The Major gave one look at
Weston's face, and knew that the day
of judgment had come for him.
"Uncle Henry," said Weston in a
voice whose quiet had a dangerous
sound, "What have you been writing
me all these years?"
"Why, why, why!" stammered the
Major," I -I can't rightly remember,
Weston. But if there's anything in my
lettahs -anything yo' don't exactly like,
Weston, I'm ready to take it back."
"You have been writing me that your
daughter was a sour-tempered vixen.
You pictured yourself as a patient, persecuted, brow-beaten old man. Not a
letter but was charged with complaints
of her," Weston went on, in the same
calm, measured voice.
"Reckon I was a little ha'd on her,
Weston. But it's aggravatin' fo' a gentleman who's always had his own purse
an' propahty "
"To become a pensioner on a woman,
but not to abuse her for it!" sneered
Weston. "You made her out a sort of
combined Goneril and Regan and Xantippe. I always had a horror of an illtempered woman. I thought her cross,
and soured, and selfish, and cranky. My
God! Do you think I have been here
three weeks, day after day, and not
found out the truth."
"I'11 admit that I stretched the mattah. I did n't do Agatha justice. But
I never did her any actual hahm, Weston. There yo' was, thousands of miles
away, an' she heah, an' she nevah saw
my lettahs; now, what hahm could they
do?"
"What harm! " thundered Weston.
"What harm? Do you know that she
would have been my wife if it had n't
been for your lying letters? 0, you old
reprobate! Why, sir, if you were not
an old man, and of my own blood, -"
and so much more to the same purpose
that it was small wonder the Major quite
lost courage and pluck, and pleaded for
mercy as a small boy might have done.
Miss Agatha came home to find the
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