Patrician pride; and the hauteur with which he received adulation, attracted my attention as the pawing of a high-mettled horse would have done. His conversation with Electra seemed at first to be of a sober and learned cast, but on her part it soon became petulant and took the lead. Now and then I heard some remark which seemed to relate to a transmigration of souls, and a continual rise in intellectual existence.
“Oh!” exclaimed Electra, “how that idea savours of English housekeeping. How can a patrician patronise a theory so levelling and so economical?”
At that moment a very lovely girl with Eastern features, but with manners of European polish, entered the room, and the young man did not answer Miss Fitz-Arden’s question.
“Ah, there is the beautiful young Greek,” said he, “freshly imported from Albania by the Greek prime minister from Turkey.”
“She is beautiful,” said Electra with unaffected warmth. “Her full dark eyes are magnificent. What a pity it is they are not lighted from within; that expression alone is wanting to fill the measure of her glory!”
The remark was made to a reluctant listener, for Loring’s whole interest was that instant absorbed by the new comer. A slight shade passed over Electra’s face; but it was too transient to define the emotion in which it originated, and she smiled and said:
“You had better go and fascinate your powerful beauty,—the body should be where the spirit is.”
“That reproach is too severe,” replied Loring.
“I meant no reproach,” she answered, “I have observed that beauty is your idol, and I should wish you to worship it.”
“Close observer that you are, I do not think that you can have noticed my character sufficiently to form any conclusion with regard to my taste.”
The pride of the proudest girl in Christendom was roused, and there was something indescribably provoking in her manner as she added:
“I assure you that I consider you a magnificent specimen in your way. Society is a bag of polished marbles, and anything odd or superior is as valuable a study as the specimens of auric quartz, Sir Roderick Murchison shows us.”
“Really, Miss Fitz-Arden!”
“Your modesty,” continued she, “has led you into a mistake. I have really taken the trouble to observe you.”
“Candidly, Miss Fitz-Arden, you are the most remarkable girl I ever met,” said the offended young man.
“You elevate me to your own Olympian height, my dear sir.”
“No, indeed, you never did,—said or thought anything so common-place as to reduce you to my level.”
“When a compliment is doubtful, Lord Chesterfield says, one should always take it; therefore I am obliged to you, sir,” replied Electra, bowing with queenly dignity. And so saying, she turned rather abruptly from him and directed her attention to me.
During the remainder of the evening I saw no indications of a reconciliation. Electra danced but once. Loring and the fair Greek were near her in the set, and they met frequently. The extreme nonchalance with which she now and then exchanged some casual remark led me to suspect that he had obtained more influence over her extraordinary mind than any other individual had ever possessed; but Electra was no trifler, and I did not venture to prophesy.
Time passed on, and with it nearly passed away the remembrance of this skirmish of words and the thoughts they suggested. My unmanageable friend seldom alluded to the fascinating acquaintance she had formed; and when she did, it was done naturally and briefly. Soon after this I was obliged to be absent for some time, and when again the snorting steam-engine had returned me to the little station adjoining Castle Fitz-Arden, four months had elapsed. Soon after my arrival Electra informed me that there were to be private theatricals at the castle that evening, and that Loring was to take the leading part.
“You must go to the rehearsal this afternoon; he is a consummate actor, and his friends expect everything from him.”
“But I thought you considered private theatricals very stupid things,” said I.
“So I do; you know I always said that life itself was a very stupid thing. There is no originality above ground. Everything that is true is dull, and everything new is false and superficial. But there is no use in quarrelling with the world, for it is a pretty good world, after all.”
“What does your friend, Loring, think of it?”
“You must ask him, yourself. I am sure he will express his opinion very eloquently, as he is a Bacon in learning, and a Demosthenes in speech.”
“Then you are on good terms, now,” said I.
She blushed painfully, excessively, for a moment, and as instantaneously recovered self-command enough, carelessly to reply.
“I always thought highly of him.”
I do not know whether my looks expressed the warning voice my heart was yearning to utter; but I am sure the tone of my assent was reluctant and melancholy.
Loring shone most brilliantly on that memorable evening. Graceful and dignified, handsome and talented, he sent a thrill to every heart alive to grandeur of thought, or beauty of language, when vivified with the fervour and purity of an actor of genius. During this scene of triumph, I watched the countenance of my friend with the keenest interest, and I felt that never before had I seen a human face through which the soul beamed with such intensity. Genius, and pride, and joy, and love were there! I then thought she was intellectually beautiful, beyond anything I had ever seen. Poor girl! it was the brightest moment in her life, and I love to remember it.
The large double drawing-room in the western face of the castle, which had been furnished and adapted to the purposes of a theatre, and the other apartments were thronged with fashionable people and the compliments which the accom-