"Curse women, say I—they spoil everything—one is enough; God knows what mischief two may work—better keep Juana here."
"You are exceedingly polite, Captain de Vere.—I think it a very good plan, and one that ought certainly to be followed."
"Don't be angry, dear!—don't look so jolly savage! Go, in the fiend's name, if you like, and lose everything: thank heaven I have yet a string that will not break should this fail."
"And what if I do lose all, Captain de Vere? what is the use of this loveless grandeur? I would rather see and speak to Wentworth ten minutes than live a year in guilty, solitary splendour. You know not what a woman's heart is—let me go?"
"In troth not I; a woman's heart is an enigma not easy to read; but go to the North, or elsewhere if you will, it irks me not! Only don't cast it in my teeth if it fails. The plan then is for you and I, L'Estrange, to start for the Towers to-morrow—you can call and see Ellen Ravensworth, and tell her how well Wentworth loves his Juana—show her his letters—I have a packet of them! Work on her jealousy, and if that doesn't do I know a plan yet."
"Would to heaven he did love me still," sighed Juana, as she rose and went to the sofa, on which she threw herself down. "And when do I go to Scotland?"
"You?—why next day after us, or a day later were better; you and Musgrave can travel together—he is a nice fellow—and that will give me time to arrange with Bill Stacy, who has gone north to hire Cessford's Peel, an old tower in the south of my brother's estates, which will be your barracks, my fair one, and nice quarters too! And now, Juana, sing us a song, whilst we pitch into this iced punch."
The young lady opened a richly-chased case, from which she took a Spanish guitar, and sitting on an ottoman commenced tuning it—holding it in the most elegant manner, which showed off the exquisite shape of her arm and the full contour of her form. Then running her fingers over the strings, she played a wild prelude to the following song, which she delivered in a fine contralto voice—
SONG.
No, let me smile no more! there are
No joys in store for me,
And I grow like some erring star
In dark profundity;
Which, shorn of every ray,
Still rolls its wonted course,
And, shrouded in remorse,
Hangs unseen night and day!