The chamber in which Linton now stood was smaller than the outer one, and equally shaded from the strong sunlight. His eyes were now, however, accustomed to the dusky half-light, and he was able to mark the costly furniture and splendid ornaments of the room. The walls were hung with rose-colored damask, over which a drapery of white lace was suspended, looped up at intervals to admit of small brackets of bronze, on which stood either “statuettes” or vases of rare “Sevres.” At a toilet-table in the middle of the room were laid out the articles of a lady's dressing-case, but of such costly splendor that they seemed too gorgeous for use. Trinkets and jewellery of great value were scattered carelessly over the table, and an immense diamond cross glittered from the mother-o'-pearl frame of the looking-glass.
The half-open curtains at the end of the room showed a marble bath, into which the water flowed from a little cascade of imitation rustic, its tiny ripple murmuring in the still silence of the room. There was another sound, still softer and more musical than that, there,—the long-drawn breathing of a young girl, who, with her face upon her arm, lay asleep upon a sofa. With stealthy step and noiseless gesture, Linton approached and stood beside her. He was not one to be carried away by any enthusiasm of admiration, and yet he could not look upon the faultless symmetry of that form, the placid beauty of that face, on which a passing dream had left a lingering smile, and not feel deeply moved. In her speaking moments, her dark and flashing eyes often lent a character of haughty severity to her handsome features; now their dark lashes shrouded them, and the expression of the face was angelic in sweetness. The olive-darkness of her skin, too, was tempered by the half-light, while the slight tinge of color on her cheek might have vied with the petal of a rose. Linton drew a chair beside the sofa, and sat down. With folded arms, and head slightly bent forward, he watched her, while his fast-hurrying thoughts travelled miles and miles,—speculating, planning, contriving; meeting difficulties here, grasping advantages there,—playing over a game of life, and thinking if an adversary could find a flaw in it.
“She is worthy to be a duchess,” said he, as he gazed at her. “A duchess! and what more?—that is the question. Ah, these women, these women! if they but knew their power! If they but knew how all the boldest strivings of our intellects are as nothing compared to what their beauty can effect! Well, well; it is better that they should not. They are tyrants, even as it is,—petty tyrants,—to all who care for them; and he who does not is their master. That is the real power,—there the stronghold; and how they fear the man who takes his stand behind it! how they crouch and tremble before him! what fascinating graces do they reserve for him, that they would not bestow upon a lover! Is it that they only love where they fear? How beautiful she looks, and how calmly sweet!—it is the sleeping tigress, notwithstanding. And now to awake her: pity, too; that wearied mind wants repose, and the future gives but little promise of it.”
He bent down over her, till he almost touched the silken masses of her long dark hair, and, in a low, soft voice, said,—
“Maritaña! Maritaña!”
“No, no, no,” said she, in the low, muttering accents of sleep, “not here,—not here!”
“And why not here, dearest?” said he, catching at the words.
A faint shudder passed over her, and she gathered her shawl more closely around her.