plished actor received were intoxicating. But in the midst of it all I imagined I could see the sparkle of his eyes melt into softness when he met a glance from Electra. Her looks betrayed nothing to my anxious observation, but once I observed she called him Charles, and suddenly corrected herself with an air of extraordinary confusion. Had my friend indulged in habits of girlish trifling, I should have playfully alluded to this circumstance, but there was something in her character and manners which forbade such officiousness. I watched her with the anxiety of sincere friendship. I knew when she once selected an object for veneration, her whole soul would be concentrated; and I could not believe that the proud aristocrat, knowing the views of his prouder family in his behalf, with all his high hopes and his love of dazzling loveliness would ever marry her. I knew he was a very constant visitor, and I frequently observed lights later than had been usual in Mr. Fitz-Arden’s hitherto retired and quiet mansion. But the time for separation came. Loring’s other engagements called him away, and when he came to me to take his leave, the deep gloom on his countenance led me to think that the apparent indifference of my intellectual friend might have surprised him into love.
Weeks and months passed on, and I seldom heard an allusion to the absent Loring. Electra’s character and manners seemed changing for the better. The perpetual effervescence of her spirit in some measure subsided, and the vagaries of her fancy became less various and startling; yet there was always a chastened cheerfulness of manner, and an unfailing flow of thought. By degrees her seriousness deepened, and at last she could not conceal from me that she was unhappy. I attributed it to the illness of her old father. Electra was motherless, and she bestowed on her only parent a double share of love. But when the old gentleman was evidently recovering, and her melancholy still increased, I knew there must be another and a deeper cause. One day, as I stood by her, watching her progress in an oil painting, into which she had thrown much of her early spirit and brilliancy, I placed my hand affectionately on her shoulder, and touching her forehead with my lips, spoke:—
“You have generally confided to me your troubles, Electra, why not tell me what makes you unhappy now?”
She continued to use her brush with a nervous and dashing movement, and I saw that her eyes were filling with tears. I ventured to speak again, and gently whispered in her ear—
“Is Loring the cause?”
She gave one shriek, which sounded as if it made a rent in her very soul, and then the torrent of her tears poured forth. It was long before I ventured to speak to her.
“Then it is as I feared? You love him, the Hon. Charles Loring?”
She looked in my face with a strange and fixed expression as she replied: “I ought to love and honour and obey him, for he is my husband.”
I started. “Your husband! How—when—where were you married?”
“At B. Do you remember when I said to you that you must see Loring perform in our private theatricals, and you replied, ‘So then you are on good terms now?’—I had been three weeks his wife.”
“And your father—does he know of it?”
“Certainly,” she said; “I could not continue to deceive him.”
“Then why was so much secrecy necessary?”
“I now think it was not really necessary; at all events, that which needs to be concealed is wrong. But his father, you know, is poor for his rank, and his mother had made it a sine quâ non that their son should marry a rich heiress, and redeem thereby the family property. Loring feared to displease them. He has a moderate fortune of his own, which is independent of his parents, and of this he will soon come in possession. When he told my father of the event a month after, the latter was very angry, and forbade him the house—still, in his heart, my father has forgiven him.”
“Then why are you so unhappy?” I inquired. “You have no doubt that your husband will come and claim you?”
“Oh, no; the certificate is in my father’s hands, and if it were not, a sense of honour would lead him to do so. But oh! to have him come coldly and reluctantly! My heart will break! my heart will break!”
She pressed her hand hard against her forehead, and wept bitterly.
“How could I forget that they who listen to passion rather than to reason must always have a precarious influence over each other!”
I tried to console her. She said nothing, but took a packet of letters from her desk and handed them to me. Their contents proved the mournful prediction of her fears too true. At first, Loring wrote with impatient ardour, then his letters were filled with amusing accounts of Park Lane and Belgravian parties given to the noble and beautiful Greek. Then he filled his pages with excellent reasons for not seeing her as soon as he intended; and finally, when Electra bowed down her pride, and entreated him, if he valued her reputation, to come soon, he sent a cold laconic answer, merely stating the time when she might expect him. Heroic Electra, poor girl! It was too evident that she had thrown away all that made existence joyful. However, I tried to soothe her by the idea that patience and devoted love might regain the affection on which her happiness must now depend. She loved to listen to such words—they were a balm to her heart—though I feared they would be practically useless, for she was too spirited a girl to overlook indifference, and too proud a woman to conciliate after its manifestation.
The Hon. Charles Loring came at the time he had appointed, and publicly announced his marriage. His father was offended, his mother incensed, and both disappointed. Mr. Fitz-Arden in his turn became indignant also, and angry and hurt that he had been compromised by receiving first the confessions of the lovers. All parties, however, concurred that there was now no remedy. Lord and Lady Burton consoled themselves with