His thoughts dwelt with painful but vain intensity upon the hapless girl, and it was many minutes before the old familiar scene around him—suggestive as it was of the most joyous as well as the most painful passages in his past life—could recall him to himself.
He gazed around. The sliding doors and the flowing curtains that divided the boudoir from the saloon, were drawn entirely back, revealing the whole apartment. Yes; here was the same saloon, the temple of joyous reunions, and the same boudoir, the shrine of beauty, love, and happiness. The same, yet how changed from all the pristine splendour of the past! Then all was order, beauty, freshness, and enjoyment. Now all was indifference, neglect, decay, and desolation. Even there, in the sacred boudoir of India—the latest sanctuary of elegance and luxury—rust and must, mildew and canker, had crept over all. There the sumptuous hangings of purple and gold, that made the bower seem like some gorgeous oriental sunset scene, were now faded and tarnished—the royal purple turned to a dull, streaked brown and drab—the gold cankered with green verdigris. The cheval mirrors were specked thickly with mildew, and obscured with fly-stains; the marble tables stained and smirched; and, for the fragrance of fresh flowers, a close, damp, stifling smell of must pervaded the apartment. All was cheerless, hopeless, desolate.
His melancholy thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of another figure. It was India. And prepared as he had been to meet a great change in the “Pearl of Pearl River,” he scarcely recognised her. The superficial is ever the first to strike us. He noticed that the gorgeous and flowing drapery which had once graced her form, was now replaced by a plain black dress. The rich, warm, olive bloom of her complexion had given place to the paleness of ivory. Naught remained of her glorious beauty but the luxuriant amber-hued ringlets and the large, dark, mournful, soul-thrilling eyes. More of real self-possession she exhibited now than she had ever shown in former times. She advanced towards Mark, holding out her hand, and welcomed him with these words:
“I am happy to see you again at Cashmere—after so many years—my dear cousin—why could we not be friends?”
Her voice faltered slightly; and when she paused, Mr. Sutherland cordially grasped her outstretched hands, and said, while he pressed them—
“We are friends, my dearest India; at least, I can speak for myself and for one who loves you not less than I do—my wife Rosalie.”
With a spasmodic catch India snatched away her hands; and, quivering through every nerve, sat down, and veiled her face with her hands, and,
“It is a trying world!”—burst from her quivering lips.
Raising his eyebrows in painful surprise, Mark Sutherland gazed earnestly at her for an instant, and then turned away his eyes, waiting reverently for her self-recovery. Soon she looked up, and, faintly smiling, said—
“I have had much, oh! very much, indeed, to try me of late, my cousin. Everything is going to ruin with us—everything, everything.”