 | CHAPTER I. The mysterious state-room |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
Lady Clara Hartly, at the age of nineteen, was the toast of the
Three Kingdoms. She was incomparably beautiful—if a superb figure
a queenly bust; hands and feet of faultless symmetry; an eye, dark
as night, yet soft and dreamy, now melting in its own fire, now burning
like stars in the midnight sky; if features perfect in all that makes
loveliness in woman; if a voice of thrilling richness, a smile of light,
and a lip of love—if an enduring sunshine of a happy spirit, illuminating
all her rare and glorious person—if these constitute beauty, then
was she most beautiful. Pride of birth and consciousness of her exceeding
loveliness had given a slight degree of haughtiness to her
manner, that perhaps, still heightened and finished her charms. She
was also wilful, at times, a little capricious, fond of having her own
way, and singularly impatient of restraint. The pet and idol of an
invalid and aged father, she never knew a wish ungratified; while, humoured
with a thousand indulgences from her doting parent, she became
not only wilful and independent, but, from being left without
healthful restraint, eccentric habits at length grew upon her, till it got
to be as difficult to decide upon any given line of conduct that Lady
Clara Hartly would pursue, as to calculate the variable course of the
swallow in his swift and uncertain flight.
At the age of nineteen, then, Lady Clara, was left an orphan, an heiress
and her own mistress. For a single winter, she reigned a dazzling meteor
in London; and, after having a score of cornets cast at her feet,
and broken the hearts of all the young, and many of the old, nobles in
the kingdom, she suddenly disappeared not only from the firmament of
fashion but from England.
`Ha, Lawnshade,' said a gay young Viscount, encountering a noble
friend in the Park, the day after it had been ascertained that Lady
Clara Hartly had certainly left the country; `ha! ha! we have been
chasing a will-o'-wisp this winter—flown, eh?'
`To the — for what it concerns me,' said the young Earl of
Lawnshade, who, having lost all his ready cash at Crockford's, and
mortgaged half his estates, was desirous of mending his fortunes by
that of the lady's; `she has proved herself cold as an icicle, and has
a tongue sharpened with the devil's own wit.'
`Witty she is—beautiful you must confess her to be! Heigho, she
has jilted me to my heart's content. I did not love the girl—but I
liked her spirit, and would have married her if I could, she was such
a fine looking woman.'
`You would have held her, you mean, Malvern, as a sort of property
that administered to your self-love, as you would take pride in being
the possessor of a rare thorough-bred Arabian,' said a third gentleman,
who had just left his carriage and received his horse from his servant
to take a gallop in the Park.
`You have hit it, Chesterton,' replied the Viscount, laughing. `But
you were the hardest served of all—for you loved her. Ah, Chesterton,
your dark eyes could not melt her obdurate soul. I pity you, upon
my honor. Lawnshade and I have only lost a stake that we may
double and win at another day—but you, my dear fellow, have quite
lost your heart. But whither has this Bird of Paradise flown? What
hawk hath watched her flight?' he added quickly observing that the
youthful lover evinced some annoyance at his words.
`Some say to the contiment,' he replied.
`I heard this morning that she had gone to St. Petersburg—perhaps
to lay siege to the heart of the Grand Duke,' said Lawnshade, carelessly.
`She has full as likely gone to America,' observed Malvern; `our
Countesses of late have taken quite a liking to Brother Jonathan.'
`Ha, my lords,' cried a young baronet riding up, `still the Hartly
question on the floor! So what think ye? 'tis said Lady Clara has
gone to hob and nob with Lady Hester Stanhope, doubtless to honor
with her hand some young Arab Sheik. She is eccentric enough,
i'faith.'
`Deil may care, where she be; all I hope is, that she may yet throw
herself away on some infernal French or Italian Count, who will make
her goldfinches fly,' said Lawnshade, with a laugh of contempt that ill
concealed his chagrin; and putting spurs to his horse, he rode off at
full speed, followed, a moment after, by the remainder of the party.
| CHAPTER I. The mysterious state-room | |