Released, at length, from Mrs. Betts's respectful, observant presence,
Bessie began to look about her and consider her new habitation. A sense
of exaltation and a sense of bondage possessed her. These pretty, quaint
rooms were hers, then? It was not a day-dream--it was real. She was at
Abbotsmead--at Kirkham. Her true home-nest under the eaves at Beechhurst
was hundreds of miles away: farther still was the melancholy garden in
the Rue St. Jean.
Opposite the parlor window was the fireplace, the lofty mantelshelf
being surmounted by a circular mirror, so inclined as to reflect the
landscape outside. Upon the panelled walls hung numerous specimens of
the elegant industry of Bessie's predecessors--groups of flowers
embroidered on tarnished white satin; shepherds and shepherdesses with
shell-pink painted faces and raiment of needlework in many colors;
pallid sketches of scenery; crayon portraits of youths and maidens of
past generations, none younger than fifty years ago. There was a
bookcase of white wood ruled with gold lines, like the spindly chairs
and tables, and here Bessie could study, if she pleased, the literary
tastes of ancient ladies, matrons and virgins, long since departed this
life in the odor of gentility and sanctity. The volumes were in bindings
rich and solid, and the purchase or presentation of each had probably
been an event. Bessie took down here and there one. Those ladies who
spent their graceful leisure at embroidery-frames were students of
rather stiff books.
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