We may, however, add, ere we resume the thread of our narrative, that this beauteous being was attired in a white dress, with a high corsage, and that she wore no other ornaments than a pair of ear-rings, and a fancy ring on one of her taper fingers.
Advancing towards Mrs. Mortimer, she said in a musical voice and a kind tone, “I think I overheard you request a few minutes’ interview with the mistress of this house——”
“Such was indeed the favour I solicited,” observed the old woman, hastily. “If my presence would not inconvenience you for a little while,—and if you will accept my sincere apologies for the apparent obtrusiveness of the request, as well as for the lateness of the hour at which it is made——”
“Oh! pray do not deem it necessary to excuse a proceeding which I am sure you will explain to my satisfaction,” interrupted the young lady, with a sincerity which emanated from the artlessness of a disposition entirely unsophisticated. “Walk in, madam,” she added, in a kind and by no means ceremonial tone, as she conducted Mrs. Mortimer into the parlour, the door of which the servant-maid immediately closed behind them.
Mrs. Mortimer now found herself in the very room which was fraught with so many exciting and varied reminiscences for her. The golden lustre of the handsome lamp which stood upon the table, was shed upon the scene of those crushing incidents that had suddenly made her a prisoner for a forgery which she had committed, and her husband a prisoner on a charge of murder of which he was innocent!
The old woman sank into a chair, and gazed around her with no affectation of emotion. The appointments of the room were changed—materially changed, it was true: but her eyes, nevertheless, recognised full well—oh! full well—the very spot where had stood the sofa on which she had awakened to the consciousness of her desperate condition,—the spot, too, where Torrens was standing when the officers arrested him on suspicion of the murder of Sir Henry Courtenay!
For a few minutes the old woman was powerfully affected by the recollections thus vividly conjured up; but, at length calling all her courage to her aid, she regained her self-possession—and then a rapid survey made her acquainted with the elegant and tasteful style in which the parlour was now fitted up. All the furniture seemed to be nearly new. Upon the table in the middle were several drawings, in pencil and in water-colours, lying in an open portfolio—a box of paints and brushes—and several prettily bound volumes of the best modern English poets. Where a sofa had been placed in the time when Mrs. Mortimer last knew the cottage, a handsome upright pianoforte now stood; and in the nearest corner was a magnificent harp. On the cheffoniers in the window-recesses were porcelain vases filled with flowers; and to the walls were suspended several excellent pictures, the subjects of which were chiefly landscapes. Everything, in a word, denoted the chaste elegance and delicate refinement of the taste that had presided in the fitting up of that room.
Mrs. Mortimer, having recovered her self-possession, turned towards the young lady, who had been watching her with mingled interest and surprise.
“You will pardon me,” said the old woman, “if I were for a few moments overcome by reminiscence of an affecting nature——”
“Compose yourself, madam—pray, compose yourself,” interrupted the beauteous girl, in a sweet tone and winning manner; for not only was the most artless amiability natural to her, but she thought she perceived in the language of her visitor something superior to what the condition of her apparel and her personal appearance generally would have otherwise led her to infer.