The night passed away slowly, the dawning lightened the room, by-and-by the sun shone—at last it was a fine day; she slipped from her couch, and hurried to the window. Oh! mystery of mysteries! it was then in Cessford's Peel she was confined. Beneath her, forty feet below at the least, was the green meadow, and the round stone, and the trees and hills beyond; she heard the roar of the burn, now swollen, and strange thoughts flitted through her mind. The scene where she had been so happy was before her, the burn up whose banks she had wandered rushed by; but how different was her present lot! how inscrutable it seemed! She returned, and falling on her knees by her bedside besought God to end this misery. Doubtless He heard her prayer, but prayers are not always so soon answered as the petitioner expects. Juana awoke too; she was a Roman Catholic, and repeated her devotions after the prescribed form of her creed; they then dressed, and before long a waiting girl of surpassing beauty, but quite of a different order, brought in a simple breakfast. More and more puzzled was Ellen when she saw this girl's face—she had surely seen her before! When she had left the room Ellen recalled the face, it was that of Jeanie Forbes, the country belle to whom she had seen the Marquis talking.
"It is indeed a mystery," she thought; "what if it be a trick of the Earl's to try my fidelity—but no, he couldn't do so—and yet all is so strange—there must be more than I guess in it—I will wait and see, at the last I have still the worst, maybe; but at the worst, I have still the last friend to end my woe."
Through that day nothing particularly occurred; and again darkness came, again Ellen refused to retire unless she had Juana's word for her safety; it was given, and that night she actually slept. Another, and another, and still another day wore by—still she had seen no living soul but Juana and Jeanie Forbes, and she began half to lose her fears—half to despair. The first, because long acquaintance with misery naturally takes off the keenness of its sting, and she was so fully prepared for the worst, the present seemed quite bright; the last, because several days had now passed, and yet no succour came. Could Lord Wentworth have waxed cold? Could her father forget, or had some fearful deception been practised on them? Left together night and day, the two girls naturally drew to each other; in everything they were entire opposites, not only in their remote styles of beauty, but in character; and, perhaps, for this reason, like the different electric currents, they attracted each other the more. Juana admired the fair Saxon beauty, not so much because of her dazzling complexion, so pure and sunny, though now shaded by grief,—not so much from her fair tresses, and melting blue eyes,—as for the high toned principle—the lofty mind—firm resolve, and patient endurance she displayed under her trying ordeal; and Ellen admired not so much the ebon hair—large dazzling eyes—and brilliant colouring of the fair Spaniard, as she did the full fervour of her character, and the warm affections of one who was—
"Warm as her clime and sunny as her skies."
They used to talk together for hours—generally Ellen was the listener, and much was she absorbed by the wild tales of other zones Juana could tell. One thing Ellen had ceased to ask, and that was why she was there. Juana seemed above all entreaty, and kept her secret as the rock does its hidden spring: it required a prophet's stroke to make it unlock its waters! Days went on, and still no explanation either by word or deed came. Saturday night wore through, and Sunday morning dawned; Ellen had now been a week and more in captivity, and still it was unexplained. She had never once been outside the castle, but late on Sunday afternoon Juana told her, if she liked to breathe the fresh air she might come out for an hour or so with her, on condition she promised she would make no attempt to regain her freedom.
"Alas! to what purpose, Antonia?" replied Ellen, for by this name she only knew her; "how could I fly with such strict watchers?"
The two friends—for so they had become—now descended the tower, and walked on the green grass. It was a delightful evening—the sun was setting among clouds of every gorgeous hue—his orb was then hidden behind a dark mass, whose edges were crimsoned by his rays; above the cloud the sky was of the darkest black-blue, and beyond this his beams shot out in iridescent lines, like the rays that emblazon the heraldic scroll—higher still mackerel clouds floated in the blue ether, dyed gold, and crimson, and between their vistas the unfathomable depths of air were clear and transparent, so that the eye could pierce their far deeps, and discern how near the loftiest clouds in comparison floated above earth! In the east the full moon was rising, and the cold blue light of the latter, compared with the warm colouring of the sunset, was striking. The friends sat down on the mossy stone, and each for a time seemed too much occupied with her own thoughts to speak. Ellen was thinking on the picnic, and how not long ago on a night like this she had danced on that grass with him she loved. Oh! had any one told her then that one short month after she would again sit on that stone, a prisoner, and parted from him, she would not have believed it. Juana was thinking how on that stone she had sat, when she personated the Italian, how he she also loved, but who loved not her, had given her the ring she now treasured in her bosom.
"Antonia," said Ellen, "a month ago I sat here so happy—alas! I fear I shall never be so again."
"Miss Ravensworth, a month ago I sat on this stone; I was then miserable, I may yet be happy."
"Ah! our circumstances are then altered, but when did you sit here before?"