“I have cause to do so, for I feel warmly,” said Florence.
“You have met Mrs. Jeckyl, as you call her?”
“No. Happily, I never crossed her path. My foot has not touched the slime of her serpent trail!”
The woman’s face darkened, as if a shadow had fallen upon it.
“If the person you call Jeckyl, and the one who passed a few days in my house, are the same,” she said, “your language is far too strong. Though she is to me, partially, a stranger, yet I have had testimony in regard to her of the highest and most authoritative character. I know her quality as well as if I had seen her heart laid open and read it like the pages of a book. She belongs to an exceptional class in the present time. To ordinary people she is unintelligible. The high purposes of her life are not appreciated by them. She cannot be weighed in their balance.”
The woman spoke rapidly, and with enthusiasm, quick changes running over her face, and her eyes brightening and darkening by turns like a stormy sky. A low shudder of fear crept into the heart of Florence as she looked at this woman; and the Irish girl who accompanied her, and who had until now remained standing, moved backward toward the door of the room, gaining which, as a point of advantage, she said,—
“’Deed, and, miss, I think as how we’d as well be going from here.”
“Stay a moment.” And Florence reached forth a hand toward the girl.
“I shouldn’t wonder if I was riding on a broomstick next!” muttered the latter, as she receded into the passage.
“Don’t go, if you please. I will be with you directly.” There was a tremor of anxiety in the tones of Florence.