After the departure of Rose, Lieutenant Thornton spent some time in examining the pictures and the saloon itself, which was finished in the costly but heavy style of the preceding century. The late duke’s portrait was that of a remarkably handsome man of some five-and-twenty years, but there was an expression of great melancholy over the features, which our hero judged was habitual to them and not the fault of the artist, for the portrait was beautifully and artistically painted. He took a survey of every article in the saloon, which, however, created a painful sensation, as they recalled those that were gone, and the melancholy fate of those whom neither rank, wealth, virtue, nor position, could save from the doom of the criminal.
Several days passed over, somewhat tedious, it is true, to our hero, though he chatted for an hour or two daily with pretty Rose Moret, who did all she could to please her handsome and rather dangerous guest. She showed him the gardens, gathered him the choicest flowers for his chamber, and told him all the news. William Thornton was grateful, kind, and attentive to his engaging companion, and his heart and principles were too good and upright to take any undue advantage of Rose’s innocence and naïvetê.
Bill Saunders smoked, and cooked, and feasted, and made love to Rose’s sister when she came. And she appeared to enjoy Bill’s method of learning French, for many a cheerful laugh did our hero hear from below, and an incessant clatter of tongues; how they understood one another he could not say, but they seemed remarkably pleasant together.
At length, on the tenth day, Dame Moret made her appearance, with a letter and a huge bundle of garments.
“A letter from madame at last, monsieur. I have had one also, and here is a bundle of clothes made as if for my son, who is a tall man like yourself. In these garments you may walk about the country and fish to amuse yourself, for madame says you must not on any account think of escaping till you see Monsieur Plessis, who will bring a passport all ready for your use to travel into Flanders. But what an old gossip I am; you are dying to read your letter, which will of course tell you a great deal more, and better than I can.”
“You are as kind to me as if I were one of your own family; and, believe me, I shall never forget in after years, if I am spared, Dame Moret and her kind daughters.”
“You are a brave, handsome garçon, and God will restore you to your own country. And perhaps some of these days you may marry Mademoiselle Mabel; and if there is peace soon, I may live to see you both, and my dear mistress in this old château.”
The young man felt his cheeks flush, for the dame’s words struck a chord in his heart. Might he ever feel sufficient love for Mabel Arden to make her his wife, provided her feelings for him were reciprocal? was a question he had often asked himself. He, however, replied—
“She will not probably remember me when we meet again. She was very little more than thirteen when last I saw her; indeed, I was not more than seventeen myself. I doubt if we should recognise each other.”
“I do not think so,” said the dame, thoughtfully; “she may have changed considerably, for a young girl springing into womanhood does change much; but you, I should say, have altered but little in features; you have gained height and strength, it may be; but she would know you, I feel satisfied, for Mademoiselle Mabel was no common child, even when only six years old. The memory of early years will cling to her as the ivy to the oak. But excuse me, monsieur, I will leave you to read your letter.”