“Do you know where she lives?”
“I’ll inquire, yer honour,” replied Patrick, opening the drawing-room door to admit the guest, and then departing on his errand. In a few moments he returned, with Mrs. Ashley’s address.
It was in a distant part of the city. Yet gladly would Mark have sought out her retreat that night, had he been free to do so; but nothing but the most urgent necessity could now have excused him from the dinner got up in his own honour. So he was forced to restrain his impatience for that evening. Nay, more; having found out her residence and mentally fixed the hour that he should see her the next morning, he gave himself up to the festivities of the evening, and was once more the brilliant conversationist he was reputed to be. At dinner, he led in and sat next one of the most charming women in New York, and no doubt did his devoirs with equal grace and pleasure.
Yet neither is there any doubt that he was well satisfied when the evening’s hospitality was over.
And he was still better pleased when the night was passed, and the morning came, and the sun arose, and he at last had leave to dress himself, dispatch an early breakfast, take a cab, and drive to the remote suburb where India lived.
Was it a private dwelling or a boarding-house? The address gave no clue to that question—it designated only the street and the number. He hoped it was a private dwelling! He must see her alone! How would she receive him? There was no mistaking that look upon her face that had thrilled him, striking the whole “electric chord” of memory and passion! that look of mingled affection, aspiration, and passionate regret! How would she receive him? Such were the glad, anxious, questioning thoughts that chased each other through his mind, while the cab rolled on. In these tumultuous, half-delightful, half-painful recollections and anticipations the distance was passed.
“This is the place, sir,” said the driver, as the cab drew up before a little cottage, surrounded by a small luxuriant flower garden, and literally covered and concealed by a complete thicket of tall rose-trees and climbing vines.
“So this is a private dwelling, and her love of beautiful surrounding survives all the crash of fortune and the wreck of life,” thought Mark Sutherland, as he alighted and opened the gate leading into the yard.
Let us precede him, by a few moments.
India, who had risen from an almost untasted breakfast, had passed into the small parlour only to escape the eyes of her attendant, the pretty, loving Oriole, who had followed the fortunes of her mistress with the most devoted affection and fidelity, and who, if a cloud did but fall upon the brow of Mrs. Ashley, reflected it in the sadness of her own face.