happened but one event, except
the death of their only child, to place them in mourning. That was the
decease of Sir William Walsingham, the husband of Lady Mardykes' sister.
She now lived in a handsome old dower-house at Islington, and being
wealthy, made now and then an excursion to Mardykes Hall, in which she
was sometimes accompanied by her sister Lady Haworth. Sir Oliver being a
Parliament-man was much in London and deep in politics and intrigue, and
subject, as convivial rogues are, to occasional hard hits from gout.

But change and separation had made no alteration in these ladies' mutual
affections, and no three sisters were ever more attached.

Was Lady Mardykes happy with her lord? A woman so gentle and loving as
she, is a happy wife with any husband who is not an absolute brute.
There must have been, I suppose, some good about Sir Bale. His wife was
certainly deeply attached to him. She admired his wisdom, and feared his
inflexible will, and altogether made of him a domestic idol. To acquire
this enviable position, I suspect there must be something not
essentially disagreeable about a man. At all events, what her neighbours
good-naturedly termed her infatuation continued, and indeed rather
improved by time.

CHAPTER XXIV

An Old Portrait

Sir Bale--whom some remembered a gay and convivial man, not to say a
profligate one--had grown to be a very gloomy man indeed. There was
something weighing upon his mind; and I daresay some of the good gossips
of Golden Friars, had there been any materials for such a case, would
have believed that Sir Bale had murdered Philip Feltram, and was now the
victim of the worm and fire of remorse.

The gloom of the master of the house made his very servants gloomy, and
the house itself looked sombre, as if it had been startled with strange
and dismal sights.

Lady Mardykes was something of an artist. She had lighted lately, in an
out-of-the-way room, upon a dozen or more old portraits. Several of
these were full-lengths; and she was--with the help of her maid, both in
long aprons, amid sponges and basins, soft handkerchiefs and
varnish-pots and brushes--busy in removing the dust and smoke-stains,
and in laying-on the varnish, which brought out the colouring, and made
the transparent shadows yield up their long-buried treasures of finished
detail.

Against the wall stood a full-length portrait as Sir Bale entered the
room; having for a wonder, a word to say to his