Wanderings of a beauty

The drama of real life, like that represented nightly on the mimic stages of our theatres, naturally divides itself into acts and scenes. Will our kind and gracious readers be pleased to imagine themselves now sitting before the drop-curtain, which has just closed over the first act of our piece? In order to put them into an indulgent humor, let fancy place them in the best and most commodious of private boxes, where, ensconced in the most luxurious of lounges, and (if a lady) looking most charming in an opposite mirror, they may placidly and patiently await the rising of the curtain. Then let my fair and friendly reader turn, in imagination, to the play book, and find that a period of some ten years is supposed to have elapsed between the first and second acts of our drama; let her point this out to her companion, whom we will suppose to be the gentleman without whom even the most interesting plot would prove insipid. Then let the fair lady and her admirer turn to our little stage, and give us their undivided attention.

The curtain slowly rises, disclosing a gay and brilliant scene, the presence chamber at the Court of Victoria—that lady, even more royal by her virtues, than through her exalted position, though that were of the highest ever filled by woman. Graceful and gracious stands the Queen, to receive the homage of the fairest and the noblest of the land. Her royal husband is beside her, in the prime of manly beauty. In a semi-circle, glittering with diamonds, and gold, and scarlet, stand the illustrious princes and princesses of the blood; and still farther in the background, appears a scarcely less dazzling group of court beauties and gallant cavaliers in attendance upon the royal party. The beauteous Duchess of Wellington, whose long dark lashes veil eyes whose lustre sorrow and disappointment have somewhat dimmed; the brilliant Lady Jocelyn, the queenly Duchess of Southerland, all are there in attendance on their beloved Sovereign. The coup d’œuil is splendid; but few who pass before that august circle dare raise their eyes to admire it. A moment, and the Lord Chamberlain receives a card, and announces the name of a lady to be presented to her Majesty. The lady, robed in white, steps gracefully forward, and makes a deep and respectful obeisance to the Queen; another, equally graceful, but somewhat less humble to the royal circle, and then backing slowly out of the presence chamber, receives the train on her arm from a page in waiting—when, no longer under the immediate eye of majesty, she is permitted to walk in the manner which nature intended. A whisper of admiration is heard from many a young scion of nobility and officer present.

“How beautiful!”

“Who is she?”

“She must be a married woman.”

“Ah! it is the new Russian Princess they talk so much about.”

“No—it is Baroness What’s-her-name—you know who I mean—they say the Duke of Devonshire is smitten with her.”

“I say, Melville, who is that pretty creature?”

The young guardsman either did not, or would not reply, though he soon set the matter at rest by advancing toward the fair object of all this crossfire.

“How are you, Mrs. Travers?” said he. “Allow me to pilot you through the crowd.”

“Thank you, Col. Melville—I shall most gladly avail myself of your escort to my carriage.”

“How did you get through the presentation?”

“Very well. Her Majesty appeared in a most gracious mood, and the Prince looked splendidly handsome.”

“As you do to-day—you are the true Queen of the drawing-room.” Then, in a lower voice—“Oh, Evelyn, let us hasten from this place. I cannot hear that another than myself should even see you, now that our time together is so short.”

“We shall meet again ere long I trust,” she replied.

“With what coolness and indifference you speak of our parting. Ah, it was not so when at Woodlands you—”

Evelyn’s cheek flushed, and her eyes took a displeased expression.

“How selfish you men are! You well know that I am not going abroad for my own pleasure, but that I am ordered to Italy to recruit my health.—Why, then, blame me for that which is inevitable?”

“Blame you, Evelyn?” and the young heart throbbed, and the earnest eyes filled with a sorrowful indignation.

The two walked on in silence—and never did mortal pair, since the days of our first parents, appear outwardly more suited to each other.

