"Beneath the art-embroidered vest
Is often hid a weary breast;
And gaiety dissembles ill
The pangs that make the sad heart chill,
When gold and pleasure strive in vain
To buy immunity from pain."--_Anon._
We now claim Ariosto's privilege, and for a while shift our scene to an
elegantly furnished boudoir in one of the best houses in a street in the
West End of London.
In the centre of this apartment stood a rosewood table covered with a
gorgeous cloth, on which in charming _neglige_ were scattered several
well-bound volumes--a few ornaments--an ivory fan beautifully carved--a
pair of white kid gloves, and a bouquet of flowers. In the centre stood
a camphine lamp, which shed a soft light, and disclosed sofas, chairs,
and ottomans, all of the same expensive wood, and covered with crimson
velvet cushions. A grand piano stood near the folding doors which opened
into a smaller back room; a harp stood between the windows, one of which
was slightly opened, for though it was now nearly ten o'clock there was
no need yet of shutting out the soft west wind that blew lightly from
the park. The bars of the fireplace were garnished with boughs of
myrtle, and above the mantelpiece was a large mirror, on either side of
which hung a miniature painting, the only two pictures in the room. The
whole air of the room was one of luxury and elegance, and the sweet
perfume of some exotic flowers, which breathed from a small
conservatory into which the other window opened, filled the apartment.
In the smaller, or back drawing-room, the owner of this residence sat on
a sofa trying to decipher the letters of the last novel in the gloaming,
which the lamp in the outer room could not illumine. When light quite
failed, she rose and entered the boudoir we have just described, and
sitting down on an ottoman between the two windows, passed her fingers
along the chords of the harp, and then bent again over the volume she
perused. In appearance this lady was about twenty-two, though perhaps
she looked older than she really was. From time to time Juana
Ferraras--for she it was--looked off her book, and raised her dark eye
to the miniature on the right of the mirror, the counterpart of Lord
Wentworth, whilst the other represented the Earl's fair donna. From the
picture she glanced hurriedly at the door, as if she expected some
visitor. When Lord Wentworth, tired of Juana, determined not to do so
mean a thing as to cast penniless on the cold world one who had
sacrificed so much for him--he gave her a liberal, nay, a handsome yearly
allowance, besides the residence in which she now lived, on condition
she was never to trouble, or ask after him again. In the Earl's very
faults there was mingled the high honour that would never desert a
helpless woman, and he readily parted with a large annual sum in order
to leave her happy as he thought. But gold cannot purchase happiness,
and this Juana found. She was endowed with strong passions, and had
really loved the Earl, and keenly felt his growing coldness. She was
sensible she had lived a life of duplicity; but she was not without
glimpses of a better nature, not without desire of living a different
life, and now the last chances seemed gone! Her very affluence depended
on her never troubling the Earl more, and this made her very sad.
Juana was exceedingly tastefully dressed; everything about her was
handsome without being showy, as everything about her room was elegant
and expensive, without being extravagant. She wore a remarkably
well-made black silk dress--the favourite Spanish colour--which showed
off the figure it professed to hide; a black mantilla fell from the comb
which confined her hair, now dressed in the Spanish way, and gracefully
drooped over her white shoulders; she wore a chain of pearls round her
neck, from the end of which was suspended a diamond crucifix; and
several costly rings gemmed her hand, while bracelets in the shape of
serpents with emerald eyes clasped her well-shaped arms. The young
girl's striking beauty was still the same, and the hot evening, and
exertion of fanning herself with the fan, which, as Shakespeare says,
"seemed to glow the delicate cheek which it did cool," gave a radiant
bloom to her Spanish complexion, enhancing her extreme loveliness. Her
eye was darkly lustrous still, but there was an air of discontented
pride in her countenance, and a weary dejectedness, that clouded her
bright eyes, which had no business there. All that money could give was
on, and around her. But what gold could not purchase was lacking--a
heart to enjoy them, and a heart to share her delights. Little they know
of woman's nature, who fancy that _every_ young creature who has not the
moral courage to resist temptation and falls, loses her heart with her
name! Low, indeed, must she be fallen who has no heart! Name--fame--all
may go--the heart never. And though a life of shame may make it grow
callous, and apparently dead; though a life of deceit may freeze its
feelings; beneath its icy exterior some traces of former sensibility are
buried. They may be but the feeble tricklings of the stream, which all
the glacier's cold cannot freeze, but are still quick--still living amid
a mass of external frigidity.
