CHAPTER XIX.
MRS. DALTON.
It was midnight when Mrs. Lyndsay awoke. A profound stillness reigned in the cabin; the invalids had forgotten their sufferings in sleep,—all but one female figure, who was seated upon the carpeted floor, just in front of Flora’s berth, wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, and engaged in reading a letter. Flora instantly recognised in the watcher the tall, graceful figure of Mrs. Dalton.
Her mind seemed agitated by some painful recollections; and she sighed frequently, and several tears stole slowly over her cheeks, as she replaced the paper carefully in her bosom, and for many minutes appeared lost in deep and earnest thought. All her accustomed gaiety was gone; and her fine features wore a sad and regretful expression, far more touching and interesting than the heartless levity by which they were generally distinguished.
“Is it possible, that that frivolous mind can be touched by grief?” thought Flora. “That that woman can feel?”
Mrs. Dalton, as if she had heard the unuttered query, raised her head, and caught the intense glance with which Mrs. Lyndsay was unconsciously regarding her.
“I thought no one was awake but myself,” she said; “I am a bad sleeper. If you are the same, we will have a little chat together; I am naturally a sociable animal. Of all company, I find my own the worst, and above all things hate to be alone.”
Surprised at this frank invitation, from a woman who had pronounced her nobody, Flora replied, rather coldly, “I fear, Mrs. Dalton, that our conversation would not suit each other.”
“That is as much as to say, that you don’t like me; and that you conclude from that circumstance, that I don’t like you?”