Evelyn is still all that we have painted her in early life—though the varying blush of girlhood has given place to the fresh bloom of matured womanhood, and the figure once slight to a fault has acquired that voluptuous roundness, united with grace peculiar to the women of Andalusia—for Evelyn’s mother was of Spanish extraction. Col. Melville is the perfect type of an aristocratic Englishman—tall and muscular, yet slight; of a noble military bearing, and a face whose faultless regularity of feature might rival even with that of his fair companion; hair of a light brown, curling naturally like the locks of “the god of the etherial bow;” whiskers of the same shade; deep-set eyes, where sincerity sat enthroned—and a countenance expressive of goodness and feeling, still flushed with the glow of youth.

Such is the description of the cavalier, leaning on whose manly arm, our heroine threaded her way through the crowded reception rooms of the Palace of St. James.

“Mrs. Travers’ carriage stops the way,” cries a voice outside.

The name is taken up, and re-echoed again and again, till it is given as “Travers’ carriage,” “Travers’ Brougham,” “Towers’ coming out.”

Evelyn, hastily cloaking, has sprung into her Clarence, but not before a tender glance and a bewitching smile, accompanied by a hurried “you will dine with me to-morrow, my last evening,” has quite restored the young guardsman to equanimity.

Let us leave our heroine to the society of her own thoughts, and look once more through memory’s glass into the long vista of the past. Many characters who have once figured in these pages, are now no longer living. Mrs. Dale has died, a heart-broken woman, most ungratefully treated by the husband for whom she had sacrificed her child, and her own, and much of her daughter’s fortune. The by no means disconsolate widower shortly after married one of the most devoted of his many female worshippers—and his present wife rivals, it is said, even that great saint in sanctity. The good old Squire has gone to his final account. Peace be with his ashes!—for his vices were born of circumstance, his virtues were his own.

Evelyn is now a widow. Let us drop a veil over the closing scenes of the life of one whose deathbed was invaded by the baleful spectres of delirium tremens. Let us hope that, though disliking her husband, the wife shrank not from her duty when the poor sufferer’s moans resounded through the chamber of sickness. I have reason to know Evelyn was dissatisfied with herself, when the end came—at last unexpectedly, almost suddenly: but I will fain hope she judged too harshly her involuntary shortcomings. I know, also, that if she in any way failed in her duty, her sin has not remained unpunished.

Old Mrs. Travers still lives, or rather vegetates, like some elderly animal of the feline species, who passes her time in spitting at any more juvenile pussy who ventures across her august path. She has gone to live—I know not where, and care still less. Sweet Woodlands, no longer the abode of a Travers, has passed to a very distant connexion of the family. Evelyn consequently is still condemned to be without kith and kin in the world. When, therefore, under the advice of the family physician, she decided on a prolonged sojourn in Italy, a letter was at once despatched to secure myself as a travelling companion. I was then, and am still—shall I confess it?—AN OLD MAID—for I was past thirty, and unmarried.

I gladly accepted Evelyn’s proposal to accompany her, but made it a condition that little Ella, her only child, should be my especial charge, thus relieving her mother of some little care and responsibility.

The evening preceding our departure, we dined at our hotel, in company with Colonel Reginald Melville; and, as he had politely brought us a box for Covent Garden, we left instantly after dinner, in order not to lose the commencement of the opera.

Whilst my ears were drinking in the magnificent harmonies of the “Benediction des Poignards,” in the Huguenots, and my breath was suspended as the delicious tones of the matchless Mario rang through the house, in the exquisite final duo, I naturally turned to Evelyn, whom I knew to be passionately fond of music as myself, and to be even a better judge of it scientifically than I am, I met her entranced look: but I saw that Colonel Melville had eyes and ears only for her.

There was a subdued sorrow in his look, which touched me deeply. Does she love him? I thought, as I watched her bright and beaming glance, all untroubled by the thought of the morrow’s parting; or, can it be that she is heartless, the friend of my youth, whom I have loved, and still love so dearly? Methinks, if she have a heart, she cannot but be touched by a devotion so deep. Oh, true woman—

Who can fathom the depths of thy soul? My sympathies from that night were with Melville, and I determined any influence I might have over Evelyn, should be exerted in favor of this, her true knight.