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CHAPTER XII. A FIRST VISIT

“Whenever Captain Forester is quite able to bear the fatigue, Sullivan, – mind that you say ‘quite able,’ – it will give me much pleasure to receive him.”

Such was the answer Lady Eleanor Darcy returned to a polite message from the young officer, expressing his desire to visit Lady Eleanor and thank her for the unwearied kindness she had bestowed on him during his illness.

Lady Eleanor and her daughter were seated in the same chamber in which they have already been introduced to the reader. It was towards the close of a dark and gloomy day, the air heavy and overcast towards the land, while, over the sea, masses of black, misshapen cloud were drifted along hurriedly, the presage of a coming storm. The pine wood blazed brightly on the wide hearth, and threw its mellow lustre over the antique carvings and the porcelain ornaments of the chamber, contrasting the glow of in-door comfort with the bleak and cheerless look of all without, where the crashing noise of breaking branches mingled with the yet sadder sound of the swollen torrent from the mountain.

It may be remarked that persons who have lived much on the seaside, and near a coast abounding in difficulties or dangers, are far more susceptible of the influences of weather than those who pass their lives inland. Storm and shipwreck become, in a measure, inseparably associated. The loud beating of the waves upon the rocky shore, the deafening thunder of the swollen breakers, speak with a voice to their hearts, full of most meaning terror. The moaning accents of the spent wind, and the wailing cry of the petrel, awake thoughts of those who journey over “the great waters,” amid perils more dreadful than all of man’s devising.

Partly from these causes, partly from influences of a different kind, both mother and daughter felt unusually sad and depressed, and had sat for a long interval without speaking, when Forester’s message was delivered, requesting leave to pay his personal respects.

Had the visit been one of mere ceremony, Lady Eleanor would have declined it at once; her thoughts were wandering far away, engrossed by topics of dear and painful interest, and she would not have constrained herself to change their current and direction for an ordinary matter of conventional intercourse. But this was a different case; it was her son Lionel’s friend, his chosen companion among his brother officers, the guest, too, who, wounded and almost dying beneath her roof, had been a charge of intense anxiety to her for weeks past.

“There is something strange, Helen, is there not, in this notion of acquaintanceship with one we have never seen; but now, after weeks of watching and inquiry, after nights of anxiety and days of care, I feel as if I ought to be very intimate with this same friend of Lionel’s.”

“It is more for that very reason, Mamma, and simply because he is Lionel’s friend.”

“No, my dear child, not so; it is the tie that binds us to all for whom we have felt interested, and in whose sorrows we have taken a share. Lionel has doubtless many friends in his regiment, and yet it is very unlikely any of them would cause me even a momentary impatience to see and know what they are like.”

“And do you confess to such in the present case?” said Helen, smiling.

“I own it, I have a strange feeling of half curiosity, and should be disappointed if the real Captain Forester does not come up to the standard of the ideal one.”

“Captain Forester, my Lady,” said Sullivan, as he threw open the door of the apartment, and, with a step which all his efforts could not render firm, and a frame greatly reduced by suffering, he entered. So little was he prepared for the appearance of the ladies who now stood to receive him, that, despite his habitual tact, a slight expression of surprise marked his features, and a heightened color dyed his cheek as he saluted them in turn.

With an air which perfectly blended kindliness and grace, Lady Eleanor held out her hand, and said, “My daughter, Captain Forester;” and then, pointing to a chair beside her own, begged of him to be seated. The unaccustomed exertion, the feeling of surprise, and the nervous irritability of convalescence, all conspired to make Forester ill at ease, and it was with a low, faint sigh he sank into the chair.

“I had hoped, madam,” said he, in a weak and tremulous accent, – “I had hoped to be able to speak my gratitude to you, – to express at least some portion of what I feel for kindness to which I owe my life; but the greatness of the obligation would seem too much for such strength as mine. I must leave it to my mother to say how deeply your kindness has affected us.”

The accents in which these few words were uttered, particularly that which marked the mention of his mother, seemed to strike a chord in Lady Eleanor’s heart, and her hand trembled as she took from Forester a sealed letter which he withdrew from another.

“Julia Wallincourt,” said Lady Eleanor, unconsciously reading half aloud the signature on the envelope of the letter.

“My mother, madam,” said Forester, bowing.