Juana, as we have already said, had strong feelings towards the Earl:
what woman would not under her circumstances? Mingled with these
sentiments were shadows of distrust; and when she compared their love to
that which had once bound her heart in earlier, happier days, she felt
how feeble and how dim was its greatest light. Juana had once had
another lover--of him we may hereafter hear more--suffice to say death
had severed their tie, and now:--
"The love where death _had_ set his seal,
Nor age _could_ chill, nor rival steal,
Nor falsehood disavow."
She had been left alone, and whilst no future affection could equal her
first, earliest love, still the nearest akin to it had been that for
Lord Wentworth; once more she had been thrown off, and this time not
death, but falsehood had been the severer! She had been driven from her
last resting place, and she was now like the dove flitting over a cold
weary waste, which wist not where to rest her feet. The olive branch was
gone, and she was desolate! In this desertion too her ambition had been
stricken--her pride had received a blow! She had fancied her beauty
would have been the means and instrument of raising her to this pitch of
fancied bliss. She had lived to see her beauty despised--lived to see
her power worthless--and now what was all the wealth--what all the
luxury--he had given, when the giver cared for her no more? All that she
could wish seemed round her, but in the midst of all the owner was the
only being whose smile belied her heart! The only one of all who praised
her beauty who was in spirit not sad--but miserable! Tossing the
unfinished novel aside Juana rose, sighed deeply, and sauntering
towards the open window, which she raised still higher, gazed out on the
streets down which the watchmen were strolling with their lanterns. She
then returned to the mirror, exclaiming, "Ah! ha! how tired I am--I
would I were dead--what is all now without thee?"
For some moments she looked on the Earl's picture with great
earnestness--then she rang the bell, and when the footman appeared,
said--"Bring some refreshments, William--you may clear the table, and
put them there--and see that the wines are iced."
"Dear me," she exclaimed half aloud, as a pretty little timepiece on the
mantelshelf struck ten--"how late they are!--I expected them an hour
ago?"
The footman had just spread out a cold collation, served on silver
plate, when the door bell rang, and almost immediately afterwards
appeared the expected visitors. Our readers will not be surprised to
hear them announced as Captains de Vere and L'Estrange.
"Well, gentlemen," said Juana, putting on a smile so sweet we could
hardly imagine her so soon capable of assuming, "you are exceedingly
punctual--just one hour and ten minutes after the time."
"We crave your pardon, fair Juana, but the delay was unavoidable," said
L'Estrange, advancing and shaking hands.
"You should put that in the singular, L'Estrange. I care little how long
I keep people waiting, and in the case of ladies always make up with a
kiss," said the Captain, bestowing one on the fair Spaniard's cheek.
"And how do you do when ladies keep you waiting, Captain de Vere?" said
Juana.
"Never wait for them, or if they be refractory give them something to
mend their memory and manners another time! I see you are all prepared,
Juana, at any rate. Here, sirrah!" addressing the servant, "is the wine
properly iced?"
"Yes, your honour. Can I do anything else?"
"Nothing but take yourself off as quick as you can? Stay--tell my man to
call for Sir R. Musgrave, and be here at eleven. Let him be punctual, or
egad! I'll know why."
"Now we are by ourselves let us begin and discuss this affair," said
L'Estrange.
"To the devil with your discussions till we have got something aboard,
as Wilson would say. There's your health, my dark-eyed beauty! and
luck!" said the Captain, draining a bumper.
"Now then, L'Estrange, discuss away--I've enough wine in me to settle my
brain; I hate talking on nothing."
"On the whole, then, Juana, our plans seem to have miscarried not a
little," said L'Estrange. "Who would have thought of his lordship's
pensioning you off so soon? I am sure he shows little taste."
Juana sighed, without answering.
"Egad! that's true, he does show little taste; but don't you get
discouraged, my little Juana."
"That unfortunate meeting of Lord and Lady Arranmore with the young lady
abroad I fear will undo everything," said the Spaniard.
"It _was_ unlucky! who the deuce would have thought of such a chance?
Now, my brother will be swearing about her fidelity, and God knows what
not."
"It is these little chances that spoil everything, unless guarded
against, and after that capital rumour we got afloat it is too bad."
"You are plural mad to-night," replied the Captain; "'we', it was _I_,
sir, that planned the paragraph, and _I_ who prevented old Ravensworth
seeing the denial--it would have been long ere it entered your stupid
head!"
