"This life of ours is a wild Aeolian harp of many a joyous strain;
But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail, as of souls in pain."—Longfellow.
Olivia felt a little nervous as she sent in her name by Phoebe; the girl had looked at her dubiously.
"I am not sure whether master will see you, ma'am," she said. "He never sees anyone on Christmas Day; and Mrs. Crampton says he is but poorly;" nevertheless, at Olivia's request, she had taken the message.
After a brief delay she returned. Her master would see Mrs. Luttrell; but Olivia's heart beat a little quickly as she entered the library. For the first time she was not sure of her welcome.
The grand old room looked unusually gloomy. The tall standard lamps were unlighted, and only the blazing fire and a small green reading-lamp made a spot of brightness. Deep shadows lurked in the corners, and the heavy book-cases and window recesses only seemed to add to the gloom.
Mr. Gaythorne sat in his great ebony chair—with its crimson cushions. His face looked more cadaverous and sunken than usual; the fine features looked as if they were carved in old ivory, they were so fixed and rigid; as he held out his hand to Olivia there was no smile of welcome on his face—the melancholy deep-set eyes were sombre and piercing.
Mr. Gaythorne sat in his great ebony chair.
"This is indeed a surprise, Mrs. Luttrell."