She was his in spirit only; but oh, for Surrey's magic mirror, to bring her before him once again, that he might revel on the calm poses of her statuesque figure, her soft, yet aristocratic face, and the curve of her lips, that were exquisite as those of a Greuze—even as Surrey revelled on the beauties of Geraldine when conjured up by Cornelius Agrippa!
Again he was sunk in thoughts of her, as when far away amid the awful and undisturbed solitude of the Himalayan forests, where the pines that rose to the height of two hundred feet were tipped with sunshine, while all was night below; and where the torrents, with their ceaseless roar, that wearied the ear, when, swollen by the winter rains, they tore past the lonely cantonment of Landour, where the last home of Beverley and many more lie, rolling on and on to the plains and tea-gardens of Assam.
But his prospects were brighter now, and thus he had thought of her happily when idling from place to place, in the glittering Kursaal at Hamburg, the many gaieties of Berlin, and of more domestic Copenhagen; when among the lonely woods of Norway, and the countless isles of the Christiana Fiord, which the Norse packet had traversed when its waters were moonlit and luminous, when the dark violet-tinted waves of eve rolled on the green shores of the Jungfrau land, when he had seen the gorgeous sun setting redly beyond the bronze-like forests of Sweden, and flushing alike the sky above and the waters of the Sound below—her face was ever before him, and he had remembered its expressions and the tone of her voice in every hour he spent, especially when alone, by land and sea, in city, wood, or wilderness.
'I have Clare's promise and assurance that she loves me still,' he would think; 'but how long am I to drag on this absurd life, this separate existence? Surely we are not so hopeless now as in that time when I was broiling up country.'
With reference to her promise, he pondered, would she write to him? Scarcely. Should he write to her, and remind her of it—not that for a moment he ever believed it to be forgotten; but of, this policy he was doubtful, and so resolved to wait a little, as he would be certain to hear from Jerry Vane or some other friend.
But while waiting, Clare might be cast into the attractive influence of some one else, and he knew that she was surrounded by all the charms and allurements of rank and of wealth. Then he deemed himself a wretch to think of such things. Anon he became terrified lest she should be ill, as he knew how much this marriage would mortify, fret, and worry her.
From his reverie he was roused by the appearance of his valet, Tom Travers, standing close by at 'attention,' by pure force of old habit. He had neither heard him knock nor enter; neither had he heard his tread on the polished floor, which as usual in these countries, was uncarpeted.
'Letter for you, sir,' said he, presenting one on a salver.
'Thanks, Tom.'
He tore it open; it was from Jerry Vane, and dated from 'Carnaby Court.' This made Trevor's heart leap.