CHAPTER CXVIII._The Mysteries of London, v. 1/4

THE TWO MAIDENS.

On a fine frosty morning--about ten days after the incidents just

related,--two young ladies were walking together along the road in the

immediate vicinity of the dwelling of Count Alteroni (for so we had

better continue to call him, until he himself shall choose to throw

aside his incognito).

Did an artist wish to personify the antipodes,--as the ancients did

their rivers, mounts, and groves,--upon his canvass, he could not

possibly have selected for his models two maidens between whom there

existed so great a physical contrast as that which was afforded to the

eye by the young ladies above noticed.

The one was a brunette, and seemed a child of the sunny south; the other

was as fair as ever daughter of our cold northern clime could be:--the

one had the rich red blood mantling beneath a delicate tinge of the

purest and most transparent _bistre_; the other was pale and colourless

as the whitest marble:--the generous mind and elevated intellect of the

one shone through eyes large, black, and impassioned; the almost

infantine candour and artlessness of the other were expressed by means

of orbs of azure blue:--the glossy raven hair of the one was parted in

two rich bands over the high and noble forehead; the flaxen tresses of

the other fell in varied waves of pale auburn and gold, beneath the

bonnet, over the shoulders:--the form of the one was well-rounded but

sylph-like; the symmetry of the other was delicate and slight:--the

appearance of the one excited the most ardent admiration tempered with

respect; that of the other inspired the most lively interest:--the

beauty of the one was faultless, brilliant, and dazzling; that of the

other, ideal, fascinating, and bewitching:--the one, in fine, was a

native of the warm Italian clime; the other, a daughter of Britain's

sea-girt isle.

A shade of profound melancholy hung upon the countenance of Mary-Anne

Gregory. The sprightly--gay--joyous--innocently volatile disposition had

changed to sadness and gloom. Those vermilion lips, which until so

lately were ever wreathed in smiles, now expressed care and sorrow. The

step, though light, was no longer playfully elastic. Time had added but

a few months to the sixteen years which marked the age of Mary-Anne when

we first introduced her to our readers; but thought, and meditation, and

grief had given to the mind the experience of maturity. She was no

longer the gay, lively, flitting, bee-like being that she was when

Richard Markham became her brothers' tutor: her manner was now painfully

tranquil, her air profoundly pensive, her demeanour inconsistently grave

when considered in relation to her years.

It seemed as if there were a canker at the heart of that fair creature;

as if the hidden worm were preying upon the delicate rose-bud ere it

expanded into the bloom of maturity!

And these traits and symptoms were rendered the more apparent by the

contrast afforded by the rich health and youthful vigour which

characterised the Signora Isabella. The hues of the rose were seen

beneath the soft brunette tint of her complexion--for that complexion

was clear and transparent as the stream over which the trees throw a

shade beneath a summer sun.

And both those maidens loved: but the passion of the English girl was

without hope; while that of the noble Italian lady was nurtured by the

fondest aspirations.

But how came those charming creatures thus acquainted with each other?

Perhaps their conversation may elucidate this mystery.

"We have only known each other one short week," said Mary-Anne; "and yet

I feel as if you were sent to me by heaven to become my friend and

confidant--for, oh! it seems to me as if my soul nourished a secret

which consumes it."

"An accident made us acquainted; and that very circumstance immediately

inspired me with a deep interest in your behalf," returned the signora.

"There are occasions when two persons become more intimate in a few

short days, than they otherwise would in as many years."

"You echo my own feelings, signora," said Mary-Anne; "and your goodness

makes me desire to deserve and gain your friendship."

"Your wish is already accomplished, my dear Miss Gregory," observed

Isabella. "You have my friendship; and if you think me worthy of your

confidence, I can sympathise with your sorrows, even if I cannot remove

them."

"How have you divined that the confidence I would impart is associated

with grief?" asked Mary-Anne, hastily.

"I will tell you," replied the beautiful Italian. "When you were riding

on horseback, accompanied by your father, along this road a week ago, I

observed you from my own chamber. Even at that distance, I perceived

something about you that immediately inspired me with interest. I

followed you with my eyes until you were out of sight: and then I still

continued to think of you--wondering, with that idiosyncrasy of thought

which often occurs during a leisure half-hour, who you were. At length

you returned. You were a few paces in front of your father; and I

observed that the horse you rode was a spirited one. Then occurred the

accident: the moment you were thrown so rudely off against the very gate

of our shrubbery, I precipitated myself down the stairs, and, calling

for the servants as I descended, hurried to your assistance. You cannot

remember--because you were insensible--that I was the first to reach the

spot, where your father had already raised you from the ground. Mr.

