It was the spacious morning-room which had been sacred
to the late Lady Eversleigh, Sir Oswald's mother.
Here the widow sat in the hour of her desolation, unhonoured, unloved,
without friend or counsellor; unless, indeed, the gallant soldier who
had defended her from the suspicion of a hideous crime might stoop to
befriend her further in her bitter need. She sat alone, uncertain,
after the reading of the dead man's will, whether she might not be
thrust forth from the doors of Raynham Castle, shelterless, homeless,
penniless, once more a beggar and an outcast.
Her heart was so cruelly stricken by the crushing blow that had fallen
upon her; the grief she felt for her husband's untimely fate was so
deep and sincere, that she thought but little of her own future. She
had ceased to feel either hope or fear. Let fate do its worst. No
sorrow that could come to her in the future, no disgrace, no
humiliation, could equal in bitterness that fiery ordeal through which
she had passed during the last few days.
Lionel Dale was ushered into the morning-room while Lady Eversleigh sat
by the hearth, absorbed in gloomy thought.
She rose as Lionel Dale entered the room, and received him with stately
courtesy.
She was prepared to find herself despised by this young man, who would,
in all probability, very speedily learn, or who had perhaps already
learned, the story of her degradation.
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