Chapter VII (2)

“I resumed the practice of the law, and became distinguished in that profession. From association with the gayeties of the metropolis, I confess I contracted habits I regret having acquired: my disposition was ardent and excitable, and it carried me too far. I played high, and was seldom fortunate,—almost invariably losing. From mixing with society of a certain class, I acquired the reputation of a _roué_ in many instances; that, also, was undeserved; although at that time young and vain, I was more easily caught in love snares than at present. Thus, for some three years longer, I led a gay, wild, yet unhappy life. Then I began to weary of this futile way of spending time. My health had become impaired by excess, and satiety had taken the place of levity. I wished to find some woman in whose integrity I could confide, and marry her, and become a better man; but among all the gay, the rich, the talented, the beautiful women with whom I was acquainted, none suited me, none equalled my expectations. Sometimes I saw a woman whose _personelle_ pleased me; but, on acquaintance, I always discovered something wanting in the mind,—something I could wish added or taken away. I could no where find my Psyche. I gave up my profession, although it yielded me a fine income, and came here to Naples.

“Here I have been living since, unhappy and listless amid pleasures, longing for something I have never yet found, and have thought, till I saw you, I never should find; but at the countess’ ball, where first I saw your gentle face, I felt irresistibly attracted toward you: nor has acquaintance disappointed the illusion of fancy; but, on the contrary, strengthened it, and I now love, where first I admired: your upright principles, your beauty, your unblemished reputation and pure heart, have won my love and esteem. Nature evidently designed you for private life, cultivated and elegant society. Let me then be that faithful friend, lover, and husband,—three principles in one person—who shall guard and guide your steps through the quick-sands of life. Consent to redeem me from past errors: teach me to shape my course more worthily in future. Woman’s influence, when she exerts it in the right way, is great; do you then become my Mentor, and I will be as docile and obedient as Telemachus.”

Monsieur ceased. Meanwhile the bougie was extinguished, and the rays of moonlight, as they tremblingly broke through the clouds, alone illumed the room. I did not like to be sitting there so late at night, and with a gentleman alone.

“It is late: I know I am intruding upon you,” said he, and he rose upon his feet; “yet, before I go, say that I may hope—say, dearest Genevra, that you accept me.” He pressed my hands in his. I heard him; but did not take the sense of what he said. I was in a dream: one of those delightful waking dreams of fairy land, in which I have so often indulged.

“No answer still, Genevra. Are you angry?”

“Oh, no! Monsieur, not with you.”

“With others?”

“I don’t know.”

“A woman’s answer, which means you do: give me the legitimate right to be your champion? Ah! let me be your husband and defender?”

“I am afraid that, if I marry you, you will some day regret your condescension and your love, which induces you to descend below your rank to marry an actress.”

“No, never!” cried he, in an indignant tone, “do you take me for a child—a fool, who knows not his own mind; for none but fools act without pre-consideration.”

“You have my consent then, Monsieur: may I prove worthy of you and your expectations.”

Joyously he kissed me. “Now, at last, I hope to realize my dreams of domestic happiness and love. Good night then, my pet; to-morrow I shall see you again, before I leave on my journey to the north of Italy, where business demands my presence.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“One or two weeks only: I shall hasten to rejoin you. Good night.”

Reluctantly he departed. I withdrew to my own room, and, when in bed, endeavored to analyze his memoir. I tried to be impartial, and judge by reason alone, if he were worthy of my affection; but love confused reason, or rather the mischievous god construed everything in his own favor, and demanded blind faith, which, like charity, covers a multitude of sins. Inexperienced, too, in the ways of men, I knew not of that seductive eloquence which dazzles the mind through the heart; besides, I was so young and confiding—it was so charming a thing to be loved—that I did not care to inquire too closely into cause and effect, and crediting all, and happy in the belief, I fell asleep.

