The three parted, after an interchange of good nights. Both Onslow and Kenrick betook themselves to their rooms, each with no desire for other companionship than his own rose-colored dreams.
CHAPTER XXX.
A FEMININE VAN AMBURGH.
“She who ne’er answers till a husband cools,
Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules.”—Pope.
The morning after the dinner, Madame Volney rose at sunrise, and was stealing on tiptoe into her dressing-room, when Ratcliff, always a late riser, grumbled, “What’s the matter?”
“There’s to be an early church-service,” she replied.
“Bah! You’re always going to church!”
The quadroon made no reply, but gently retired, dressed, and glided out of the house into the open air. On through the yet deserted streets she swiftly passed. A white fog brooded over the city. Heavy-winged sea-birds were slowly making their way overhead to the marshes of Lake Ponchartrain, or still farther out to the beaches of the Gulf. The sound of drums and fifes in the distance occasionally broke the matutinal stillness. The walls of the streets were covered with placards of meetings of volunteer companies,—of the Wigman Rifles, the MacMahon Guards, the Beauregard Lancers, the Black Flag Invincibles.
After half an hour’s walk, the quadroon paused before a house, on the door of which was a brass plate presenting the words,—“Mrs. Gentry’s Seminary for Young Ladies.” While she looked and hesitated, a black girl came up from some steps leading into the basement, and with a mop and pail of water proceeded to wash the sidewalk.
“Is Esha in?” asked the quadroon.