Then they looked at the portrait of Lady Mary Anglesea, at which they had only glanced before.
It was the counterfeit presentment of a lady whose beauty, or rather the special character of whose beauty, at once riveted attention.
It was that of a tall, well-formed though rather delicate woman, with sweet, pale, oval face, tender, serious brown eyes, and soft, rippling brown hair that strayed in little, careless ringlets about her forehead and temples, adding to the exquisite sweetness and pathos of the whole presence.
“What a beautiful, beautiful creature! What lovely, lovely eyes!” breathed Wynnette, gazing at the picture.
“Yes, young lady,” said the housekeeper, “and as good and wise as she was beautiful. And when the lovely eyes closed on this world, be sure they opened in heaven. And when the beautiful form was laid in the tomb all the light seemed to have gone out of this world for us! It nearly killed the master. And no wonder—no wonder!” said Mrs. Bolton, drawing a large pocket handkerchief, that would have answered for a small tablecloth, from her pocket and wiping her eyes.
Again Abel Force and Leonidas looked at each other.
“Ah, yes! They were a handsome pair!” said the housekeeper, with a sigh that raised her mighty bosom as the wind raises the ocean—“a very handsome pair, and the parting of ’em has been nigh the death of the colonel,” she added, as she replaced her handkerchief in her pocket.
“And yet I have heard that he married again while he was abroad,” Mr. Force could not refrain from saying.
“He!” exclaimed Mrs. Bolton, in a tone of indignant astonishment.
“Yes; there is no law against a widower marrying, is there?” replied Abel Force, quietly.