* * * * *

The next day my lover came and spent two hours with me. He brought me a beautiful diamond ring, the token of our engagement—the gems set in the form of a star,—and a miniature of himself, which he placed around my neck.

“This will serve to recall me to your memory sometimes, while I am gone,” he remarked, playfully.

“If a woman loves a man, she needs nothing to recall him to mind, and if she does not, where is the use of a portrait?”

“Ah! you little logician;—little philosopher, you confute me at all points.”

“Am I not right, though?”

“Yes; you are always right, at least in my opinion.”

“I shall sing in the Opera of Somnambula to-morrow night; will you be there to hear me? but I forget, you will leave this evening, and of course cannot come.”

“Yes, I go this afternoon. The time will seem tiresome and tedious until re-united to you. If it were possible, I would excuse myself from this journey: it must absolutely be performed, and I must tear myself away from you and happiness for the present.”

“And I shall feel lonely, too, until your return: it is so new, so strange and delightful to be loved, I hardly can realize its truth.”

“I trust many bright years to come, we shall experience its happiness, and time will convince you of its reality.”

After he was gone, I hastened to Blanche, to confide my secret to her—for a woman must have a confidant of some sort. I found her sitting musingly at an open window, her fair face pillowed on her hand. She listened with kindness and interest to my relation of Monsieur de Serval’s sudden and unexpected offer, and appeared gratified at the seeming good fortune which awaited me, when I asked her if she thought him an honorable man and serious in his intentions. She replied:

“It is difficult to tell, my dear Genevra, who is _really_ honorable and who is not, for many possess the outward semblance to perfection, without the quality; but that he wishes and intends to marry you, I question not. What object could he have in formally proposing and making these presents, if he did not intend it? The first time I saw him in your society, I discovered that he loved you. It is a fortunate event which enables you, thus early in your professional career, to marry, and leave this disagreeable business.”

“Don’t you wish to marry and leave it also, dear Blanche?”

“I don’t know what I wish, my dear: I wish I was dead sometimes,” sighed my friend.

“Come, cheer up, dearest,” said I, kissing her; “don’t give way to melancholy. You who are so young, so admired and beautiful,—what have you to grieve about? Let me persuade you to be gay: you know we are to sing together to-morrow; is your costume ready?”

“Oh, yes! I always have everything prepared in advance.”

“What can I do to amuse you? Oh, Blanche!” I exclaimed, a thought suddenly striking me, “there is an old fortune-telling witch living out on the Posillippo road, let us take a walk out there this evening and hear our destiny; it will be at least amusing, if not instructive. Will you go with me?”

“Yes, certainly, if it will oblige you; but I have no faith in fortune-tellers.”

She quickly dressed, and we set out. After ascending the steep hill of the Castle of San Elmo, we took the shady road—bordered on each side by linden trees—which led to the pretty village of Posillippo. I had been told that old Acte inhabited, sybil-like, a cavern in the rock of a steep hill, about half way to the village. We examined all the rocks as we went along; but no traces of fairies’ haunts, or witches’ caverns did we see. After walking on some distance, we reached the brow of a rising hill, and as I gazed staringly up its steep sides, endeavoring to discover the celebrated abode of the prophetess, I saw a deep cavity in the rock—the opening half overgrown with ivy and wild flowers; a small foot-path wound up to it amid the grass. It had a wild, mysterious appearance, and conjecturing that must be the place, we ascended to it.

“Dear Genevra!” cried Blanche, tremblingly, as I stooped at the small aperture on entering, “pray be careful. Are you sure this is old woman’s abode? you may be mistaken;—this may be a wild beast’s den.”

“This is the place, I know, from description. Don’t be afraid: give me your hand; I will assist you in.” Grasping my hand from fear, Blanche was dragged by me through the opening. When fairly through, we rose upright upon our feet, and looked at our localities.

