Chetwynd Calverley — William Harrison Ainsworth / W.H. Ainsworth

One summer evening, Mildred Calverley, accounted the prettiest girl in Cheshire, who had been seated in the drawing-room of her father's house, Ouselcroft, near Daresbury, vainly trying to read, passed out from the open French window, and made her way towards two magnificent cedars of Lebanon, at the farther end of the lawn. She was still pacing the lawn with distracted steps, when a well-known voice called out to her, and a tall figure emerged from the shade of the cedars, and Mildred uttered a cry of mingled surprise and delight. Is that you, Chetwynd? Ay I don't you know your own brother, Mildred? And as they met, they embraced each other affectionately. Have you been here long, Chetwynd? she asked. Why didn't you come into the house? I didn't know whether I should be welcome, Mildred. Tell me how all is going on? Then you have not received my letters, addressed to Bellagio and Milan? I wrote to tell you that papa is very seriously ill, and begged you to return immediately. Did you get the letters? No; in fact, I have heard nothing at all from any one of you, directly nor indirectly, for more than two months. How extraordinary! But how can the letters have miscarried? I might give a guess, but you would think me unjustly suspicious. Is my father really ill, Mildred? Really very seriously ill. About a month ago he caught a bad cold, and has never since been able to shake it off. Doctor Spencer, who has been attending him the whole time, didn't apprehend any danger at first; but now he almost despairs of papa's recovery. Gracious heaven! exclaimed the young man; I didn't expect to be greeted by this sad intelligence! You have only just come in time to see papa alive! Within the last few days a great change for the worse has taken place in him. Mamma has been most attentive, and has scarcely ever left him. She is acting her part well, it seems, cried Chetwynd, bitterly. But don't call her mamma when you speak of her to me, Mildred. Let it be Mrs. Calverley, if you please. I don't wish to pain you, Chetwynd, but I must tell you the truth. Mrs. Calverley, as you desire me to call her, has shown the greatest devotion to her husband, and Doctor Spencer cannot speak too highly of her. She has had a great deal to go through, I assure you. Since his illness, poor papa has been very irritable and fretful, and would have tried anybody's patience-but she has an angelic temper.