"What are you looking at?" asked the Earl, after the Captain had stayed some seconds at the window, evidently regarding something with the greatest interest.

"By George--look--quick--there, she's gone!"

"What--where--who's she--where is she gone?" exclaimed the Earl, hurrying to have a sight.

"Wait a minute; she'll be back again, I'll be bound--talk of beauties--I did see a stunner."

"Where? which window?" said the Earl, who dearly loved to see a pretty face.

"There, at that window--the one with the red curtains--get your gla.s.s quick, she'll be back in a minute--make haste, here she comes--oh, Gad!"

In a moment the Earl was back, too, with an opera gla.s.s, through which he gazed at a stylish girl who stood at the opposite window, apparently unconscious that she was an object of such attention. She was about the average height--slightly inclined to embonpoint, with a full and beautiful bust. She was dressed in black silk, which, drawn tightly over her breast, showed off her figure to perfection. Her hair, black as the raven's wing, and platted in two broad bands, was drawn back behind her small, prettily-shaped ears, from which dropped sparkling pendants, and tied by a scarlet ribbon which contrasted well with the ebon locks it bound;--two tresses were suffered to escape this bandage, and waved in a _neglige_ manner over her bosom. Large l.u.s.trous eyes, fringed by long, silken lashes, and the damask hue that tinted her olive cheek betrayed the child of sunnier climes than England. Her lips had a slight pout and saucy expression, and in her hand she fluttered a fan with all the grace of an Andalusian belle.

"Let's have a look, Wentworth--you are monopolizing the gla.s.s; confound it! there, she is gone, and I have not had 'ane keek' as old Andrew would say,--hard lines, by Jove!"

"She is evidently Spanish," said the Earl, regardless of the Captain's remark.

"I know that," said he.

"How! you seem to know more of her than you would make believe?"

"Shot if I know a bit more than you do," replied the Captain, seeing his error, "any fool could see she was Spanish--she's jolly pretty, whatever she is. Egad, what eyes! I could have lit my pipe at them! Now to my mind she is a far jollier girl than even your inamorata, Ellen Ravensworth--so much pa.s.sion in her eyes! 'Oh, never talk again to me of northern climes and British ladies.'"

"I hope you don't mean to compare her with Miss Ravensworth, a high born Scotch lady? Compare Ellen with a girl like that, a mere fancy girl, I'll stake high."

"Blowed if I care whether she be a fancy girl, or a fancy anything else; she has taken _my fancy_ I know, and I shall think you an uncommon fool if you don't look after her."

"I shall certainly make inquiries who and what she is. Pierre, my valet, will find out everything--he is a clever ferret."

"Egad, you're right there," answered the Captain, laughing in his sleeve at the bait taking so well. "I know Wentworth's weak point," he muttered to himself, and then said aloud, "And now, as she doesn't seem inclined to vouchsafe us another glance--what is the order of the day? Confound it! there comes that vile snow on again!"

"I have a good deal of business to transact one way and another. Ah!

here's Smith, my secretary," said the Earl, as he heard a knock at the door; "Come in."

The door opened, yet it was not Smith that entered, but a tall, middle-aged gentleman, immensely stout, and still in the full vigour of health and strength. He walked like a king--and such he was, or was soon at least to be, already king in everything but name; his full ruddy face and double chin gave him a jolly aspect, and his star and garter proclaimed him to be none other than George Prince Regent.

"How are you again, my Lord Wentworth? How d'you do, my bully boy? Wild as ever, eh! De Vere?"

"May it please your Royal Highness, I never was more flourishing, and am right glad to see my Prince so hearty."

"Sit down, my Lord--sit down, Captain, no ceremony! I'll take wine,"

said the Regent, filling a b.u.mper, and draining it off to their health.

"Wentworth," he continued, "I sup with you to-night--is eleven too early?"

"Whatever hour suits your Royal Highness, suits me," answered the Earl.

"And look you," said the Regent, "look out some boon fellows--let's have a merry time of it. I leave that to you, De Vere: _au revoir_ till then."

The Captain attended the Prince to his favourite pony phaeton, and then ran upstairs again, put on his fur skin busby, and mounted his horse, after keeping his unlucky servant nearly two hours in the snow.

