I remember well an animated chat we had about some
poems that had just made their appearance from a great British author,
and were creating quite a public stir. There was one, a tale of
passion and despair, which Wheaton had read, and of which he gave us
a transcript. Wild, startling, and dreamy, perhaps it threw over our
minds its peculiar cast. An hour moved off, and we began to think it
strange that neither Ninon or the widow came into the room. One of us
gave a hint to that effect to Margery; but she made no answer, and
went on in her usual way as before.
"The grim old thing," said Wheaton, "if she were in Spain, they'd make
her a premier duenna!"
I ask'd the woman about Ninon and the widow. She seemed disturb'd, I
thought; but, making no reply to the first part of my question, said
that her mistress was in another part of the house, and did not wish
to be with company.
"Then be kind enough, Mrs. Vinegar," resumed Wheaton, good-naturedly,
"be kind enough to go and ask the widow if we can see Ninon."
Our attendant's face turn'd as pale as ashes, and she precipitately
left the apartment. We laugh'd at her agitation, which Frank Brown
assigned to our merry ridicule.
Quite a quarter of an hour elaps'd before Margery's return. When she
appear'd she told us briefly that the widow had bidden her obey our
behest, and now, if we desired, she would conduct us to the daughter's
presence. There was a singular expression in the woman's eyes, and the
whole affair began to strike us as somewhat odd; but we arose, and
taking our caps, follow'd her as she stepp'd through the door.
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