We stood in a large chamber, excavated from the solid rock;—no light of day penetrated this haunted dungeon home; but in the far corner, opposite me, an immense chimney and fire-place illumined with a blaze of fire light the singular apartment; and, sitting before the fire, her back toward us, was a strange form crouching on the floor of the cavern: its gray hair was matted, and hung straggling down its back,—and it wore a long black garment, something like the gown of a priest; every instant one of its thin, skeleton-like hands, or rather claws, was projected from its lap, depositing something (I could not tell what) in a large vessel hanging over the flame,—so gathered up and misshapen was the form, I could not distinguish whether it was man, woman, or beast;—the appearance of the place, and this _outré_ figure, forcibly reminded me of my childhood, and the old woman I called Granny. Blanche had turned pale as a ghost from fear, and I regretted having come.

The figure did not at first perceive us; and we had stood some minutes unobserved spectators of its singular operations, when, pausing, it turned its head, and I beheld a human face,—but so wild, so wizard-like, it scarcely resembled a woman’s countenance. She rose to her feet, and confronted us. She was tall in stature, and the long, straight robe added to her height. She regarded us with a piercing glance, and then beckoned our approach.

“Be seated,” said she, pointing to two stools near her; “you have come to consult me. I knew I should have visiters this evening; the signs said it.”

“We had some difficulty in finding you,” I observed; “your home is so secluded.”

“So much the better,—it keeps fools from troubling me,” was the sharp reply. As she spoke, she stepped toward a dark corner of the cave, and after stooping, and apparently feeling about a moment, came back with a bottle, filled with water, in her hand. She resumed her position on the floor before the fire, and then abruptly demanded,—

“Which will learn their fate first?”

“Blanche, do you.”

“Oh, no, dear; let her tell you first, and then I will try,” answered Blanche, falteringly.

“Well, then, good mother, tell mine.”

She turned the bottle of water slowly head downwards; then raising it, apparently contemplating something she saw in the liquid, shook her head, and said,—

“A short lived happiness; then clouds, darkness, and sadness await you; yet out of this sadness shall come a lasting, quiet joy; durable, because it shall be based on proper feelings; and love shall crown all, in future years.”

“But, mother, your words are mysterious, incomprehensible to me. Pray tell me in plain language what awaits me. I cannot understand your symbols.”

“I have said all I can say; recollect my words,—their meaning will be clear as sunlight, when they shall be verified in times to come. Now you,” to Blanche. Again the bottle was reversed, and she pored over its hidden meaning.

“A short but bright career; an ill-fated love; a sudden and violent death, and a solitary grave;—this your fate,” and she glared at Blanche with those wild eyes.

I noticed the sudden start of surprise, and glowing blush which overspread the face of my friend at these words. Had she in secret conceived an “ill-fated love?” or was it the unexpectedness of the prophecy caused that start?

“Is my destiny then so sad;—is there nothing brighter in store for me;—are none of my fair visions to be realized?” said she, pensively.

I placed but little reliance on what she said, considering it the mummery and trick of her trade; but Blanche, although she had expressed incredulity on the subject of fortune-telling, for the moment seemed saddened by the prophecy. Wishing to divert her mind from the subject, I began talking to the old woman.

“Have you lived here long, mother?”

“Eighteen summers have been and gone since I first came here.”

“You have seen, then, many changes in the city during that time.”

“Yes, many have been born, and many have died since eighteen years ago.”

“And do you like to live in this old damp cavern? could you not find a better home?”

“No; I desire no better home than a cave among the rocks nature made, and it is not for me or any other mortal to disdain her works. I have been as happy here as I should have been in a fine house.”

“Have you many visiters?”

“Not as many as I used to have. I am growing old and dull, and those who have their fortunes told generally go for amusement and ridicule; and now that age and disease have made me severe and grave, they seek others who can entertain them better.”

I was about to propose other questions, but observing that Blanche had gone to the entrance, and was beckoning me, I placed a gold piece in the woman’s hand, and joined her. Acte followed me to the door of the rock.