“The Countess of Wallincourt!” exclaimed Lady Eleanor, with a heightened color and a look of excited and even anxious import.

“Yes, madam, the widowed Countess of the Earl of Wallincourt, late Ambassador at Madrid; am I to have the happiness of hearing that my mother is known to you?”

“I had, sir, the pleasure, – the honor of meeting Lady Julia D’Esterre; to have enjoyed that pleasure, even once, is quite enough never to forget it.” Then, turning to her daughter, she added: “You have often heard me speak of Lady Julia’s beauty, Helen; she was certainly the most lovely person I ever saw, but the charm of her appearance was even inferior to the fascination of her manner.”

“She retains it all, madam,” cried Forester, as his eyes sparkled with enthusiastic delight; “she has lost nothing of that power of captivating; and as for beauty, I confess I know nothing higher in that quality than what conveys elevation of sentiment, with purity and tenderness of heart: this she possesses still.”

“And your elder brother, Captain Forester?” inquired Lady Eleanor, with a manner intended to express interest, but in reality meant to direct the conversation into another channel.

“He is in Spain still, madam; he was Secretary of the Embassy when my father died, and replaced him in the mission.”

There was a pause, a long and chilling silence, after these words, that each party felt embarrassing, and yet were unable to break; at last Forester, turning towards Helen, asked “when she had heard from her brother?”

“Not for some days past,” replied she; “but Lionel is such an irregular correspondent, we think nothing of his long intervals of silence. You have heard of his promotion, perhaps?”

“No; pray let me learn the good news.”

“He has got his company. Some very unexpected – I might say, from Lionel’s account, some very inexplicable – piece of good fortune has aided his advancement, and he now writes himself, greatly to his own delight, it would appear, Captain Darcy.”

“His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales,” said Lady Eleanor, with a look of pride, “has been pleased to notice my son, and has appointed him an extra aide-de-camp.”

“Indeed!” cried Forester; “I am rejoiced at it, with all my heart. I always thought, if the Prince were to know him, he ‘d be charmed with his agreeability. Lionel has the very qualities that win their way at Carlton House: buoyant spirit, courtly address, tact equal to any emergency, – all these are his; and the Prince likes to see handsome fellows about his Court. I am overjoyed at this piece of intelligence.”

There was a hearty frankness with which he spoke this that captivated both mother and daughter.

There are few more winning traits of human nature than the unaffected, heartfelt admiration of one young man for the qualities and endowments of another, and never are they more likely to meet appreciation than when exhibited in presence of the mother of the lauded one. And thus the simple expression of Forester’s delight at his friend’s advancement went further to exalt himself in the good graces of Lady Eleanor than the display of any powers of pleasing, however ingeniously or artfully exercised.

As through the openings of a dense wood we come unexpectedly upon a view of a wide tract of country, unfolding features of landscape unthought of and unlooked for, so occasionally doth it happen that, in conversation, a chance allusion, a mere word, will develop sources of interest buried up to that very moment, and display themes of mutual enjoyment which were unknown before. This was now the case. Lionel’s name, which evoked the mother’s pride and the sister’s affection, called also into play the generous warmth of Forester’s attachment to him.

Thus pleasantly glided on the hours, and none remarked how time was passing, or even heeded the howling storm that raged without, while anecdotes and traits of Lionel were recorded, and comments passed upon his character and temper such as a friend might utter and a mother love to hear.

At last Forester rose. More than once during the interview a consciousness crossed his mind that he was outstaying the ordinary limits of a visit; but at each moment some observation of Lady Eleanor or her daughter, or some newly remembered incident in Lionel’s career, would occur, and delay his departure. At last he stood up, and, warned by the thickening darkness of how time had sped, was endeavoring to mutter some words of apology, when Lady Eleanor interrupted him with, —

“Pray do not let us suppose you felt the hours too long, Captain Forester; the theme you selected will always make my daughter and myself insensible to the lapse of time. If I did not fear we should be trespassing on both your kindness and health together, I should venture to request you would dine with us.”

Forester’s sparkling eyes and flushed cheek replied to the invitation before he had words to say how gladly he accepted it.

“I feel more reconciled to making this request, sir,” said Lady Eleanor, “because in your present state of weakness you cannot enjoy the society of a pleasanter party, and it is a fortunate thing that you can combine a prudent action with a kind one.”

