“Thank you, dearest madam, I will write to-day, and send a messenger with the letter. I am really pleased and grateful for this kindness,” said Archer Clifton, pressing his lips to the cheek she offered to his salute.
The young men soon after took leave, being engaged to dine that day at home at White Cliffs.
“Clifton!” said Mr. Fairfax, as they rode along, “excuse me for telling you freely how highly I honor your mother. Yes! you may stare! I—the irreverent—the rash said—excuse me for telling you how highly I honor your mother—for, by my faith, she is a lady whom to praise is presumption! But, my dear Clifton, how is it that she resembles so closely that old portrait of Oliver Cromwell, which hangs, besides, between two family portraits. It is not possible you claim descent from him?”
“My mother does, by the female line. I do not think I have much of his nature. In his time I should have been a royalist. My mother venerates his character very highly.”
“By my soul! she is like him enough in feature.”
“Yes, and in many points of character, she is strikingly like him.”
In conversation such as this the friends reached White Cliffs, and Mr. Fairfax retired to his chamber to dress for dinner, and Captain Clifton entered the library for the purpose of writing a letter to Carl Kavanagh.
CHAPTER IV.
THE TIDE OF FATE.
There is a tide in the affairs of man,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.—Shakspeare.