We must no longer weary our readers with further details of life at Brighton; but as we must faithfully recount not only the virtues, but the follies of our heroes, we are truly sorry to have to tell our readers that Lord Wentworth not only succeeded in finding out who the fair Spaniard (in whom we readily recognize Antonia Stacy, though under the a.s.sumed name of Juana Ferraras), was, but he also succeeded in prevailing upon the weak girl, who was taught to play her part so well, and who could not resist the temptations of a rich and handsome young peer, to accept his suit. The Earl's weak point, as the Captain judged, was the other s.e.x, and while he blamed himself for his folly, and often wondered what Ellen Ravensworth would think if she knew all, he had not the moral courage to withstand this young girl's fascination. However, like all unhallowed affections, strong as his first admiration was, it had not the strength to stand the test of time; and the fancy, short-lived as it was violent, soon died away, and he became tired of her who had given her all for his sake. He also found it a most expensive affair, but this was not Juana's fault, but was due to the Captain's guile, who made her the medium by which he drew his brother's purse to a frightful extent, finding a little ready money was the very best means he had in his power of silencing the clamour of his creditors, and keeping brutal duns quiet. After about three weeks the Court returned to town, and the Earl and his brother hastened also to London in order to be present at the marriage of their sister Lady Edith to the Marquis of Arranmore. The ceremony, graced by the presence of royalty itself, came off with great _eclat_, and the happy pair started at once for the South of Europe, to spend their honeymoon at the Villa Reale at Naples, under a warmer sun and more genial clime than England afforded at that season. Villa Reale was one of the Earl's seats, and he insisted on his brother-in-law accepting it as his residence whilst at Naples. Captain de Vere as well as L'Estrange were charmed at first to see how well the plot turned out; they were, however, rather disconcerted--at least L'Estrange was, the Captain having another string to his bow--by the Earl's tiring so soon of the fair donna's charms.

Their scheme was, if they could induce him to take her with him to Scotland, to threaten to prove a Scotch marriage. This they knew the Earl would never acknowledge, but, as it would be binding in law, Ellen Ravensworth would be left free, and probably disgusted, at her lover's faithlessness, might yet return to L'Estrange, whilst the Captain would have the better chance of succeeding to his brother's envied coronet, and still more envied fortune.

CHAPTER X.

"Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more; Men were deceivers ever."--_Much ado about Nothing._

"From sport to sport they hurry me, to banish my regret, And when they win a smile from me, they think that I forget."

_Baillie._

We must again pick up the dropped thread of our story, and return to the family at Seaview, to see what the Ravensworths have been doing all this time. The sudden departure of the Earl had fallen like a thunderbolt on poor Ellen and her brother. Whilst they stayed at the Towers they had been to her like a bright ray of sunshine that bursts through the clouds on a stormy day, as evanescent as it was brilliant, it had soon departed. And now life seemed doubly dark and cheerless when she contrasted it with those happy days, numbered among the things that were. How much had been crowded into that short span,--how much compressed into that little month! It had found her a wild enthusiastic dreamer, a conjurer of vain hopes that might never be realized;--it had left her able to look back, not on the unreal fictions of a poetic mind, not on the airy castles of imagination, but on truth--substantial, real, earnest! It had found her a captive to love she could not reciprocate; it had left her loving,--fondly, devotedly loving, and she believed as fondly, as devotedly beloved. It had been an era of the utmost importance,--a month the most pleasurable and the most joyous of her young life. She had something, too, on which to rest her love,--something on which to anchor her affections; how else could she interpret the golden circlet with its virgin emeralds that gemmed her finger, and those oft-read words, "Hope on"? This was a link between parted lovers; whilst she owned that ring it seemed as though a bond bound their hearts together; it was a remembrance of bright days past,--a pledge of still brighter days to come; and however dull was her present life, however uneventful the pa.s.sing hour, whilst she had this ring she had the "one remembrance fondly kept," and seemed to possess, as it were, a kind of loadstone which, though her guiding star was unseen, still trembled to the pole of her affections. Johnny's feelings were, of course, of a very different nature; he only regretted lost pleasures,--his rides, his drives. Another thing was, that while his great friends had been near he had been made much of, much petted; and of course liking the kind of life very well, and feeling it was a higher tone of society than he had been accustomed to, he had, naturally enough, cut all his old acquaintances and playmates; and now that the De Veres were gone he was left doubly lone, and much in the position of the jackdaw with borrowed plumes, unable to a.s.sociate with those to whom he aspired, and in ill favour with those whom he cast off in his pride. So Johnny was thrown much more on his own resources, and, like his sister, his memory of past joys could ill atone for present miseries. It is a bad thing to be forced to live on the past. The mind becomes ill-directed, and it is a kind of mental backsliding. Careless of the future, forgetful of the present grows such a mind: it is like the antiquary groping in the ruins of old, and never allowing his eye to rest on the palaces of the modern time. Such was the case with these two. Their father had returned to the dull routine of every-day life; and though he had enjoyed the past, now that it was gone, he was too busy to give more than a pa.s.sing thought to it. But Ellen pa.s.sed the time in vain attempts to recall and revivify the days gone by; and Johnny, when not actually at his lessons, was wont to let his mind run on the days at the Towers, his drives and his amus.e.m.e.nts, and this was invariably the topic of their conversation when they got together, utterly upsetting all useful employment, and unhinging their minds for life's real duties. Time fled by on silent wing, and soon three weeks had almost imperceptibly glided away, and yet they had had no sort of intelligence of their friends, except the bald paragraphs that occasionally told their whereabouts, in the papers. One evening, however, the postman brought a letter addressed in the Earl's own handwriting to Ellen. For a moment her excitement was so great that she could hardly break the seal, and thousands of conjectures pa.s.sed rapidly through her mind. She tore it open,--there was no letter from the Earl, but an announcement of the Marquis and Marchioness of Arranmore's marriage. It was certainly a disappointment, for Ellen had expected little short of a long and loving epistle; but still it proved one grand point,--she was not forgotten. In all the bustle of his sister's marriage, in all the distraction of company, she had dwelt in his mind; he had himself addressed the envelope; certainly he could not have done so to every one to whom cards were sent. The ring bade her "hope on,"--she would hope! The next night's mail brought the London papers with a full and glowing description of the gay ceremony. How eagerly Ellen read every word; how eagerly she pored over the names, ay, and even the dresses of the guests; how she wished she had been there; another hope whispered perhaps her own wedding would next take place, a gayer a.s.semblage would meet together, and she be bride and queen of all! She smiled at this conceit and read on: what does she read? Mr.

