Page:ONCE A WEEK JUL TO DEC 1860.pdf/516

 508 Mrs. Herbert was in her room, and desired to see me as soon as I came in. I ascended the stairs slowly and unwillingly, for I never approached Clara now without an indescribable repugnance. The revolution in my feelings was altogether unaccountable to myself. I found her in her dressing-room, and her first words on entering were, “Oh, George, come with me!” and, rising from her seat, she led me out of the room.

“What’s the matter?” I said. “Where do you want me to go?”

“I’ve something to show you,” she said, as she eagerly ascended the stairs to the upper storey.

“What—up in the garrets?” I exclaimed. “What took you up there?”

“I’ve been all over the house since breakfast,” she said.

“Well, and what have you found?”

She did not answer, for we were by this time at the end of the ascent. Instead of speaking, she led me into an attic which was used as a lumber-room, and, advancing, she pointed to a large picture from which she had previously unripped the canvas with which it had been covered. “Look,” she said, “that’s the portrait of my mother, George!”

I stared at her, dumb with amazement. “Yes,” she continued, “is it not strange to find it here?”

“Why?” said I, rather to gain time than because I wanted an answer.

“Well,” she said, “you know I never saw my parents, and I never could get my uncle to tell me anything about them. He always turned it off when I wanted to ask him, and as I saw that, for some reason, it was a disagreeable subject, I ceased to recur to it. But after his death Lady Wellwood was looking into a casket which he always kept in his own possession. It was the very casket that was lost on the night we reached Paris, you know. Well, I happened to enter the room suddenly, and saw her with a small picture in her hand. She tried to hide it, but as I pressed her to tell me who it was, she said Sir Ralph had told her that it was the portrait of my mother. I asked her to give it me at once, but she said, as we were hurriedly packing up for the journey to Paris, she would leave it where it was for the present. And most provokingly it was lost!”

I think I should have fallen to the ground, but I supported myself against the wall, and by a strong effort, I forced myself to ask her why she thought this was intended to represent the same person.

“Oh,” she said, with her eyes still fixed upon the picture, so that she did not observe the agitation and dismay that I was conscious my