“I shall see you again, I feel I shall. At some future day you will find me a true prophet, although now you disbelieve my words. Farewell to both of you.”

We descended the hill whence we came; Blanche thoughtful and depressed, and I somewhat influenced by Acte’s mysterious predictions. The shadows of evening gathered round us as we entered the fashionable street, Toledo, now thronged with the beauty and fashion of Naples, enjoying their daily rides, drives, and promenades, along the beautiful shores of the bay.

As we walked along the street toward our own home, ourselves observing and observed, an elegant English phæton, driven by a footman, in blue and orange, and occupied by a young man, lovely as an angel, indolently lolling against its cushions, came gliding by. As it passed us, the gentleman stared long at Blanche, and then bowed; her face flushed to crimson, as she returned the salutation. I noticed also he leaned out of the carriage, and looked after her.

“What a splendid looking man,” I involuntarily exclaimed; “who is he?”

“The Lord of Glenfells; a Scottish nobleman. I saw him at Munich,” answered she, hesitatingly.

“Are you well acquainted with him?”

“Yes, he has visited me.”

“Oh, is he not handsome!”

“Yes, very; I always thought him fine looking.”

Blanche evidently did not wish to speak further about him; and with that strange intuition with which woman divines woman, I surmised that it was from something of a secret partiality.

Madame Bonni was waiting tea when we reached home.

“My two nightingales, where have you been to? I have been waiting an hour for you; and the French manager has called to see you. He stayed sometime, but finding you did not come, went away, saying he should call in the morning. He has something particular to say to you.”

“We have been taking a long walk toward Posillippo and Virgil’s tomb, which detained us longer than we had intended,” said I, not wishing to tell her our real adventure.

“Ah! have you? Did you go within it?—is it not an interesting sight?”

“No, we did not extend our walk so far as to reach it; but some day, soon, I intend visiting it for that purpose.”

My thoughts reverted to Monsieur de Serval, and wondering and wishing he were back again with me, I spent the evening in my room, leaving Blanche to entertain our kind hostess.

When alone, I always thought of my lover, as lovers generally do, I believe. I admired and loved him, but this love was so sudden, so incomprehensible;—men seldom court women on the instant of acquaintance, propose and marry them, especially actresses. Then I recalled what Madame Bonni and rumor had said of his character; his extravagance and bad conduct: but then had he not frankly, and with sincere contrition, admitted his faults, and promised amendment in future? What could be sadder, more touching than that history itself? related so charmingly, in his graceful way. His childhood had been soured by a bold, bad woman, and subsequently thrown upon the sea of life, like a bark without a pilot or rudder to steer it. Temptations, in their most attractive forms, had beset him, and he had done only as other men would have done, not even as bad as that. Much allowance should be made for his youth and beauty, and lonely position in life. But my excuses for my lover were endless. I cannot follow them all. When love amounts to infatuation, it is useless to reason; and it was foolish for me to attempt it. I wished he were with me;—I counted the hours and days as they passed.

The other gentlemen who visited me, no longer pleased me. I did not want to see them;—their society only bored me. I usually deserted the parlor, leaving Blanche to do the honors, while I nursed my reveries alone; and she, so gentle and amiable, was willing to do anything to oblige another, and always anticipated and gratified my wishes,—even my strangest whims.

The next morning after our visit to Acte, we were summoned to the parlor to see the manager. We found that worthy individual intently engaged in self-admiration of his own person, reflected in one of the long mirrors. He started on perceiving that _we_ had discovered _him_ in this interesting employment, which might seem to indicate, perhaps, some slight vanity, (a foolish quality, however, never possessed by the sterner and wiser sex!) Advancing toward us on tip-toe, he smilingly paid the salutations of the day, and then said:

“Mesdemoiselles, the object of my visit is to inform you, that a new opera has been written by a distinguished musician of this city, and I wish to secure your services for its representation. I wish to produce it within a fortnight; new scenery and costumes have been added to the Opera house, and everything which can add to the splendor of effect, I intend shall be done; may I hope to have the co-operation of the two nightingales?” he bowed and chasseed before us.

