Mr. Winkworth looked at him ruefully.
"I had not meditated such a feat," he said; "but I'm of a self-sacrificing disposition, and the most gallant man in nature, as you all know. Therefore, as our excellent friend Lady Fleetwood is going, and as without me there would be but two gentlemen to three ladies, I must ensure that one is not without an attendant. Pray, Charles, can you tell me whether Fox, who wrote the 'Martyrology,' was not a Northumberland man? I think, at all events, I should be added to his book as a sort of supplementary martyr. But here is the butler to show us our rooms, and I will hasten to get ready."
The chamber to which Colonel Middleton was shown was a large, old-fashioned room, hung with tapestry, through which protruded several gilt iron brackets, supporting old family pictures. Some were very good, and some in an inferior style of art, though probably the best which could be found at the period when each picture was painted. There were two Vandykes, and the rest were by Kneller, Lely, and their disciples; but they all had an interest for Colonel Middleton, who went round from the one to the other, stopping a moment or two before each, and gazing on the mute and motionless countenances. To me, and I believe to many other men, there is a strange fascination about old family portraits. I could gaze upon the effigies of the dead for many an hour, striving to read in the lines and features the life, the fate, the character of the being there represented. Such seemed to be the feelings of the young officer as he walked round. He commented, however, in his thoughts, upon the countenances before him.
"They have been a handsome race," he said to himself, "with a strong family likeness in all the men--all more or less like Lady Anne, too; here in one feature, there in another, and then again in the expression. This one in the formal dress of the last century is perhaps less like than any, and yet he must have been nearer in relationship than the rest. He looks stern and harsh, a man of a strong will and fiery temper."
As he thus thought, his eye rested upon a little gilt scroll at the bottom of the frame; and he there saw written--
William Earl of Milford, born 1754, died 18--
It was the year during which he himself had come down to Milford Castle in search of the son of that very man. The inscription awakened another train of thought; and seating himself in a chair, he leaned his head upon his hand and gave way to meditation.
He was roused the moment after by some of Lady Anne's servants bringing up his luggage, and raising his head he asked--
"Pray, has my servant arrived? He was to come down by the mail."
"No, sir," replied the man; "he has not come yet. Shall I put these in the dressing-room?"