Alfred could only stammer out, “He 'll tell you all,” as he pointed to Quackinboss, for a faintish sick sensation crept over his frame, and he shook like one in the cold stage of an ague. The American, however, gave a very calm and connected narrative of their first meeting with Mrs. Penthony Morris and her supposed daughter at Lucca; how that lady, from a chance acquaintance with the Heathcotes, had established an intimacy, and then a friendship there.
“Describe her to me,—tell me something of her appearance,” burst in the old man with impatience; for as his mind followed the long-sought-for “trail,” his eagerness became beyond his power of control. “Blue eyes, that might be mistaken for black, or dark hazel, had she not? and the longest of eyelashes, the mouth full and pouting, but the chin sharply turned, and firm-looking? Am I right?”
“That are you, and teeth as reg'lar as a row of soldiers.”
“Her foot, too, was perfect. It had been modelled scores of times by sculptors, and there were casts of it with a Roman sandal, or naked on a plantain-leaf, in her drawing-room. You've seen her foot?”
“It was a grand foot! I have seen it,” said the American; “and if I was one as liked monarchy, I 'd say it might have done for a queen to stand on in front of a throne.”
“What was her voice like?” asked the old man, eagerly.
“Low and soft, with almost a tremor in it when she asked some trifling favor,” said Alfred, now speaking for the first time.
“Herself,—her very self. I know her well, by that!” cried the old man, triumphantly. “I carried those trembling accents in my memory for many and many a day. Go on, and tell me more of her. Who was this same Morris,—when, how, and where were they married?”
“We never knew; none of us ever saw him. Some said he was living, and in China or India. Some called her a widow. The girl Clara was called hers—”
“No. Clara was Hawke's. She must have been Hawke's daughter by his first wife, the niece of this Winthrop.”