CHAPTER XIII.

"How vast that Mansion, sure for monarch plann'd,
The rooms so many, and yet each so grand;
Millions of books in one large hall were found,
And glorious pictures every room around;
Beside that strangest of the wonders there,
The house itself contain'd a house of prayer."

CRABBE.

THE Course of our narrative carries us to Wentworth Castle, the ancestral mansion of the Earl of Wentworth. One evening in January, the state apartments, including the gorgeous conservatory, (a gem stolen from the fairy bowers of the Thousand and One Nights,) were thrown open to a stream of noble and distinguished guests. Among these guests were Mr. Dudley and his daughter. Florence, more anxious to see than to be seen, retreated to a recess, partially shaded by silken draperies, from whence she could see all, herself unseen. Her eye, "dazzled with excess of light," wandered dreamily over the gorgeous framework, the splendid setting of the living picture. The allegorical paintings which enriched the ceilings were touched by the hand of a master; the exquisite carvings in the rarest woods (in lieu of gilded cornices) were chefs-d'œuvre of art; the pictures which covered the splendid walls were worth a king's ransom. The mosaic floors were partly covered with the glowing fabrics of Persia and Turkey; the stately doorways were cased with the choicest marbles. But there was no lack of costly detail; unbounded wealth and exquisite taste gave the final touches to the whole. Draperies of

Genoa velvet and of damask satin, heavy with bullion, lent beauty of colour; lounges, couches, ottomans, richly gilded and covered with gorgeous silks, invited to repose; tables, cabinets, consoles-themselves things to wonder at-laden with articles of virtù of fabulous value, arrested the attention. Rare china, marvellous timepieces, antique gems, miniatures, heir-looms-we are. lost in the embarras de richesse, and we pause. We have said that the conservatory was a gem; in the eyes of our heroine it was an enchanted bower, dropped from some fairy region-resplendent with light, glowing with beauty, redolent of sweets. As she gazed, to her excited fancy, the coloured burners poured a richer, mellower hue on fruit and flower, on vine and exotic. Statues of Parian marble, partially lighted up by the soft rays emitted from pale alabaster lamps, nestled among the glossy, deep green boughs of the orange and the citron. Fountains threw up their silvery waters, and fell with gentle plash in marble basins; birds of gorgeous plumage fluttered in golden cages. Florence closed her eyes, and her thoughts flew far away to the old ruin among the Welsh hills. The Maiden's Tower, bathed in moonlight, rose before her mental vision. She felt there was a charm, a mellow charm in the crumbling ruin

"Before Decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers"

which was lacking in the gorgeous halls of the Earl of Wentworth.

She opened her eyes and looked around once more; this time she scanned the brilliant groups flitting to and fro. She singled out her father; she watched him. A light danced in her eye, a throb of mingled pride and pleasure quickened the pulsation of her heart; she felt that among the noble and the gifted, he found his proper level. Tears of joyful emotion welled up in her eyes, but she dashed them away; she looked proudly around; she scanned the countenance of each aristocrat,

each man of meaner mould who passed by; not one rose to her standard of perfection-her father. Mr. Dudley vanished from the scene; other men did not interest her-she turned to the ladies. Music, cards, dancing, conversation, dispersed the throng, but, by turns, all came within range of her point of view. She singled out the Lady of the Castle-she speculated.

"Her ladyship is a countess jusqu'au bout des ongles. She wears her coronet with grace, with dignity. She is beautiful; her figure is moulded with perfect symmetry; her arms and hands are models of beauty, they rival les belles mains, of historical celebrity, of Anne d'Autriche. The head is small and well-shaped. The features delicately chiselled; the eyes languishingly dark, fringed with long silken eyelashes; the complexion, 'Oh, call it fair, not pale'-combine to form a countenance of rare beauty. There is a haughty curve about the mouth which relaxes, at times, into a smile of peculiar sweetness. Her ladyship's movements are grace personified; her manners courtly, with a perceptible dash of hauteur." What lay beneath the polished surface? Florence did not know, but she was dazzled with the beauty of the casket. We are privileged to advance a step further and to pronounce her ladyship proud, egotistical, ambitious and-Heaven save the mark-a bel esprit !

"La

Lady Wentworth spoke several languages with ease and fluency. She talked well on many subjects, she had a fine flow of words upon all. What of that? plupart des femmes disent peu en beaucoup de paroles.' A few pearls fell from her coral lips, from time to time. They were treasured up in proportion to their rarity: she wilfully ignored this unpalatable truth,-" Le bon. esprit consiste à retrancher tout discours inutile et à dire beaucoup en peu de mots; elle prend la facilité de parler et la vivacité de l'imagination pour l'esprit."*

* Fénélon.

A woman of rank and fashion, who conceals inordinate vanity and "high-vaulting ambition," under a fascinating address,-love of power and egotism, beneath a polished exterior, will ever be an admired and admirable member of the beau monde.

There were several lovely girls in the assembly; Florence awarded the palm of beauty (perhaps she was not mistaken in her choice) to Lady Geraldine Percival, the eldest daughter of the house. To her mother's beauty of form, Lady Geraldine added more than her mother's beauty of feature. The classical purity of the profile, the radiant lustre of the eye, the sweet yet dignified grace which tempered the haughty curve of lip and brow, recalled Byron's exquisite lines:—

"She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace,
Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face."

The Lady Geraldine was more admired than beloved. She was cold to superciliousness; proud to haughtiness. Lofty and sour to small and great. There had been a time when it had not been so; that time had long been in the preterpluperfect tense with the young patrician, at the date of our heroine's visit to Wentworth Castle.

Lady Cecilia, the second daughter, was not beautiful, scarcely pretty, but she was beloved by all save her mother. Fresh, fair, and rosy, she was a bright picture of health and happiness. Her smile was sunshine, her laugh was music. She was her father's favourite; she resembled him in temper and disposition. The ringing tones of her voice (she inherited her mother's musical tones), the joyous echo of her gladsome laugh, were

sweet as the "dying fall" of Æolian harpstrings in his ears; the light tread of her little feet

"E'en the slight harebell raised its head,
Elastic from her airy tread."

more graceful, in his eyes, than the measured step of the stately Geraldine. Cecilia was the chosen companion of her father; she was never so happy as when scampering over the country by his side. She was a fearless horsewoman; she rode a spirited little ArabianCarlos had long ceased to bear his lively but most loving mistress-with ease and grace. Lady Wentworth heartily detested these expeditions; whenever she encountered the riders upon their return, Cecilia's flushed face, scattered ringlets and disordered habit, drew forth such bitter animadversions from her lady-mother, that the poor girl fled from her presence with feelings of fear mingled with distaste. Nor were these occasions the only ones when the torrent of her ladyship's eloquence was directed against her unoffending daughter. Cecilia was lectured in season and out of season; she was always a culprit. Wherefore? Cecilia possessed the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, the charm of invincible goodhumour, but not the higher grace of courtly breedingof conventional haut ton. She was thoroughly natural,not amenable to the polished tone of society. She was heard to laugh, seen to smile; nay, she was guilty of giving the rein to joy, sorrow, indignation, or any other impulse, as the case might be. So incorrigible was she in this respect, that with old Baxter, she had a strong natural inclination to speak of every subject just as it was, and to call a spade a spade, &c. She clung with tenacity to her mother-tongue and never interlarded her conversation with foreign idioms; rarely spoke in "a tongue not understanded of the people," when English would serve her purpose as well, or better. Lady Wentworth was désolée, in the most graceful attitude imaginable, at her daughter's sins, not against good taste, but haut ton.