Passed in talk. When Sir Nicholas had finished supper, they all went
upstairs to my lady's withdrawing-room on the first floor. This was
always a strange and beautiful room to Isabel. It was panelled like the
room below, but was more delicately furnished, and a tall harp stood
near the window to which my lady sang sometimes in a sweet tremulous old
voice, while Sir Nicholas nodded at the fire. Isabel, too, had had some
lessons here from the old lady; but even this mild vanity troubled her
puritan conscience a little sometimes. Then the room, too, had curious
and attractive things in it. A high niche in the oak over the fireplace
held a slender image of Mary and her Holy Child, and from the Child's
fingers hung a pair of beads. Isabel had a strange sense sometimes as if
this holy couple had taken refuge in that niche when they were driven
from the church; but it seemed to her in her steadier moods that this
was a superstitious fancy, and had the nature of sin. This evening the
old lady went to her harp, while Isabel sat down near her in the wide
window seat and looked out over the dark lawn, where the white dial
glimmered like a phantom, and thought of Anthony again. Sir Nicholas
went and stretched himself before the fire, and closed his eyes, for he
was old, and tired with his long ride; and Hubert sat down in a dark
corner near him whence he could watch Isabel. After a few rippling
chords my lady began to sing a song by Sir Thomas Wyatt, whom she and
Sir Nicholas had known in their youth; and which she had caused to be
set to music by some foreign chapel master. It was a sorrowful little
song, with the title, "He seeketh comfort in patience," and possibly she
chose it on purpose for this evening. "Patience! for I have wrong, And
dare not shew wherein; Patience
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