Forester appreciated the flattery of the remark, and, with a broken acknowledgment of its import, moved towards the door.

“No, no,” said Lady Eleanor, “pray don’t think of dressing; you have all the privilege of an invalid, and a – friend also.”

The pause which preceded the word brought a slight blush into her cheek, but when it was uttered, she seemed to have resumed her self-possession.

“We shall leave you now with the newspapers, which I suppose you are longing to look at, and join you at the dinner-table.” And as she spoke, she took her daughter’s arm and passed into an adjoining room, leaving Forester in one of those pleasant reveries which so often break in upon the hours of returning health, and compensate for all the sufferings of a sick-bed.

“How strange and how unceasing are the anomalies of Irish life!” thought he, as he sat alone, ruminating on the past. “Splendor, poverty, elevation of sentiment, savage ferocity, delicacy the most refined, barbarism the most revolting, pass before the mind’s eye in the quick succession of the objects in a magic lantern. Here, in these few weeks, what characters and incidents have been revealed to me! and how invariably have I found myself wrong in every effort to decipher them! Nor are the indications of mind and temper in themselves so very singular, as the fact of meeting them under circumstances and in situations so unlikely. For instance, who would have expected to see a Lady Eleanor Darcy here, in this wild region, with all the polished grace and dignity of manner the best circles alone possess; and her daughter, haughtier, perhaps, than the mother, more reserved, more timid it may be, and yet with all the elegance of a Court in every gesture and every movement. Lionel told me she was handsome, – he might have said downright beautiful. Where were these, fascinations nurtured and cultivated? Is it here, on the margin of this lonely bay, amid scenes of reckless dissipation?”

Of this kind were his musings; nor, amid them all, did one thought obtrude of the cause which threw him first into such companionship, nor of that mission, to discharge which was the end and object of his coming.

CHAPTER XIII. A TREATY REJECTED

Forester’s recovery was slow, at least so his friends in the capital thought it, for to each letter requiring to know when he might be expected back again, the one reply forever was returned, “As soon as he felt able to leave Gwynne Abbey.” Nor was the answer, perhaps, injudiciously couched.

From the evening of his first introduction to Lady Eleanor and her daughter, his visits were frequent, sometimes occupying the entire morning, and always prolonged far into the night. Never did an intimacy make more rapid progress; so many tastes and so many topics were in common to all, for while the ladies had profited by reading and study in matters which he had little cultivated, yet the groundwork of an early good education enabled him to join in discussions, and take part in conversation which both interested at the time, and suggested improvement afterward; and if Lady Eleanor knew less of the late events which formed the staple of London small-talk, she was well informed on the characters and passages of the early portion of the reign, which gave all the charm of a history to reminiscences purely personal.

With the wits and distinguished men of that day she had lived in great intimacy, and felt a pride in contrasting the displays of intellectual wealth, so common then, with the flatter and more prosaic habita since introduced into society. “Eccentricities and absurdities,” she would say, “have replaced in the world the more brilliant exhibitions of cultivated and gifted minds, and I must confess to preferring the social qualities of Horace Walpole to the exaggerations of Bagenal Daly, or the ludicrous caprices of Buck Whaley.”

“I think Mr. Daly charming, for my part,” said Helen, laughing. “I’m certain that he is a miracle of truth, as he is of adventure; if everything he relates is not strictly accurate and matter of fact, it is because the real is always inferior to the ideal. The things ought to have happened as he states.”

“It is, at least, ben trovato,” broke in Forester; “yet I go further, and place perfect confidence in his narratives, and truly I have heard some strange ones in our morning rides together.”

“I suspected as much,” said Lady Eleanor, “a new listener is such a boon to him; so, then, you have heard how he carried away the Infanta of Spain, compelled the Elector of Saxony to take off his boots, made the Doge of Venice drunk, and instructed the Pasha of Trebizond in the mysteries of an Irish jig.”

“Not a word of these have I heard as yet.”

“Indeed! then what, in all mercy, has he been talking of, – India, China, or North America, perhaps?”

“Still less; he has never wandered from Ireland and Irish life, and I must say, as far as adventure and incident are concerned, it would have been quite unnecessary for him to have strayed beyond it.”

“You are perfectly right there,” said Lady Eleanor, with some seriousness in the tone; “our home anomalies may shame all foreign wonders: he himself could scarcely find his parallel in any land.”

