Chapter 4 - Page 2

approached the carriage, I saw
within it an old man, whose head was sunk on his breast, and who
was enveloped in a variety of wrappers. He was drawn by a very
quiet but very keen-looking man, with iron-gray hair, who was
slightly lame. They had passed us, when the carriage stopped, and
the old gentleman within, putting out his arm, called to me by my
name. I went back, and was absent from Mr. Slinkton and his niece
for about five minutes.

When I rejoined them, Mr. Slinkton was the first to speak. Indeed,
he said to me in a raised voice before I came up with him:

'It is well you have not been longer, or my niece might have died
of curiosity to know who her shadow is, Mr. Sampson.'

'An old East India Director,' said I. 'An intimate friend of our
friend's, at whose house I first had the pleasure of meeting you.
A certain Major Banks. You have heard of him?'

'Never.'

'Very rich, Miss Niner; but very old, and very crippled. An
amiable man, sensible - much interested in you. He has just been
expatiating on the affection that he has observed to exist between
you and your uncle.'

Mr. Slinkton was holding his hat again, and he passed his hand up
the straight walk, as if he himself went up it serenely, after me.

'Mr. Sampson,' he said, tenderly pressing his niece's arm in his,
'our affection was always a strong one, for we have had but few
near ties. We have still fewer now. We have associations to bring
us together, that are not of this world, Margaret.'

'Dear uncle!' murmured the young lady, and turned her face aside to
hide her tears.

'My niece and I have such remembrances and regrets in common, Mr.
Sampson,' he feelingly pursued, 'that it would be strange indeed if
the relations between us were cold or indifferent. If I remember a
conversation we once had together, you will understand the
reference I make. Cheer up, dear Margaret. Don't droop, don't
droop. My Margaret! I cannot bear to see you droop!'

The poor young lady was very much affected, but controlled herself.
His feelings, too, were very acute. In a word, he found himself
under such great need of a restorative, that he presently went
away, to take a bath of sea-water, leaving the young lady and me
sitting by a point of rock, and probably presuming - but that you
will say was a pardonable indulgence in a luxury - that she would
praise him with all her heart.

She did, poor thing! With all her confiding heart, she praised him
to me, for his care of her dead sister, and for his untiring
devotion in her last illness. The sister had wasted away very
slowly, and wild and terrible fantasies had come over her toward
the end, but he had never been impatient with her, or at a loss;