We now claim Ariosto's privilege, and for a while shift our scene to an elegantly furnished boudoir in one of the best houses in a street in the West End of London.
In the centre of this apartment stood a rosewood table covered with a gorgeous cloth, on which in charming negligé were scattered several well-bound volumes—a few ornaments—an ivory fan beautifully carved—a pair of white kid gloves, and a bouquet of flowers. In the centre stood a camphine lamp, which shed a soft light, and disclosed sofas, chairs, and ottomans, all of the same expensive wood, and covered with crimson velvet cushions. A grand piano stood near the folding doors which opened into a smaller back room; a harp stood between the windows, one of which was slightly opened, for though it was now nearly ten o'clock there was no need yet of shutting out the soft west wind that blew lightly from the park. The bars of the fireplace were garnished with boughs of myrtle, and above the mantelpiece was a large mirror, on either side of which hung a miniature painting, the only two pictures in the room. The whole air of the room was one of luxury and elegance, and the sweet perfume of some exotic flowers, which breathed from a small conservatory into which the other window opened, filled the apartment.
In the smaller, or back drawing-room, the owner of this residence sat on a sofa trying to decipher the letters of the last novel in the gloaming, which the lamp in the outer room could not illumine. When light quite failed, she rose and entered the boudoir we have just described, and sitting down on an ottoman between the two windows, passed her fingers along the chords of the harp, and then bent again over the volume she perused. In appearance this lady was about twenty-two, though perhaps she looked older than she really was. From time to time Juana Ferraras—for she it was—looked off her book, and raised her dark eye to the miniature on the right of the mirror, the counterpart of Lord Wentworth, whilst the other represented the Earl's fair donna. From the picture she glanced hurriedly at the door, as if she expected some visitor. When Lord Wentworth, tired of Juana, determined not to do so mean a thing as to cast penniless on the cold world one who had sacrificed so much for him—he gave her a liberal, nay, a handsome yearly allowance, besides the residence in which she now lived, on condition she was never to trouble, or ask after him again. In the Earl's very faults there was mingled the high honour that would never desert a helpless woman, and he readily parted with a large annual sum in order to leave her happy as he thought. But gold cannot purchase happiness, and this Juana found. She was endowed with strong passions, and had really loved the Earl, and keenly felt his growing coldness. She was sensible she had lived a life of duplicity; but she was not without glimpses of a better nature, not without desire of living a different life, and now the last chances seemed gone! Her very affluence depended on her never troubling the Earl more, and this made her very sad.
Juana was exceedingly tastefully dressed; everything about her was handsome without being showy, as everything about her room was elegant and expensive, without being extravagant. She wore a remarkably well-made black silk dress—the favourite Spanish colour—which showed off the figure it professed to hide; a black mantilla fell from the comb which confined her hair, now dressed in the Spanish way, and gracefully drooped over her white shoulders; she wore a chain of pearls round her neck, from the end of which was suspended a diamond crucifix; and several costly rings gemmed her hand, while bracelets in the shape of serpents with emerald eyes clasped her well-shaped arms. The young girl's striking beauty was still the same, and the hot evening, and exertion of fanning herself with the fan, which, as Shakespeare says, "seemed to glow the delicate cheek which it did cool," gave a radiant bloom to her Spanish complexion, enhancing her extreme loveliness. Her eye was darkly lustrous still, but there was an air of discontented pride in her countenance, and a weary dejectedness, that clouded her bright eyes, which had no business there. All that money could give was on, and around her. But what gold could not purchase was lacking—a heart to enjoy them, and a heart to share her delights. Little they know of woman's nature, who fancy that every young creature who has not the moral courage to resist temptation and falls, loses her heart with her name! Low, indeed, must she be fallen who has no heart! Name—fame—all may go—the heart never. And though a life of shame may make it grow callous, and apparently dead; though a life of deceit may freeze its feelings; beneath its icy exterior some traces of former sensibility are buried. They may be but the feeble tricklings of the stream, which all the glacier's cold cannot freeze, but are still quick—still living amid a mass of external frigidity.
Juana, as we have already said, had strong feelings towards the Earl: what woman would not under her circumstances? Mingled with these sentiments were shadows of distrust; and when she compared their love to that which had once bound her heart in earlier, happier days, she felt how feeble and how dim was its greatest light. Juana had once had another lover—of him we may hereafter hear more—suffice to say death had severed their tie, and now:—
"The love where death had set his seal,
Nor age could chill, nor rival steal,
Nor falsehood disavow."
She had been left alone, and whilst no future affection could equal her first, earliest love, still the nearest akin to it had been that for Lord Wentworth; once more she had been thrown off, and this time not death, but falsehood had been the severer! She had been driven from her last resting place, and she was now like the dove flitting over a cold weary waste, which wist not where to rest her feet. The olive branch was gone, and she was desolate! In this desertion too her ambition had been stricken—her pride had received a blow! She had fancied her beauty would have been the means and instrument of raising her to this pitch of fancied bliss. She had lived to see her beauty despised—lived to see her power worthless—and now what was all the wealth—what all the luxury—he had given, when the giver cared for her no more? All that she could wish seemed round her, but in the midst of all the owner was the only being whose smile belied her heart! The only one of all who praised her beauty who was in spirit not sad—but miserable! Tossing the unfinished novel aside Juana rose, sighed deeply, and sauntering towards the open window, which she raised still higher, gazed out on the streets down which the watchmen were strolling with their lanterns. She then returned to the mirror, exclaiming, "Ah! ha! how tired I am—I would I were dead—what is all now without thee?"
For some moments she looked on the Earl's picture with great earnestness—then she rang the bell, and when the footman appeared, said—"Bring some refreshments, William—you may clear the table, and put them there—and see that the wines are iced."
"Dear me," she exclaimed half aloud, as a pretty little timepiece on the mantelshelf struck ten—"how late they are!—I expected them an hour ago?"
The footman had just spread out a cold collation, served on silver plate, when the door bell rang, and almost immediately afterwards appeared the expected visitors. Our readers will not be surprised to hear them announced as Captains de Vere and L'Estrange.