"Is it true, then?" moaned Nora, in a dying tone, without heeding his
last question.
"Which true, honey?"
"About the foreign lady coming here last night and claiming to be his
wife?"
"As true as gospel, honey--which you may judge the astonishment is put
on to us all."
"Jovial, where is the lady?"
"Up in de drawing-room, honey, if she has not 'tired to her chamber."
"Show me up there, Jovial, I must see her for myself," Nora wailed, with
her head fallen upon her chest.
"Now, sure as the world, honey, you done heard somefin 'bout de poor
young marser? Is he come to an accident, honey?" inquired the man very
uneasily.
"Who?" questioned Nora vaguely.
"The young marser, honey; Mr. Herman Brudenell, chile!"
"What of him?" cried Nora--a sharp new anxiety added to her woe.
"Why, law, honey, aint I just been a-telling of you? In one half an hour
arter de forein lady tumbled in, young marse lef' de house an' haint
been seen nor heard on since. I t'ought maybe you'd might a hearn what's
become of him. It is mighty hard on her, poor young creatur, to be
fairly forsok de very night she come."
"Ah!" cried Nora, in the sharp tones of pain--"take me to that lady at
once! I must, must see her! I must hear from her own lips--the truth!"
"Come along then, chile! Sure as the worl' you has hearn somefin, dough
you won't tell me; for I sees it in your face; you's as white as a
sheet, an' all shakin' like a leaf an' ready to drop down dead! You
won't let on to me; but mayhaps you may to her," said Jovial, as he led
the way along the lighted halls to the drawing-room door, which, he
opened, announcing: "Here's Miss Nora Worth, mistess, come to see Lady Hurt-my-soul."
And as soon as Nora, more like a ghost than a living creature, had
glided in, he shut the door, went down on his knees outside and applied
his ear to the key-hole.
Meanwhile Nora found herself once more in the gorgeously furnished,
splendidly decorated, and brilliantly lighted drawing room that had been
the scene of her last night's humiliation. But she did not think of that
now, in this supreme crisis of her fate.
Straight before her, opposite the door by which she entered, was an
interesting tableau, in a dazzling light--it was a sumptuous fireside
picture--the coal-fire glowing between the polished steel bars of the
wide grate, the white marble mantel-piece, and above that, reaching to
the lofty ceiling, a full-length portrait of Herman Brudenell; before
the fire an inlaid mosaic table, covered with costly books, work-boxes,
hand-screens, a vase of hot-house flowers, and other elegant trifles of
luxury; on the right of this, in a tall easy-chair, sat Mrs. Brudenell;
on this side sat the Misses Brudenell; these three ladies were all
dressed in slight mourning, if black silk dresses and white lace collars
can be termed such; and they were all engaged in the busy idleness of
crochet work; but on a luxurious crimson velvet sofa, drawn up to the
left side of the fire, reclined a lady dressed in the deepest mourning,
and having her delicate pale, sad face half veiled by her long, soft
black ringlets.