Captain Rothesay always kept his intentions to himself, and transacted his matters alone. Therefore, without the aid of wife or daughter, he soon discovered in what region lay Mr. Gwynne's curacy, and determined to hasten his customary journey to London, that he might visit the place on his way.
The night before his departure came. It was really a melancholy evening; for he had stayed at home so long, and been most of the time what his wife called “so good,” that she quite regretted his going. The more so, as he was about to travel by the awful railway--then newly established--which, in the opinion of poor Mrs. Rothesay, with her delicate nerves and easily-roused terrors, entailed on him the certainty of being killed. She pleaded so much and so anxiously--even to the last--that when, in order to start at daybreak, he bade “good-bye” to her and Olive overnight, Captain Rothesay was softened even to tenderness.
“Do you really care so much about me, Sybilla?” said he, half mournfully.
She did not spring to his arms, like the young wife at Stirling, but she kissed his hand affectionately, and called him “Angus!”
“Olive!” said the father, when having embraced his wife, he now turned to his daughter, “Olive, my child! take care of your mother! I shall be at home soon, and we shall be very happy again--all three!”
As they ascended the staircase, they saw him watching them from below. Olive so content, even though her father was going away. She kissed her hand felt to him with a blithe gesture, and then saw him go in and close the door. When the house sank into quietness, a curious feeling oppressed Captain Rothesay. It seemed to take rise in his wife's infectious fears.
“Women are always silly,” he argued to himself. “Why should I dread any danger? The railway is safe as a coach--and yet, that affair of poor Huskisson! Pooh! what a fool I am!”
But even while he mocked it, the vague presentiment appeared to take form in his mind; and sitting, the only person awake in the slumbering house, where no sound broke the stillness, except the falling of a few cinders, and the occasional noise of a mouse behind the wainscot, somewhat of the superstitions of his northern youth came over him. His countenance became grave, and he sank into deep thought.