The supper was a very cheery banquet; ponderous slices of underdone roast beef disappeared as if by magic, and the consumption of pickles, from a physiological or sanitary point of view, positively appalling. After the beef and pickles came a Titanic cheese and a small stack of celery; while the brown beer pitcher went so often to the barrel that it is a matter of wonder that it escaped unbroken.
At a quarter past ten Mr. Maunders bade his new acquaintance good night; but before departing he begged, as a great favour, to be permitted one peep at the grand oak hall.
"You shall see it," cried good-natured Matthew Brook. "It's a sight worth coming many a mile to see. Step this way."
He led the way along a dark passage to a door that opened into the great entrance-hall. It was indeed a noble chamber. Black Milsom stood for some moments contemplating it in silence, with a reverential stare.
"And which may be the back staircase, leading to the little lady's rooms?" he asked, presently.
"That door opens on to the foot of it," replied the coachman. "Captain Coppletone sleeps in the room you come to first, on the first floor; and the little missy's rooms are inside his'n."
Gertrude Eversleigh, the heiress of Raynham, was one of those lovely and caressing children who win the hearts of all around them, and in whose presence there is a charm as sweet as that which lurks in the beauty of a flower or the song of a bird. Her mother idolized her, as we know, even though she could resign herself to a separation from this loved child, sacrificing affection to the all-absorbing purpose of her life. Before leaving Raynham Castle, Honoria had summoned the one only friend upon whom she could rely—Captain Copplestone—the man whose testimony alone had saved her from the hideous suspicion of murder—the man who had boldly declared his belief in her innocence.
She wrote to him, telling him that she had need of his friendship for the only child of his dead friend, Sir Oswald; and he came promptly in answer to her summons, pleased at the idea of seeing the child of his old comrade.
He had read the announcement of the child's birth in the newspapers, and had rejoiced to find that Providence had sent a consolation to the widow in her hour of desolation.
"She is like her father," he said, softly, after he had taken the child in his arms, and pressed his shaggy moustache to her pure young brow." Yes, the child is like my old comrade, Oswald Eversleigh. She has your beauty, too, Lady Eversleigh, your dark eyes—those wonderful eyes, which my friend loved to praise."