In the same chamber were two other ladies; the one was pacing the floor with slow but uneven steps, with lips moving from time to time, as if in self-commune, with the brow contracted slightly: her form and face took also the character of revery, but not of repose.
The third female (the gentle and lovely mother of the other two) was seated, towards the centre of the room, before a small table, on which rested one of those religious manuscripts, full of the moralities and the marvels of cloister sanctity, which made so large a portion of the literature of the monkish ages. But her eye rested not on the Gothic letter and the rich blazon of the holy book. With all a mother’s fear and all a mother’s fondness, it glanced from Isabel to Anne, from Anne to Isabel, till at length in one of those soft voices, so rarely heard, which makes even a stranger love the speaker, the fair countess said,—
“Come hither, my child Isabel; give me thy hand, and whisper me what hath chafed thee.”
“My mother,” replied the duchess, “it would become me ill to have a secret not known to thee, and yet, methinks, it would become me less to say aught to provoke thine anger!”
“Anger, Isabel! Who ever knew anger for those they love?”
“Pardon me, my sweet mother,” said Isabel, relaxing her haughty brow, and she approached and kissed her mother’s cheek.
The countess drew her gently to a seat by her side.
“And now tell me all,—unless, indeed, thy Clarence hath, in some lover’s hasty mood, vexed thy affection; for of the household secrets even a mother should not question the true wife.”
Isabel paused, and glanced significantly at Anne.
“Nay, see!” said the countess, smiling, though sadly, “she, too, hath thoughts that she will not tell to me; but they seem not such as should alarm my fears, as thine do. For the moment ere I spoke to thee, thy brow frowned, and her lip smiled. She hears us not,—speak on.”