to let him paint your portrait; but, if he becomes too pressing in his attentions, I shall feel it my duty to take him aside, and admonish him like a mother. He will be so mortally afraid of me, that I shall have no difficulty in managing him. In the course of a year or two—”
“Is not that somebody? I’m sure I heard—”
“La, mother, don’t look so scared!” cried Marion, laughing, but coloring vividly: “it can’t be anything worse than an executioner with a warrant for our arrest.” She turned in her chair, and looked through the window and across the grass-plot to the gate.
“There is somebody—two gentlemen—just as I said: one old and the other young.”
“Are you serious, Marion?” said the widow, interlacing her fingers across her breast, while her lips trembled.
“They are reading the card: the old one is holding a pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses across his nose. Now they are looking through the gate at the house: the young one is saying something, and the other is smiling and taking snuff. The young one has a small head, but his eyes are big, and he has broad shoulders: he looks like an artist, just as I said. The old one stoops a little and is ugly; but I like his face—it’s honest. He doesn’t seem to be very rich, though; his coat is very old-fashioned. Oh, they are going away!”
“Oh, I am so glad!” exclaimed Mrs. Lockhart fervently.
“No, they are coming back—they are coming in: the young one is opening the gate. Here they come: that young fellow is certainly very handsome. There!”
A double knock sounded through the house.
“Say we are not at home—oh, they must not come in! Tell them to call another day. Perhaps they may not have called about the lodgings,” faltered the widow, in agitation.
Marion said nothing; being, to tell the truth, engaged in screwing her own courage to the sticking-point. After a pause of a few moments she marched to the door, with a step so measured and deliberate as to suggest stern desperation rather than easy indifference. Passing into the hall, and closing the door behind her, she threw open the outer door and faced the two intruders.
The elder gentleman stood forward as spokesman. “Good morning to you,” he said, glancing observantly at the young woman’s erect figure. “You have lodgings to let, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“This gentleman and I are in search of lodgings. Is the accommodation sufficient for two? We should require separate apartments.”
“You can come in and see.” She made way for them to enter, and conducted them into the sitting-room on the left.
“You had better speak to your mistress, my dear, or to your master, if he is at home, and say we would like to speak to him.” This was said by the younger man.
Marion looked at him with a certain glow of fierceness. “My father is not living,” she said. “There is no need to disturb my mother. I can show you over the house myself.”
“I ask your pardon sincerely. It has always been my foible to speak before I look. I took it for granted—”
“I don’t suppose you intended any harm, sir,” said Marion coldly. “If we could have afforded a servant to attend the door, we should not have been forced to take lodgers.” She turned to the elder man and added: “We have three vacant rooms on the floor above, and a smaller room on the top story. You might divide the accommodation to suit yourselves. You can come up stairs, if you like, and see whether they would suit you.”
The gentlemen assented, and followed Marion over the upper part of the house. The elder man examined the rooms and the furniture with care; but the younger kept his regards fixed rather upon the guide than upon what she showed them. Her gait, the movement of her arms, the carriage of her head, her tone and manner of speaking, all were subjected to his scrutiny. He said little, but took care that what he did say should be of a courteous and conciliatory nature. The elder man asked questions pleasantly, and seemed pleased with the answers Marion gave him. Within a short time the crudity and harshness of the first part of the interview began to vanish, and the relations of the three became more genial and humane. There was here and there a smile, and once, at least, a laugh. Marion, who was always quick to recognize the humorous aspect of a situation, already foresaw herself making her mother merry with an account of this adventure, when the heroes of it should have gone away. The party returned to the sitting-room in a very good humor with one another, therefore.
“For my part, I am more than satisfied,” remarked the elder gentleman, taking out his snuff-box. “Do you agree with me, Mr. Lancaster?”
Lancaster did not reply. He was gazing with great interest at the oil portrait that hung on the wall. At length he turned to Marion and said: “Is that—may I ask who that is?”
“My father.”
“Was he a major in the 97th regiment?”
“Did you know him?”
“I knew Major Lockhart; He—of course you know—fell at Waterloo.”
“We know that he was killed there, but we have no particulars,” said Marion, her voice faltering, and her eyes full of painful eagerness.
“And you are Miss Lockhart—the Marion he spoke of?”
“Wait a moment,” she said, in a thick voice, and turning pale. She walked to the window, and pressed her forehead against the glass. Presently she turned round and said, “I will call my mother, sir. She must hear what you have to tell us,” and left the room.
“A strange chance this!” remarked the elder man thoughtfully.
“She’s a fine girl, and looks like her father,” said Lancaster.
In a few moments Marion re-entered with her mother. Mrs. Lockhart looked from one to the other of the two men with wide-open eyes and flushed cheeks: a slight tremor pervaded the hand with which she mechanically smoothed the thick braids of gray hair that covered her graceful head. She moved with an uncertain step to a chair, and said in a voice scarcely audible, “Will you be seated, gentlemen? My daughter tells me that you—one of you—”
“The honor belongs to me, madam,” said Lancaster, with deep respect and with some evidence of emotion, “of having seen your husband the day before his death. He mentioned both of you; he said no man in the army had had so happy a life as he—such a wife and such a daughter. I shall remember other things that he said, by-and-by; but this meeting has come upon me by surprise, and. … The day after the battle I rode out to the field and found him. He had fallen most gallantly—I need not tell you that—at a moment such as all brave soldiers would wish to meet death in. He was wounded through the heart, and must have died instantly. I assumed the privilege of bringing his body to Brussels, and of seeing it buried there.” Here he paused, for both the women were crying, and, in sympathy with them, his own voice was getting husky. The elder man sat with his face downcast, and his hands folded between his knees.
“Is the grave marked?” he suddenly asked, looking up at Lancaster.
“Yes; the name, and the regiment, and the date. I brought something from him,” he went on, addressing Marion, as being the stronger of the two women; “it was fastened by a gold
