The devout tailor snuffled out “Amen,” and did his office. Whilst Pigtop’s clothes were preparing, he was not idle. He procured all the requisites for travelling, and I sent him on a fruitless mission to discover the residence of the Brandons. He was told by the neighbours that, a year back, they had all emigrated to Canada. Everything seemed to favour the machinations of my enemy, and to prevent my gaining any clue by which to trace him out, or the object of my search. However, I had one chance left—an interview with the superb Mrs Causand, that lady that Joshua had so kindly bestowed upon me for a mother.
In three days behold us in private lodgings, the Reverend Mr Pigtop looking as sour as any canting Methodist in Barebones’ parliament, and quite reconciled to the singularly starch figure that he presented. There was certainly a sad discrepancy between his dress and his discourse. However, it was a good travelling disguise, and very serviceable to a petty officer breaking his leave of absence.
With my health perfectly recovered, dressed with the greatest precision, and with a beating heart, I went to call upon Mrs Causand. On her all my hopes rested. I knew that, as a schoolboy, she was extremely fond of me, and I really loved her as much as I admired her.
I had never before visited her, and was consequently totally ignorant of the style in which she lived. I found the house which she inhabited, for I always carefully preserved her address, to be one of those which faced Hyde Park. I was rather chilled as I observed its quiet, aristocratic appearance. The porter told me that if I would walk into the adjoining parlour, and favour him with my name, he would go up immediately she was alone and announce me.
Chapter Sixty Five.
Ralph, finding himself in pleasant places, prepareth a love-speech which is not uttered in this chapter—Ralph describeth only.
In about five minutes the servant returned, bowed, and led the way. He stepped up quietly and slowly. There was an awe in his deportment that chilled me. He opened the door of the drawing-room with extreme caution and gentleness, bowed, and closed it upon me. As I stood near the threshold, the last low tones of some plaintive and soothing melody, sung in a tone much more subdued than that of common conversation, died faintly away to the vibrating of a chord of the harp; and a youthful figure, bathed in a misty light from the window recess, rose, and moving silently across the room, without once casting her eyes upon myself, disappeared through a door parallel to the one by which I had entered.
Whilst I remain in the darker portion of this saloon, it is necessary for me to describe it. I could not have imagined such a combination of taste and luxury. At first, I was almost overpowered by the too genial warmth of the apartment, and the aromatic and rose-imbued odours that filled it. I trod on, and my step sank into, a yielding carpet, which seemed to be elastic under my feet, and which glowed with a thousand never fading, though mimic flowers. The apartment was not crowded, though I saw candelabra, vases, and side-tables of the purest marble, supported upon massive gilt pedestals. In all this there was nothing singular—it was the work of the upholsterer; but the beautiful arrangement was the work of a presiding taste.