I had shaken hands with Mordaunt, but I advanced and “saluted” madam, and the cheek was suddenly filled with exquisite roses.
“For old times’ sake, madam!”
“Which are the best of all possible times, Surry!” said Mordaunt, laughing.
And he led the way into the great apartment, hung round with portraits, where we had supped on the night of Pelham’s hard fight at Barbee’s, after Sharpsburg.
“You remember this room, do you not, my dear Surry?” said Mordaunt. “It escaped during the war; though you see that my poor little grandmother, the child of sixteen there, with the curls and laces, received a sabre thrust in the neck. But you are looking round for the friends I promised. They were here a moment since, and only retired to give you a surprise.
“See! here they are!”
The door opened, and I saw enter—Mohun and Landon!
In an instant I had grasped the hands of these dear friends; and they had explained their presence. Mohun had come to make a visit to Mordaunt, and had prolonged his stay in order to meet me. Then Mordaunt had written to Landon, at “Bizarre,” just over the mountain, to come and complete the party—he had promptly arrived—and I found myself in presence of three old comrades, any one of whom it would have been a rare pleasure to have met.
Mohun and Landon were as unchanged as Mordaunt. I saw the same proud and loyal faces, listened to the same frank brave voices, touched the same firm hands. They no longer wore uniforms—that was the whole difference. Under the black coats beat the same hearts which had throbbed beneath the gray.
I spent the whole day with Mordaunt, After dinner he led the way into the room on the right of the entrance—that singular apartment into which I had been shown by accident on my first visit to him, and where afterward I witnessed the test of poor Achmed’s love. The apartment was unchanged. The floor was still covered with the rich furs of lions, tigers, and leopards—the agate eyes still glared at me, and the grinning teeth seemed to utter growls or snarls. On the walls I saw still the large collection of books in every language—the hunting and battle pictures which I had before so greatly admired—the strange array of outlandish arms—and over the mantel-piece still hung the portrait of Violet Grafton.