“He has a sincere affection for Lionel, Mamma,” said Helen, in an accent of deprecating meaning.

“And that very same regard gave the bias to Lionel’s taste for every species of absurdity! Believe me, Helen, Irish blood is too stimulating an ingredient to enter into a family oftener than once in four generations. Mr. Daly’s has been unadulterated for centuries, and the consequence is, that, although neither deficient in strong sense or quick perception, he acts always on the impulse that precedes judgment, and both his generosity and his injustice outrun the mark.”

“I love that same rash temperament,” said Helen, flushing as she spoke; “it is a fine thing to see so much of warm and generous nature survive all that he must have seen of the littleness of mankind.”

“There! Captain Forester, there! Have I not reason on my side? You thought me very unjust towards poor Mr. Daly, – I know you did; but it demands all my watchfulness to prevent him being equally the model for my daughter, as he is for my son’s imitation.”

“There are traits in his character any might well be proud to imitate,” said Helen, warmly; “his life has been a series of generous, single-minded actions; and,” added she, archly “if Mamma thinks it prudent and safe to warn her children against some of Mr. Daly’s eccentricities, no one is more ready to acknowledge his real worth than she is.”

“Helen is right,” said Lady Eleanor; “if we could always be certain that Mr. Daly’s imitators would copy the truly great features of his character, we might forgive them falling into his weaknesses; and now, can any one tell me why we have not seen him for some days past? He is in the Abbey?”

“Yes, we rode out together yesterday morning to look at the wreck near the Sound of Achill; strange enough, I only learned from a chance remark of one of the sailors that Daly had been in the boat, the night before, that took the people off the wreck.”

“So like him!” exclaimed Helen, with enthusiasm.

“He is angry with me, I know he is,” said Lady Eleanor, musingly. “I asked his advice respecting the answer I should send to a certain letter, and then rejected the counsel. He would have forgiven me had I run counter to his opinions without asking; but when I called him into consultation, the offence became a grave one.”

“I declare, Mamma, I side with him; his arguments were clear, strong, and unanswerable, and the best proof of it is, you have never had the courage to follow your own determination since you listened to him.”

“I have a great mind to choose an umpire between us. What say you, Captain Forester, will you hear the case? Helen shall take Mr. Daly’s side; I will make my own statement.”

“It’s a novel idea,” said Helen, laughing, “that the umpire should be selected by one of the litigating parties.”

“Then you doubt my impartiality, Miss Darcy?”

“If I am to accept you as a judge, I ‘ll not prejudice the Court against myself, by avowing my opinions of it,” said she, archly.

“When I spoke of your arbitration, Captain Forester,” said Lady Eleanor, “I really meant fairly, for upon all the topics we have discussed together, politics, or anything bordering on political opinions, have never come uppermost; and, up to this moment, I have not the slightest notion what are your political leanings, Whig or Tory.”

“So the point in dispute is a political one?” asked Forester, cautiously.

“Not exactly,” interposed Helen; “the policy of a certain reply to a certain demand is the question at issue; but the advice of any party in the matter might be tinged by his party leanings, if he have any.”

“If I judge Captain Forester aright, he has troubled his head very little about party squabbles,” said Lady Eleanor; “and in any case, he can scarcely take a deep interest in a question which is almost peculiarly Irish.”

Forester bowed, – partly in pretended acquiescence of this speech, partly to conceal a deep flush that mounted suddenly to his cheek; for he felt by no means pleased at a remark that might be held to reflect on his political knowledge.

“Be thou the judge, then,” said Lady Eleanor. “And, first of all, read that letter.” And she took from her work-box her cousin Lord Netherby’s letter, and handed it to Forester.

“I reserve my right to dispute that document being evidence,” said Helen, laughing; “nor is there any proof of the handwriting being Lord Netherby’s. Mamma herself acknowledges she has not heard from him for nearly twenty years.”

This cunning speech, meant to intimate the precise relation of the two parties, was understood at once by Forester, who could with difficulty control a smile, although Lady Eleanor looked far from pleased.

There was now a pause, while Forester read over the long letter with due attention, somewhat puzzled to conceive to what particular portion of it the matter in dispute referred.

“You have not read the postscript,” said Helen, as she saw him folding the letter, without remarking the few concluding lines.