Gregory was distracted: he thought that you were lost to him for ever.

I, however, ascertained in a moment that you still breathed; and I

directed the servants to convey you to the house. While you were still

stretched in a state of insensibility upon my own bed, I contemplated

you with increasing interest. Then, when you awoke at length, and

spoke,--and when I conversed with you,--it seemed as if I were

irresistibly attracted towards you. I was, indeed, delighted when my

father proposed to Mr. Gregory to allow you to remain a few days with us

until you should be completely recovered from the effects of your fall.

Your father consented, and he left you with us. It was not long before I

perceived that you nourished a profound grief;--I observed the frequent

abstraction of your manner--I noticed your pensive mood. I thought

within myself, '_Is it possible that one so young and interesting should

already be acquainted with sorrow?_' From that hour I have felt deeply

on your account--for, alas! I myself have known what are the effects of

grief!"

"Signora," said Mary-Anne, with tears in her eyes, "I can never repay

you for this kind interest which you manifest towards me. I feel that I

should be happier were I to tell you all that grieves me; but I

tremble--lest you should think me very foolish, and very indiscreet!"

"Foolish we may all be at times," said Isabella; "but indiscreet I am

convinced you never were."

"Is it not indiscreet to nurse a sentiment whose hopes can never be

realised? Is it not indiscreet," added Mary-Anne, hanging down her head,

and speaking in a low tone, "to love one who loves another?"

"No--not indiscreet," answered Isabella, hastily: "for what mortal has

power over the heart?"

"Signora, love is not then a stranger to your breast!" exclaimed

Mary-Anne, glancing with tearful eyes up to the countenance of the

Italian lady.

"I should be unworthy of your confidence, were I to withhold mine," said

Isabella. "Yes--my troth is plighted to one than whom no living soul

possesses more generous, more noble feelings: and yet," she added, with

a sigh, "there are obstacles in the way of our union--obstacles which,

alas! I sometimes think, can never be overcome!"

"Ah! lady, while I can now feel for you--feel most deeply," said

Mary-Anne, "I am, nevertheless, rejoiced that you have thus honoured me

with your confidence. It removes any hesitation--any alarm, on my part,

to unburden my soul to you!"

"Speak, my dear Mary-Anne," returned Isabella: "you will at least be

certain to receive sympathy and consolation from me."

"I shall then reveal my sentiments unreservedly," continued Mary-Anne.

"I have before mentioned to you that I have two brothers, who are now at

college. A few months ago, they were preparing for their collegiate

course of study, and were residing at home in Kentish Town. My father

obtained for them the assistance of a tutor--a young gentleman who had

once been wealthy, but who had been reduced to comparative poverty. Oh!

it was impossible to see that young man without feeling an interest in

him. When I first heard that a tutor was engaged for my brothers, I

immediately pictured to myself a confirmed pedagogue--shabby, dirty,

dogmatic, and ugly. How greatly then was I astonished, when I was

introduced to an elegant and handsome young man, of polished manners,

agreeable conversation, entirely unassuming, courteous, and affable?

There was a partial air of melancholy about him; but his eyes were

lighted with the fire of intellect, and his noble forehead seemed to be

adorned with that unartificial crown of aristocracy which nature bestows

upon her elect. Alas! woe to me was the day when that young man first

entered my father's dwelling. The interest I felt for him soon augmented

to a degree, that I was miserable when he was away. But, when he was

present, oh! then my heart seemed to bound within me like a fawn upon

the hills; and my happiness was of the most ravishing description--I was

gay, frolicksome, and playful: no laugh of a child was so hearty, so

sincere as mine! His voice was music to my ears! He taught me drawing;

but I was too happy to sit still for many minutes together--too happy to

sit next to him! And yet I did not understand my own feelings: in fact,

I never stopped to analyse them. I was carried along by a whirlwind that

left me no leisure for self-examination. When he was absent, my only

thought was upon what he had said when present, and how happy I should

be when he came once more. I had no more idea of the true nature of the

sentiment that animated my soul, than I have at this instant of what

constitutes the happiness of heaven. I knew that I felt happy when he

was there: I know that those feel happy who dwell above;--but I was as

ignorant then of what formed my felicity, as I now am of the bliss

experienced by those who inhabit the Almighty's kingdom. Thus a few

weeks passed away; and then my father announced his intention of

allowing a holiday for a short period. I remember--as well as if it were

an event of yesterday--that this arrangement caused me serious

displeasure; because I understood that our tutor would cease to visit us

during the suspension of the studies. I expressed my annoyance in plain

terms; but this ebullition on my part was most probably considered a

specimen of girlish caprice, or the airs of a spoiled child. And now,

signora--now----"

"Call me Isabella," said the Italian lady, affectionately.

