She had all life to begin over again, without the buoyancy or the hope that render its path endurable, and which surmount difficulties, by colouring them with those pleasant hues of delusion which make the yoke of existence easy, and its burden light.
Accustomed to the airy and cheerful architecture of Italy, cheerful even in its decay—for the proportion is still perfect in its grace, and luxuriant nature hides the ravages of time—or to the gay crowds which fixed attention upon themselves in the courtly hotels of Paris—and of late to the air of occupation and of comfort in Aylmer's house—a strange sense of oppression came over Francesca as she entered the gloomy baronial hall of Avonleigh. The high narrow windows shed shadows rather than light below; the carved walls were black with time; and the armour hung around suggested no images but those of warfare and death. Many of the figures, clad in mail from head to foot, were ranged above the dais; and she could almost fancy a skeleton form beneath, or that wild and fearful eyes glared through the apertures of the closed visors. The hall was cold, too, and chilled her southern temperament almost like unkindness.
"Is this my welcome," thought she, "to my