Forester twice read over the passage alluded to, and at once whatever had been mysterious or difficult was revealed before him. Lord Netherby’s wily temptation was made manifest, not the less palpably, perhaps, because the reader was himself involved in the very same scheme.

“You have now seen my cousin’s letter,” said Lady Eleanor, “and the whole question is whether the reply should be limited to a suitable acknowledgment of its kind expressions, and a grateful sense of the Prince’s condescension, or should convey – ”

“Mamma means,” interrupted Helen, laughingly, – “Mamma means, that we might also avow our sincere gratitude for the rich temptation offered in requital of my father’s vote on the ‘nion.’”

“No minister would dare to make such a proposition to the Knight of Gwynne,” said Lady Eleanor, haughtily.

“Ministers are very enterprising nowadays, Mamma,” rejoined Helen; “I have never heard any one speak of Mr. Pitt’s cowardice, and Lord Castlereagh has had courage to invite old Mr. Hickman to dinner!”

Forester would gladly have acknowledged his relationship to the Secretary, but the moment seemed unpropitious, and the avowal would have had the semblance of a rebuke; so he covered his confusion by a laugh, and said nothing.

“We can scarcely contemn the hardihood of a Government that has made Crofton a bishop, and Hawes a general,” said Helen, with a flashing eye and a lip curled in superciliousness. “Nothing short of a profound reliance on the piety of the Church and the bravery of the Army would support such a policy as that!”

Lady Eleanor seemed provoked at the hardy tone of Helen’s speech; but the mother’s look was proud, as she gazed on the brilliant expression of her daughter’s beauty, now heightened by the excitement of the moment.

“Is it not possible, Miss Darcy,” said Forester, in a voice at once timid and insinuating, – “is it not possible that the measure contemplated by the Government may have results so beneficial as to more than compensate for evils like these?”

“A Jesuit, or a Tory, or both,” cried Helen. “Mamma, you have chosen your umpire most judiciously; his is exactly the impartiality needed.”

“Nay, but hear me out,” cried the young officer, whose cheek was crimsoned with shame. “If the measure be a good one, – well, let me beg the question, if it be a good one – and yet, the time for propounding it is either inopportune or unfortunate, and, consequently, the support it might claim on its own merits be withheld either from prejudice, party connection, or any similar cause, – you would not call a ministry culpable who should anticipate the happy working of a judicious Act, by securing the assistance of those whose convictions are easily won over, in preference to the slower process of convincing the men of more upright and honest intentions.”

“You have begged so much in the commencement, and assumed so much in the conclusion, sir, that I am at a loss to which end of your speech to address my answer; but I will say this much: it is but sorry evidence of a measure’s goodness when it can only meet with the approval of the venal. I don’t prize the beauty so highly that is only recognized by the blind man.”

“Distorted vision, Miss Darcy, may lead to impressions more erroneous than even blindness.”

“I may have the infirmity you speak of,” said she, quickly, “but assuredly I’ll not wear Government spectacles to correct it.”

If Forester was surprised at finding a young lady so deeply interested in a political question, he was still more so on hearing the tone of determination she spoke in, and would gladly, had he known how, have given the conversation a less serious turn.

“We have been all the time forgetting the real question at issue,” said Lady Eleanor. “I ‘m sure I never intended to listen to a discussion on the merits or demerits of the Union, on which you both grow so eloquent; will you then kindly return to whence we started, and advise me as to the reply to this letter.”

“I do not perceive any remarkable difficulty, madam,” said Forester, addressing himself exclusively to Lady Eleanor. “The Knight of Gwynne has doubtless strong opinions on this question; they are either in favor of, or adverse to, the Government views: if the former, your reply is easy and most satisfactory; if the latter, perhaps he would condescend to explain the nature of his objections, to state whether it be to anything in the detail of the measure he is adverse to, or to the principle of the Bill itself. A declaration like this will open a door to negotiation, without the slightest imputation on either side. A minister may well afford to offer his reasons for any line of policy to one as eminent in station and ability as the Knight of Gwynne, and I trust I am not indiscreet in assuming that the Knight would not be derogating from that station in listening to, and canvassing, such explanations.”

“Lord Castlereagh, ‘aut – ,’” said Helen, starting up from her seat, and making a low courtesy before Forester, who, feeling himself in a measure detected, blushed till his face became scarlet.

