"You have been fatigued by the bustle of the last three days," said my mother kindly: "Mr. Wareham will excuse you," and she made me a sign to leave the room.
Never was a sign more willingly obeyed. I hurried from the room, and as I closed the door, I heard Mr. Wareham say in a low voice—
"She'll do. When will you tell her?"
That night, as I sat on the edge of my bed, clad in my night-dress—my dark hair half gathered in a lace cap and half falling on my shoulders—my mother came suddenly into the room, and placing her candle on a table, took her seat by me on the bed. She was, as I have told you, an exceedingly beautiful woman, in spite of the threads of silver in her hair and the ominous wrinkle between her brows. But as she sat by me, and put her arm about my neck, toying with my hair, her look was infinitely affectionate.
"And what do you think of Mr. Wareham, dear?" she asked me—and I felt that her gaze was fixed keenly on my face.
I described my impressions frankly and with what language I could command, concluding with the words, "In short, I do not like him. He makes me feel afraid."
"O, you'll soon get over that," answered my mother. "Now he takes a great interest in you. Let me tell you something about him. He is a foreign gentleman, immensely rich; worth hundreds of thousands, perhaps a million. He has estates in this country, in England and France. He has traveled over half the globe; on further acquaintance you will be charmed by his powers of observation, his fund of anecdote, his easy flow of conversational eloquence. And then he has a good heart, Frank! I could keep you up all night in repeating but a small portion of his innumerable acts of benevolence. I met him first in Paris, years ago, just after he had unhappily married. And since I first met him he has been my fast friend. He is a good, a noble man, Frank; you will, you must like him."
"But, then, his eyes, mother! and that lip!" and I cast my eyes meekly to the floor.
"Pshaw!" returned my mother, with a start, "don't allow yourself to make fun of a dear personal friend of mine." She kissed me on the forehead,—"you will like him, dear," and bade me good-night.
And on my silken pillow I slept and dreamed—of home,—of the good old man,—of Ernest and the forest nook,—but all my dreams were haunted by a vision of two great eyes and a huge red lip—everywhere, everywhere they haunted me, the lip now projecting over the clergyman's head and the eyes looking over Ernest's shoulder. I awoke with a start and a laugh.