"Now, my dear Isabella," preceded Mary-Anne, "I come to that part of my

narrative which involves an indiscretion that may appear grave in your

eyes--though, God knows, I was at the time entirely ignorant of the

imprudence of the step which I was taking."

"I am prepared to allow every extenuation for one so young, so artless,

and so inexperienced as yourself," observed Isabella.

"Ah! how kind you are," returned Mary-Anne, pressing her companion's

hand. "But let me not hesitate to reveal the indiscretion into which I

was hurried by feelings of a new and powerful nature, I called upon the

young tutor at his own residence! And then, how nobly did he behave! how

generously did he act! He explained to me--by degrees, and in the most

delicate manner possible--the impropriety of the step which I had taken:

he gave me an insight into those rules of feminine propriety, a breach

of which can scarcely be extenuated by the plea of guilelessness;--in a

word, he opened my eyes to the position in which I had placed myself!

But, alas! what did I learn at the same time? He told me that he was

attached to a young lady, who was very beautiful. It then struck me,

with lightning rapidity, that I had no right to offer my _friendship_

(for still I did not dream of _love_) to one on whom another heart had

claims; and I left him with a sincere apology for my conduct."

"I admit that your indiscretion was great," said the pure-minded

Isabella; "but no one possessing a generous heart could hesitate to

sympathise with you, rather than blame."

"For days and days," continued Mary-Anne, "I struggled with my feelings.

I still believed that all I experienced towards the object of my

interest was friendship. But when he resumed his attendance, I found

that it was impossible to conquer the sentiments which agitated my

bosom. God knows--God knows, Isabella, how I reasoned with myself upon

the state of mind in which I existed! I prayed to heaven to relieve me

from the doubts, the anxieties, the uneasiness, which constantly

oppressed me, by restoring me to that state of perfect happiness which

was mine ere I knew that being who, in spite of himself, exercised so

powerful an influence over me. At length my father sent me suddenly, and

without a day's warning, to pass a week with some particular friends at

Twickenham. I was at first inclined to remonstrate with him at this

proceeding; and then it struck me that it would be well if I were to

cease to exist under the spell which the frequent presence of the tutor

at the house seemed to throw around me."

"And all this time you were still unaware of the true nature of the

feelings which animated you?" inquired Isabella.

"Oh! yes--I was indeed," answered Mary-Anne: "but a fearful occurrence

was speedily destined to open my eyes! I remained a few days with my

kind friends at Twickenham, and then returned home. I there learnt that

the tutor had ceased to attend at the house, as my brothers were to

proceed, at the commencement of January, to college. I know not whether

my father had some motive for the conduct which he thus pursued, in

abruptly dismissing the tutor and sending me away while he adopted that

step; nor can I say whether any particular reason prompted him to do all

that he could to amuse my mind on my return home. It is, nevertheless,

certain that he exerted himself to provide amusements for me: he

purchased two horses, and accompanied me in frequent equestrian

exercises; he took me to concerts and the theatres; and supplied me with

entertaining books of travel and adventure, music, and pictures. But my

mind was intent only upon one absorbing idea; nor could it be weaned

from that feeling which it nursed in favour of the young tutor. I,

however, acceded to all my father's plans of diversion; and it was one

evening at the theatre that the veil fell from my eyes! I accompanied my

father to witness a new drama. The action of the piece was deeply

interesting; the poetry was of a nature to touch the inmost soul. There

was a passage in which the heroine described her hopeless love: I

listened--I drank in every word--I hung upon each syllable of that fine

speech as if my own destiny were intimately linked with the scene

enacting before me. As she proceeded, I was painfully surprised by the

similitude existing between the feelings that _she_ described and that

_I_ felt. At length a light dawned in upon my soul;--then did I begin to

comprehend the real nature of the sentiments that filled my own

soul;--then could I read my own heart! I perceived that I loved

tenderly, deeply, unalterably! I heard no more of the drama--I saw

nothing more of its progress: I sate absorbed in deep reflection upon

the conviction that had so suddenly reached me. When I awoke from my

reverie, the tragedy----"

"A tragedy?" said Isabella, hastily.

"Yes--the tragedy was finished, and the author, holding the hand of the

heroine of his piece, stood before the public. Merciful heavens! the

great tragic writer who had thus suddenly burst upon the world, was no