“What is the name of the new opera, Monsieur?” I inquired.

“It is called Ajesha, or the Maid of Kars, a magnificent production of genius; the plot is romantic and beautiful, the music divine; some of the songs are exquisite. Stay, I will sing you one of the men’s, that you may form something of an opinion about it.”

He seated himself at the piano and sang a spirited, sweet thing, beginning with, ‘My home is on the storm-bound deep.’ We listened intently, and admired it.

“That is one of the gems of the opera, and there are many others equally beautiful; some of the women’s songs are exquisite, and you, fair ladies, I know will do them justice. I wish to bring it out within two weeks. In the course of that time the royal family return to the city, and will grace the theatre with their presence; may I consider your services engaged, Mesdemoiselles?”

“Blanche is free to decide for herself, Monsieur,” I replied; “but for me, my guardian must decide.”

“Ah, yes, but Belmont of course will be perfectly willing. I shall see him this morning and ask him, but you Mademoiselle Ricorsi, you are independent and can choose for yourself,—will you be the Ajesha?”

“I have never yet played in Naples; you know my terms, monsieur; are you willing to pay me what I have been in the habit of receiving at Munich?”

“Of course, Mademoiselle, your price is my price.”

“Then I shall be happy to sing, monsieur.”

“All is agreed then, and I shall be happy to see you at rehearsal to morrow, ladies, when we will run through the opera, and cast your parts,” and the polite Frenchman bowed himself out of our presence.

I omit the rehearsals, the confusion of preparation, and getting ready the costumes for the occasion, and pass to the night when this beautiful opera was produced for the first time on the Neapolitan boards.

It was a tragedy; the plot is a singular one: Ajesha, the Maid of Kars, is a Circassian, as her name denotes; she is sold into slavery from her native land, and carried to the town of Kars, where she becomes the property of a Turkish Emir; he loves her intensely, and of course is most intensely jealous. She, a beautiful, spiritual creature, does not love this illiterate Turk, distinguished for nothing, but his immense wealth and brutality.

A noble and handsome Englishman is taken prisoner by this Turkish commander, the English and Turks then being at war; he is imprisoned in a house opposite the harem of Ajesha; news of his youth and beauty is brought to the lady; he becomes ill from the severity of his treatment, and Ajesha, in the disguise of a page, visits, and nurses him. The consequence is, they conceive a mutual and desperate love for each other.

At first their meetings are undetected by the jealous Mussulman, but Ajesha dreading future discovery, appoints the cemetery, the city of the silent, as their rendezvous. A treacherous slave betrays her confidence to the Emir; he surprises them one evening, and stabs her in the arms of her lover; then attempting to punish the Englishman, he himself is killed by the enraged lover, and dies by the side of his fair slave.

This is the outline, as well as I remember it, of one of the most exquisite things I ever saw performed. The character of Nina I was cast for, voluntarily resigning the principal character in favor of my friend; and oh, how beautiful, beyond the power of description, did she look the night she played it.

She first makes her appearance in the Circassian costume, when she is sold from the home of infancy, and carried to a strange land; and the dress Blanche wore, was of white silk, ornamented with gold lama lace; a turban of tissue, spangled with gold stars, surmounted her flaxen curls waving on her shoulders; the graceful trousers gathered into a gold bandelette at the ancle, exposed fully to view her tiny feet, encased in their little Circassian slippers. The affectionate, sad farewell to her parents and young acquaintances, and the song she sings, ‘My native land, farewell,’ shook the house with applause. Every one had heard of, but none had yet seen the Munich nightingale; curiosity had been on the alert for some time, to witness our combined appearance, and glancing out from the side scenes I observed the royal box occupied, and the queen leaning forward with an air of rapt attention.

