On the threshold we were met by Judge Conway, with a bow and a smile.
He pressed our hands cordially, but with a covert sadness, which I
suppose comes to the heart of every father who is about to part with a
beloved daughter--to give up his place as it were to another--and then
we entered the great drawing-room where a gentleman in a white cravat
and black coat awaited us. No other persons were visible.
The great apartment was a charming spectacle, with its brilliant lights
and blazing fire. The frescoed walls danced in light shadows; the long
curtains were drawn down, completely excluding the March air. Coming in
out of the night, this smiling interior was inexpressibly home-like and
delightful.
As we entered, the clerical-looking gentleman rose, modestly, and
smiled.
"The Reverend Mr. Hope," said Judge Conway, presenting him. And Mr.
Hope, with the same gentle smile upon his lips, advanced and shook
hands.
At that name I had seen Mohun suddenly start, and turn pale. Then his
head rose quickly, his pallor disappeared, and he said with entire
calmness:
"Mr. Hope and myself are old acquaintances, I may even say, old
friends."
To these words Mr. Hope made a gentle and smiling reply; and it was
plain that he was very far from connecting the personage before him
with the terrible tragedy which had taken place at Fonthill, in
December, 1856.
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