The oak-parlour was a fine old room, and into the panels were set four full-length portraits. Two of these were a lady and gentleman, in the costume of the beginning of Charles the Second's reign. The lady held an Italian greyhound by a blue ribbon, and the gentleman stood booted for the field, and falcon on fist. It struck Richard, for the first time, how wonderfully like Alice that portrait of the beautiful lady was. He raised the candle to examine it. There was a story about this lady. She had been compelled to marry the companion portrait, with the hawk on his hand, and those beautiful lips had dropped a curse, in her despair, when she was dying, childless, and wild with grief. She prayed that no daughter of the house of Arden might ever wed the man of her love, and it was said that a fatality had pursued the ladies of that family, which looked like the accomplishment of the malediction; and a great deal of curious family lore was connected with this legend and portrait.
As he held the candle up to this picture, still scanning its features, the door slowly opened, and Martha Tansey, arrayed in a black silk dress of a fashion some twenty years out of date, came in. He set down the candle, and took the old woman's hand, and greeted her very kindly.
“How's a' wi' you, Master Richard? A dowly house ye've come too. Ye didna look to see this sa soon?”
“Very sudden, Martha—awfully sudden. I could not let the day pass without coming out to see you.”
“Not me, Master Richard, but to ha'e a last look at the face of the father that begot ye. He'll be shrouded and coffined by this time—the light 'ill not be lang on that face. The lid will be aboon it and screwed down to-morrow, I dar' say. Ay, there goes the undertaker's men; and there's a man from Mr. Paller—Mr. Plumes is his name—that says he'll stay till your Uncle David comes, for he told him he had something very particular to say to him; and I desired him to wait in my room after his business about the poor master was over; and the a'ad things is passin' awa' and it's time auld Martha was fittin' herself.”
“Don't say that, Martha, unless you would have me think you expect to find me less kind than my father was.”
“There's good and there's bad in every one, Master Richard. Ye can't take it in meal and take it in malt. A bit short-waisted he was, there's no denyin', and a sharp word now and again; but none so hard to live wi' as many a one that was cooler-tempered, and more mealy-mouthed; and I think ye were o'er hard wi' him, Master Richard. Ye should have opened the estate. It was that killed him,” she continued considerately. “Ye broke his heart, Master Richard; he was never the same man after he fell out wi' you.”
“Some day, Martha, you'll learn all about it,” said he gently. “It was no fault of mine—ask my Uncle David. I'm not the person to persuade you; and, beside, I have not courage to talk over that cruel quarrel now.”
“Come and see him,” said the old woman grimly, taking up the candle.
“No, Martha, no; set it down again—I'll not go.”