“May I look at your books?”
“If you like,” she answered coldly.
He went about the small, low room—so low, with its heavily-timbered ceiling, that Cuthbert Ramsay’s head almost touched the crossbeams—and surveyed the collections of books in their different blocks. Whoever had so arranged them had exercised both taste and dexterity. Everything in the room fitted like a Chinese puzzle, and everything seemed to have been adapted to those few pieces of old furniture—the walnut-wood bureau, the oak table, and the old Italian chairs. The books were theological or metaphysical for the most part, but among them he found Carlyle’s “Sartor Resartus,” “Past and Present,” and “French Revolution;” Bulwer’s mystical stories, and a few books upon magic, ancient and modern.
“I see you have a fancy for the black art, Mrs. Porter,” he said lightly. “One would hardly expect to find such books as these in the Isle of Purbeck.”
“I like to know what men and women have built their hopes upon in the ages that are gone,” she answered. “Those dreams may seem foolishness to us now, but they were very real to the dreamers, and there were some who dreamed on till the final slumber—the one dreamless sleep.”
This was the longest speech she had made since the young men entered her garden, and both were struck by this sudden gleam of animation. Even the large grey eyes brightened for a few moments, but only to fade again to that same dull, unflinching gaze which made them more difficult to meet than any other eyes Theodore Dalbrook had ever looked upon. That unflinching stare froze his blood; he felt a restraint and an embarrassment which no other woman had ever caused him.
It was different with Cuthbert Ramsay. He was as much at his ease in Mrs. Porter’s parlour as if he had known that lady all her life. He looked at her books without asking permission. He moved about with a wonderful airiness of movement which never brought him into anybody’s way. He fascinated Mrs. Kempster, and subjugated her husband, and impressed everybody by that strong individuality which raises some men a head and shoulders above the common herd. It would have been the same had there been a hundred people in the room instead of five.
Mrs. Porter relapsed into silence, and the conversation was carried on chiefly by Cuthbert Ramsay and the Curate, until Mrs. Kempster declared that she must be going, lest the children should be unhappy at her absence from their evening meal.
“I make a point of seeing them at their tea,” she said; “and then they say their prayers to me before nurse puts them to bed—so prettily, and Laura sings a hymn with such a sweet little voice. I am sure she will be musical by-and-by, if it is only by the way she stands beside the piano and listens while I sing. And such an ear as that child has, as fine as a bird’s! You must come and hear her sing ‘Abide with me,’ some day, Mrs. Porter, when you drop in to take a cup of tea.”
Mrs. Porter murmured something to the effect that she would be pleased to enjoy that privilege.