I personated the friend and companion of Ajesha. Nina accompanies her into captivity, but is finally redeemed by her friends, and returns home. The music of the farewell scene between Ajesha and Nina, was very sweet; when they bid each other adieu, and sing, ‘We have been friends together in sunlight and in tears;’ and we mutually felt indeed we had been friends together. The queen enthusiastically applauded, clapping her hands like a girl; and bouquets were promiscuously showered upon us from all parts of the house: two wreaths were cast at our feet by the king and queen. The coincidence struck me, it was on a similar occasion, the night of my debut in that theatre, that the wreath had been thrown me; not by royalty, but by one whose gemmed, singular face had strangely haunted me since, and as we both uplifted our eyes to the royal box, who should I see gazing on me behind their majesties, but the same face, the same large liquid eyes that had magnetised mine two months before. My astonishment was so great, I could scarcely recollect myself enough to step backward as the heavy drop curtain fell.

Who could that man be accompanying the royal family? and apparently on familiar terms with them. I could not doubt it was the very same one, the donor of the diamonded wreath, those beautiful flowers I had preserved for so many days with so much care, who seemed to regard me with an air of so much interest.

I had no time for reflection, Monsieur Belmont hurried us to our dressing-rooms, to dress for the palace scene, when Ajesha and Nina are first presented to the Emir.

I could not help mentally contrasting the absurd difference between the acting on the stage, and the motley confusion behind the scenes; the heaps of stage furniture, costume, old scenery, the scene shifters running hither and thither, black mutes, soldiers, noblemen, the women of the harem, in the most charming stage of negligee, nearly approaching to that of genuine nature, and above all other tones, I heard those of the worthy manager, who was directing the men how to arrange the grand salon de reception, into which we were to be carried in close litters.

“Here,” shouted he, “make haste; what are you all about? where’s the dias for the salon? place it here, spread out the carpet; now, is that done? arrange yourselves in a row behind the throne, to the guards; light the lamps; get the instruments of music.”

I entered the little room, where I dressed amid his reiterated injunctions and commands to the assembled court.

What an empty show, thought I, as I hastily attired myself in the rose colored satin petticoat, and black velvet boddice, and placed a waving plume of white feathers in my hair.

The Count Godolpho, an old _roué_ and _habitué_ of the “scenes” for years back, stopped me with a fine compliment, as I was getting into the veiled litter by the side of Blanche.

“What! Mademoiselle Sfonza, is it you? fair as a star-lit nymph of air!” This was a poetical fancy of his own: I never met with the like expression in print. “Our pet child of song, stay a moment, let me look at you.”

“I cannot now, Marquis, indeed, see they wait our entry.”

“Where then can I see you, wilful fay? one never gets a sight of you except at the play: then only for an instant, and you are gone; where do you live?”

“On earth now, in heaven I hope some day,” I smartly answered,—making a faint attempt at wit, to rid myself of this worn out old coxcomb, as I had no wish or intention to receive his visits; and the black mutes raising the litter, we were borne past him on the stage.

Although conscious it was a mere show, still in the last act, the death scene of Ajesha and her lover, the touching pathos of Blanche’s acting, her dreamy, etherial tones, melted me to tears; and I almost cheated myself into the delusion that it was reality. Her death song, ‘Beloved, I die,’ seemed indeed like the last breathings of a dying spirit, and oh, merciful heaven, was it not prophetic of her future fate?

When the curtain fell on the last act, we were loudly called for, and our teacher, proudly elated at this great triumph, led us before the curtain, where we made our curtesies, kissed hands to the audience and passed off.

