It was a brilliant and varied scene to look on: the handsome equipages dashing by, the gaily attired ladies, the city itself, of which the window commanded a fine view, with its sungilt trees and white glittering domes; a scene that might well attract the eye.
But this gazer, though beautiful and young, not more apparently than twenty years of age, one for whom it might be supposed to have every attraction, appeared indifferent to it. Her attitude, as she leaned back in her chair, her head resting on its cushioned top, betokened weariness; and the beautiful large black eyes fixed so wistfully, appeared to look far away and beyond what lay before her. It might be that it was a scene she was well accustomed to from childhood—that she was worn out after last night's gaiety. Yet she did not look like a born Parisian. There was a light in those eyes that seemed as if reflected from limpid, rippling streams, a something about that form which told of mountains and heath-covered paths. She roused herself from her reverie with a deep sigh and sat upright in her chair.
'Oh, if I could see it once again!' she murmured, 'the dear old place, and my father and all the familiar faces! It is a long time since I wrote to him. I never care to do it, because I can tell him nothing. Yet why should I not? What a relief it would be if I might freely unburden my heart to some one! I must do it.'
She rose, and walking to a small writing-table, unlocked the desk that stood on it and took out a letter. It was written in a large masculine hand. She read it over with fond brimming eyes, then seated herself at the table, and taking a sheet of paper, began to write rapidly, seldom pausing for consideration, as if she wrote straight down the thoughts that were in her mind. The letter abounded in fond expressions of love and interest, that seemed as if wrung from a sad home-sick heart.
'I sometimes think,' she wrote, 'in the morning when I awake, that I am at home, and fancy I hear the loud chirping of the birds among the ivy round my window, the lowing of the cattle, your voice in the yard talking to the labourers, and all the sounds that used to rouse me. Shall I never, never hear any of these again? I left them heedlessly, thinking only of him and the life of enjoyment I was going to. I do not think I cast one parting glance on the hills and fields that last evening, nor pressed a warmer kiss than usual on your cheek at night. There seemed some glamour over me that I could not resist, and that made me cold and unfeeling to all but the one. It is a just retribution that I should pine to return now, when I never can. He may tell me that I shall yet be there as mistress of Crofton Hall; but shall I? Something in my heart tells me that I shall see it never, nevermore! Would you know me now, I wonder, if you saw me? I am changed, I think, but the change within is the greatest of all. I can hardly recognise myself sometimes, as the same lively, thoughtless Eliza Daly.'
She then went on to tell how she had at first enjoyed her entrance into society. It was plain that she had been greatly admired, and that she had been able to adapt herself quickly to her new sphere in life. But as her triumph became less new, spots began to tarnish its brightness. With the murmurs of admiration and praise that reached her ears, scornful reflections on her humble birth were mingled; and she began to notice a tinge of condescension in the manner of many towards her, which at first, when absorbed in delight at the novelty and grandeur of everything, had not struck her. It was not possible even that with all her native quickness and tact, the humble farmer's daughter could at once be transformed into the polished lady, and so occasionally slight breaches of etiquette were observable, which did not fail to excite criticism. She would have thought much less about all this, only she saw how her husband was annoyed by it. She found too that remarks which she made in conversation frequently displeased him. He would accuse her of being too naïve, and of allowing her ignorance of some things with which she should be familiar, and her familiarity with others of which she ought to be ignorant, to appear. At first he would reprove her laughingly; but gradually, whenever she offended, with more and more displeasure. She soon learned to seal her lips on such subjects, and appear to know no more of the ways among which she had been brought up than any of them—learned even to deny all knowledge of the familiar spot itself.
But the gloss had gone from her pleasure, and she saw that it was also fading from something more valued still—her husband's love. She feared that he was becoming tired of her. She had amused him for a while, and he had lavished the most passionate fondness on her; but that was past now. She thought he repented, and was ashamed of the unequal match he had made; and she resolved that her presence by his side should no longer remind people of it and wound his pride. She absented herself from every gaiety. At first he would ask her to accompany him as usual, and seem surprised when she refused; but he never pressed her. He thought, or feigned to think, it was because of delicate health she would not go; but she knew that he was glad.
Withdrawn from the excitement in which she had lately lived, her spirits sank, and as they did so, her husband grew more and more careless and indifferent. Still, he was never unkind. He brought her presents and indulged every fancy; but she could not be content with the light good-nature that prompted this. She was dependent on him only, and he left her alone and unhappy, scarcely seeming to know that she was so, or betraying impatience at it.
As she finished her letter, the outpouring of a sad disappointed heart, which has found in the reality so mournful a contrast to the bright ideal, her tears fell heavily one by one. When she wrote the direction on the envelope, she sobbed aloud, and buried her face in her hands. In a few minutes she composed herself to read over what she had written. Having done so, she paused and seemed to consider.
'No; I will not send it,' she said aloud. 'It would be a comfort to me to get the affectionate reply I know I should from him, but it would grieve him too much to think I was unhappy. It must not go.'