Ravensworth was standing near the fire, the only person then in the drawing-room besides herself; he was also reading, when suddenly he was alarmed by her loud, harrowing scream, and at the same moment he saw Ellen dash the paper on the ground, and rush frantically from the room.

All was so sudden, all took place in such a moment, he stood paralyzed.

His first thought was that Ellen was ill, and his impulse to follow; his next, to see if there was anything in the paper to account for this strange conduct. He picked up the paper; the first sentence his eye caught was quite enough,--enough to explain all. The short but fatal pa.s.sage ran as follows:--"We are authorized in stating that the young Earl of Wentworth will shortly lead Lady Alice Claremont to the hymeneal altar, thus forming a double bond between these n.o.ble families. Lady Alice is the youngest sister of the n.o.ble Marquis of Arranmore." He dropped the paper, still undecisive how he should act, when, to his surprise and astonishment, who should enter the room but Ellen, apparently quite composed, with a smile on her face; but one had only to look at her wild eye, to see all was not right. Her smile was the bitter smile which sometimes betrays rejected love. So allied are our intensest feelings of sorrow and pleasure, that tears may course the cheek for very joy, and smiles light the countenance for very sorrow, blackness, and stagnation of woe.

She sat down on a sofa, but she scarcely knew where she was; she spoke not, sighed not, wept not,--she scarcely seemed to draw her breath. The eloquence of that silent suffering was awful; the stillness was the stillness of death,--not the death of the mortal frame, but the death, the annihilation of all soft feelings, and all love by one fell swoop.

Mr. Ravensworth looked at his daughter in silence too; he saw how great her grief was; he saw that she was yet unconscious of all its depth and all her loss; and so at first he spoke not. Five minutes and more of this deadly silence lasted, and then the poor girl's father spoke.

"My poor Ellen! it is a great trial; G.o.d give you strength to bear it!"

For a moment she looked at him wildly; for a dread moment he feared her mind had given way beneath the blow; but, heaven be praised! it had not, and in a voice--how unlike her usual silvery tone! she said, "Yes, papa, I am stunned,--stupefied. My G.o.d! is it true,--has he left me? Cruel, cruel man! My heart is full,--it is bursting! Would G.o.d that it might break!"

"My own Ellen, did I not warn you, dearest,--did I not entreat you----"

"Reason not with despair! No, no, no!--it is vain! He has left me,--left me cruelly! Oh, it was cruel to raise hopes only to quench them! I am desolate. It is no dream,--I am broken-hearted! Let me die! What is life now to me?--let me die!"

"Say not so, darling,--time will heal your wound; he was not worthy of you, Ellen."

"Add not to my grief, dearest papa,--if you love me, desist. It is false! Eternity can never heal that wound,--but speak not so of him! He has left me,--forsaken me,--killed me; but I love him,--I love him still!"

"Be calm, my own love. This is only excitement; try and be calm, Ellen,--do, dearest!"

"I will--I will! See how I bear it! See, I do not weep,--but, oh! my head,--how it throbs! My eyeb.a.l.l.s seem of flame,--they are bursting out of my head! My brain seems on fire! Oh, if I could cry! If I could only cry! I cannot,--I have no tears,--they are dried up!"

"I will leave you, darling, now; try and weep if you can; think of something to cry on,--try: it will relieve you."

He left the poor girl alone, for he knew she had spoken the truth,--she _was_ stunned; but when Nature's soft relief came,--when the tears fell,--the storm would weep itself away: as in nature, so he knew it was in the natural mind.

"If you love me, papa, tell this to no one; let me bear my misery alone," she said, as her father left the room.

Sorrow had crushed her; her nerves were strung to the utmost stretch; another strain and her mind would have given way! The excitement of the first blow sustained her wonderfully; still, her grief was too deep for tears--and, tearless in the midst of her anguish, she was able to go through all the duties of the evening, as if nothing unusual had happened: the freezing air, the quick-drawn breath, the frequent start, told only how deep was her sorrow.

She heard her little sister repeat her evening hymn--she saw her laid down; but she heard as though she heard not, she saw as though she did not see; and when she left her asleep, how she envied the heart that could sleep! She then retired herself to rest--not to sleep, not even to hope for sleep.