The morning papers were filled with praises of our performance, and the plot, music, and libretto of the new opera. I laughed myself to sleep that night when I thought of the discomfiture of the count, and his absurd manner; then again, unconsciously and mysteriously, my thoughts reverted to the gentleman I had seen in the royal box—you will think, perhaps, I did not love my affianced lover, since my attention and thoughts could be so easily distracted to another, but in truth I did; I loved him with my whole soul; every wish, every thought was his; this interest in a stranger, a casual spectator of my performance, was not love, nor curiosity; it was a prophetic, a magnetic attraction, a feeling that seemed to tell that in future—but no matter, I will no longer digress; let me strictly adhere to the tenor of my tale.

Blanche had long before fully compensated monsieur for his care of her childhood, and presented him beside with a handsome sum of money. Her industry had accumulated quite a small fortune, within the four years she had been performing for herself; the receipts of our joint acting each night were enormous, and Monsieur Belmont had no reason to regret his patronage of the Viennese beggar girl.

He often said, himself, that we three poor girls had gained him more money and celebrity than any pupils he ever had. As I said in the beginning of my memoir, there is always a _motive_ in these apparently beneficent actions. His motive was to feed, clothe, and educate us brilliantly for the stage; for this purpose it was much better to select girls from the lowest walks of life, friendless, uncared-for ones, unprotected and unprovided for, over whom he could have absolute control. True, he had saved us from starvation, but then he had realized a fortune from our exertions, and I was anxious to absolve myself from my debt of gratitude and obligation, and become mistress of my own actions, which every sensible rational being desires and ought to be.

My teacher knew nothing of my secret engagement. I had not told him, and wondered, when told, what he would say and think of it. Of course he would be astonished at its suddenness, and, in a worldly point of view, at the condescension of Monsieur de Serval. I did not even know that he would give his consent, as he had a right to command my services. I trusted, however, to his uniform kindness to me, to arrange that matter. I felt sure he would not force me to do any thing I did not wish to do; that he would allow me to discontinue my theatrical career if I felt so inclined.

We were visited daily by many of the fashionable men of Naples; we were escorted to and from the theatre by numerous beaux, and the gay cavaliers vied with each other in their attentions; yet the compliments, the civilities paid to actresses, are of a different tone to those rendered to ladies of private life. There is a tone to all expression, a gradation to every human feeling; there is an imperceptible something in expression which we can feel but cannot describe; and it was this something that I felt, but could not describe, when I regarded the opposite of attentions to a lady of rank, and compliments to an actress.

I endeavored to console myself for all regrets in philosophy, but sometimes _feeling_ triumphed over even that, stoical as I thought myself. Sometimes attributing every thing to fate, sometimes believing in chance, I surrendered myself to the current of life’s troublous stream, and blindly glided on.

Among other visiters to the house, there came the beautiful Lord of Glenfells. I say beautiful, because handsome, manly, fine-looking, are not terms to express his ideal, his exquisite, shadowy, captivating loveliness. He often visited Blanche. I never obtruded on their interviews; and, save the ordinary civilities of etiquette, never had any acquaintance with him; yet, though I saw him frequently, the impression of his personal attractions ever seemed new to me. I know not if he were intelligent or otherwise. I once or twice spoke of him to her, but the embarrassment and rosy blush told of interested feeling, and perceiving she did not wish to converse about him, I ever afterwards waived the subject.

Busy gossiping tongues, however, with which the world is filled, who make it their business to attend to every body’s but their own, reported him as a man of immense wealth, travelling for amusement, or pleasure, which with the rich, and great, and fashionable, means the same thing. This was all I gathered concerning him; yet from what I saw of him, I considered him a man of dangerous attractions; artful, without appearing to be so, possessing a mournful tenderness, an abandon of manner, peculiarly attractive to a woman like Blanche. Though younger, I was superior in perception of the realities of life. I was not so dreamy, perhaps not so pure as she, my embodied concentration of the great, the beautiful, the good. God bless her! Let me not dilate upon that purity, that goodness. I feel my praise is inadequate to her merits; my commendations cannot add to the halo of immortality that surrounds her in the Elysian shades.