“My dear Helen, at this rate we shall never – But what is this? – who have we here?”

This sudden exclamation was caused by the appearance of a small four-wheeled carriage drawn up at the gate of the flower-garden, from which old Hickman’s voice could now be heard, inquiring if Lady Eleanor were at home.

“Yes, Sullivan,” said she, with a sigh, “and order luncheon.” Then, as the servant left the room, she added, “I am always better pleased when the visits of that family are paid by the old gentleman, whom I prefer to the son or the grandson. They are better performers, I admit, but he is an actor of nature’s own making.”

“Do you know him, Captain Forester?” asked Helen.

But, before he could reply, the door was opened, and Sullivan announced, by his ancient title, “Doctor Hickman.”

Strange and grotesque as in every respect he looked, the venerable character of old age secured him a respectful, almost a cordial, reception; and as Lady Eleanor advanced to him, there was that urbanity and courtesy in her manner which are so nearly allied to the expression of actual esteem. It was true, there was little in the old man’s nature to elicit such feelings towards him; he was a grasping miser, covetousness and money-getting filled up his heart, and every avenue leading to it. The passion for gain had alone given the interest to his life, and developed into activity any intelligence he possessed. While his son valued wealth as the only stepping-stone to a position of eminence and rank, old Hickman loved riches for their own sake. The bank was, in his estimation, the fountain of all honor, and a strong credit there better than all the reputation the world could confer. These were harsh traits. But then he was old; long years of infirmity were bringing him each hour closer to the time when the passion of his existence must be abandoned; and a feeling of pity was excited at the sight of that withered, careworn face, to which the insensate cravings of avarice lent an unnatural look of shrewdness and intelligence.

“What a cold morning for your drive, Mr. Hickman,” said Lady Eleanor, kindly. “Captain Forester, may I ask you to stir the fire? Mr. Hickman – Captain Forester.”

“Ah, Miss Helen, beautiful as ever!” exclaimed the old man, as, with a look of real admiration, he gazed on Miss Darcy. “I don’t know how it is, Lady Eleanor, but the young ladies never dressed so becomingly formerly. Captain Forester, your humble servant; I’m glad to see you about again, – indeed, I did n’t think it very likely once that you’d ever leave the library on your own feet; Mac-Donough ‘s a dead shot they tell me – ay, ay!”

“I hope your friends at ‘The Grove’ are well, sir?” said Lady Eleanor, desirous of interrupting a topic she saw to be particularly distressing to Forester.

“No, indeed, my Lady; my son Bob – Mr. Hickman O’Reilly, I mean – God forgive me, I’m sure they take trouble enough to teach me that name – he’s got a kind of a water-brash, what we call a pyrosis. I tell him it’s the French dishes he eats for dinner, things he never was brought op to, concoctions of lemon juice, and cloves, and saffron, and garlic, in meat roasted – no, but stewed into chips.”

“You prefer our national cookery, Mr. Hickman?”

“Yes, my Lady, with the gravy in it; the crag-end, – if your Ladyship knows what’s the crag-end of a – ”

“Indeed, Mr. Hickman,” said Lady Eleanor, smiling, “I’m deplorably ignorant about everything that concerns the household. Helen affects to be very deep in these matters; but I suspect it is only a superficial knowledge, got up to amuse the Knight.”

“I beg, Mamma, you will not infer any such reproach on my skill in menage. Papa called my omelette à la curé perfect.”

“I should like to hear Mr. Hickman’s judgment on it,” said Lady Eleanor, with a sly smile.

“If it’s a plain joint, my Lady, boiled or roasted, without spices or devilment in it, but just the way Providence intended – ”

“May I ask, sir, how you suppose Providence intended to recommend any particular kind of cookery?” said Helen, seriously.

“Whatever is most natural, most simple, the easiest to do,” stammered out Hickman, not over pleased at being asked for an explanation.

“Then the Cossack ranks first in the art,” exclaimed Forester; “for nothing can be more simple or easier than to take a slice of a live ox and hang it up in the sun for ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Them’s barbarians,” said Hickman, with an emphasis that made the listeners find it no easy task to keep down a laugh.

“Luncheon, my Lady,” said old Tate Sullivan, as with a reverential bow he opened the folding-doors into a small breakfast parlor, where an exquisitely served table was laid out.