"Well, Captain, you need not wrangle; we will give you all the credit of
being wise in evil! I envy not the distinction, I am sure, and am not
sorry to get the infamy off my hands."
"And d--d ready to profit by it," retorted the Captain. "Well, we won't
wrangle, but get to business! Now, my Ahithophel! let us hear what you
can counsel."
"I would send Juana to Scotland, and get a meeting between her and Lord
Wentworth."
"Curse women, say I--they spoil everything--one is enough; God knows
what mischief two may work--better keep Juana here."
"You are _exceedingly_ polite, Captain de Vere.--I think it a very good
plan, and one that ought certainly to be followed."
"Don't be angry, dear!--don't look so jolly savage! Go, in the fiend's
name, if you like, and lose everything: thank heaven I have yet a string
that will not break should this fail."
"And what if I do lose all, Captain de Vere? what is the use of this
loveless grandeur? I would rather see and speak to Wentworth ten minutes
than live a year in guilty, solitary splendour. You know not what a
woman's heart is--let me go?"
"In troth not I; a woman's heart is an enigma not easy to read; but go
to the North, or _elsewhere_ if you will, it irks me not! Only don't
cast it in my teeth if it fails. The plan then is for you and I,
L'Estrange, to start for the Towers to-morrow--you can call and see
Ellen Ravensworth, and tell her how well Wentworth loves his Juana--show
her his letters--I have a packet of them! Work on her jealousy, and if
that doesn't do I know a plan yet."
"Would to heaven he did love me still," sighed Juana, as she rose and
went to the sofa, on which she threw herself down. "And when do I go to
Scotland?"
"You?--why next day after us, or a day later were better; you and
Musgrave can travel together--he is a nice fellow--and that will give me
time to arrange with Bill Stacy, who has gone north to hire Cessford's
Peel, an old tower in the south of my brother's estates, which will be
your barracks, my fair one, and nice quarters too! And now, Juana, sing
us a song, whilst we pitch into this iced punch."
The young lady opened a richly-chased case, from which she took a
Spanish guitar, and sitting on an ottoman commenced tuning it--holding
it in the most elegant manner, which showed off the exquisite shape of
her arm and the full contour of her form. Then running her fingers over
the strings, she played a wild prelude to the following song, which she
delivered in a fine contralto voice--
SONG.
No, let me smile no more! there are
No joys in store for me,
And I grow like some erring star
In dark profundity;
Which, shorn of every ray,
Still rolls its wonted course,
And, shrouded in remorse,
Hangs unseen night and day!
No, let me smile no more! the hour
Of early bliss is past,
And I grow like some faded flower
That drooped before the blast;
Which wears the selfsame form,
Although by blight consumed,
With which it brightly bloomed
Before that withering storm!
No, let me smile no more! the beam
Of joy would be but glassed
In the cold bosom of the stream
That froze in winter's blast;
Which, though it look above,
Gains not those starry heights,
And but reflects the lights
Whose warmth it cannot prove!
"Very pretty," said L'Estrange,--"but how melancholy all your songs
are."
"How could they be else than melancholy, when the heart is sad?"
answered the lady.
"I must teach you some more lively airs,--for, by Heaven! you have a
rare voice," said the Captain. "One like this"--but ere he began, a loud
ring announced the arrival of the carriage with Sir Richard
Musgrave--"I'll sing it another time. Ha! old fellow, how are
you?--well, it is all planned, at least L'Estrange has got everything
cut and dried! He and I start for the Towers to-morrow, and you and
Juana must follow in two or three days."
"I am sure I am flattered by being the guardian of this lady," said Sir
Richard, regarding Juana with undisguised admiration. "This, then, is
the young lady of whom I have heard so much, and hope soon to know
better than I do now."
"I forgot she is a stranger to you," said the Captain. "Juana, let me
introduce you to Sir Richard, the best fellow who ever wooed fair lady!"
"And now," said Sir Richard, "I will drink success to our plan, and then
we had better be off."
After the toast was drunk the three young men left Juana, and proceeded
probably to some place of amusement in town. When they were all gone,
Juana,--who had held up so well all the evening, and plied her guests
with the brightest of smiles,--threw herself on the nearest sofa,
clasped her two hands together, and burst into an unrestrained flood of
tears. All her affected gaiety could not cheat the heart, and when alone
she was but a woman--a fond but deserted woman!