“She never sits here,” said Lady Markham in a low tone. “She has a morning-room that is cosy enough. She comes up here after dinner, when Mr Clarendon takes a nap before he looks over his briefs; and he comes up at ten o’clock for ten minutes and takes a cup of tea. Then she goes to bed. That is about all the intercourse they have, and all the time the drawing-room is occupied, except when people come to call. That is why it has such a depressing look.”
“Is she not happy, then?” said Frances wistfully, which was a silly question, as she now saw as soon as she had uttered it.
“Happy! Oh, probably just as happy as other people. That is not a question that is ever asked in Society, my dear. Why shouldn’t she be happy? She has everything she has ever wished for--plenty of money--for they are very rich--her husband quite distinguished in his sphere, and in the way of advancement. What could she want more? She is a lucky woman, as women go.”
“Still she must be dull, with no one to speak to,” said Frances, looking round her with a glance of dismay. What she thought was, that it would probably be her duty to come here to make a little society for her aunt, and her heart sank at the sight of this decent, nay, handsome gloom, with a sensation which Mariuccia’s kitchen at home, which only looked on the court, or the dimly lighted rooms of the villagers, had never given her. The silence was terrible, and struck a chill to her heart. Then all at once the door opened, and Mrs Clarendon came in, taking the young visitor entirely by surprise; for the soft carpets and thick curtains so entirely shut out all sound, that she seemed to glide in like a ghost to the ghosts already there. Frances, unaccustomed to English comfort, was startled by the absence of sound, and missed the indication of the footstep on the polished floor, which had so often warned her to lay aside her innocent youthful visions at the sound of her father’s approach. Mrs Clarendon coming in so softly seemed to arrest them in the midst of their talk about her, bringing a flush to Frances’ face. She was a tall woman, fair and pale, with cold grey eyes, and an air which was like that of her rooms--the air of being unused, of being put against the wall like the handsome furniture. She came up stiffly to Lady Markham, who went to meet her with effusion, holding out both hands.