SIR JASPER'S TENANT.

Southland Times, Volume III, Issue 213, 7 February 1866, Page 3

SIR JASPER'S TENANT.

By tlie Author of " Lady Audlefs Secret." Three Vols. {Maxwell and Coi] ME. SILBBOOK, THE BASHFTO ADOBES. "He was a very meek young man ; with smooth flaxen hair, which no amount of manipulation from the hot tongs of the village barber could have tortured into curl ; and mild blue eyes, whose gentleness of expression almost melted into a watery weakness, suggestive of cold. in the head. He was not a happy young man, for he despised himself, and he adored Miss Denison; but he would have died any manner of death — from being hurled headlong from the topmost pinnacle of Roxborough Cathedral, to being torn piecemeal by half-a-dozeh of the big draught-horaes on Sir Jasper's home-farm— rather than have rendered up the secret of his idolatry ; for Miss Denison was an heiress, and it was possible that his devoted love might have been confounded with the mercenary yearning of the fortunehunter. So Mr. Winstanley Silbrook allowed concealment to feed upon his damask-cheek, and only regretted the agonies of his hidden passion did not consume the peachy and unromantic bloom of his beardless visage.' lie woidd like to have carried his sufferings on his brow, inscribed in unmistakable characters, which Marcia must have read every time she saw him, and which might in the end have inspired the placid love that grows out of pity — a sentiment which is as the weakest akim-milk when compared with the ' fire-water of a genuine unreasoning affection. But unluckily he was not gifted with what is i generally called a speaking face. He might have carried the secrets of an empire under that mild and meaningless mask, more inscrutable than the ' marble brow of a Napoleon, looming massively ' above unfathomable eyes. His heart had been slowly breaking for the last three months, and • there were no outward tokens of the ruin within j unless, indeed, occasional pimples — with an obstinate tendency to gather on a forehead which, but for pimples, might have been Shakespearian, and apt to muster stealthily in the dead of night, like ■ a rising of Chartists on Kennington Common — L might be taken as evidence or the inward struggle j for ever going on behind that brow." ) MES. HABDING, THE FLOBID WIDOW. » " Mrs. Harding was a very handsome woman ofthe florid order, but she was of an age which 4 the tongue of detraction alluded to vaguely as the ' wrong side of forty j while even friendship un- } willingly confessed that her eight-and-thu-tieth ■ birth-day was a stage upon the highway of life . which lay behind this gorgeous widow. How much of that massive coil of raven tresses which adorned the back of her well-shaped head was an " integral part of the head it decorated — how much of that delicate bloom upon her plump oval l cheek owed its rosy freshness to the pencil of b Nature — how far the fruity crimson of the pout- » ing lips took its color from the warm life-blood J beneath the dewy surface, were so many mysteries whioh Mrs. Harding, in her most gushing * moments, had contrived to keep safely looked in her own breast. — 'What do I care how the 8 woman obtains her beauty, provided she is beau--3 tiful?' said Sir Jasper, discussing this subject, after an evening spent in the widow's society. *» 'Shall l bother myself, when I look at one oi '» Etty's nymphs, about the colors the artist hae employed in creating her ? What do I care how > much vermilion or what artful glaze of jame di I Mars has been necessary to warm those glowing limbs into life and loveliness ? — or whether the 1 i loose rain of rippling hjur tliat veils, jny goddese ■"' owes its golden glory to yellow oohra pr to Naples il yellow? "W^tdQ* watte feww, wwpvttal J ti® U th^§» mi it i? ay feusiuw? ty fcW? «* *

i daughter, who kisses me when she bids m good-night, must have no paint upon her lipi ' for she is a part of myself, and I. shoul hold myself « dishonoured by any falsehoo ■ of hers. But let my lovely visitor resoi to what artß she pleases in the manr j facture of her loveliness. I applaud her ir genuity, and I thank her for taking so mue 1 trouble iu order to present a beautiful object fc my contemplation." When the second dinne L bell rang, Mrs. Harding presented herself in th drawing-room, gorgeous in dark-green moirt antique, old point-lace, and ornaments c caibochon emerald set in filigree gold. Ver handsome white shoulders glimmered under th ' pelerine of old point j a throat that a sculptc : would have been glad to mould was encircled by th necklet of filigree gold. No one could ha*v denied the widows's claim to be considered a ver magnificent woman, even though a few subtl artifices might have been employed to enhance he splendour. She was like one of those fatal he which are so difficult of disproof — a falsehooi with some foundation of truth. An ugly womar who patches up her ugliness with simulated rose and lilies, and luxuriant tresses imported fror Germany, draws down upon herself shame ani confusion. But a beautiful woman, whos artistic fingers do sturdy battle with the hand c Time, is generally forgiven by that nobler half c the creation for whose pleasures she clings si desperately to her waning charms. The rigi< simplicity of Marcia Denison's brown-silk dres and smoothly-banded hair served as a kind o foil for the widow's gorgeous demi-toilette am elaborate chevelure. But Mrs. Harding seemei to have no idea that she had taken unnecessar trouble to make herself beautiful ; and yet sh was not a woman likely to willingly wa«te an; effort. To-night she seemed only bent upoi making herself agreeable j and yet she was no a woman to make herself agreeable without i motive. Sir Jasper Denison, looking at thi splendid creature lazily through half-closed eye lids, while she gave him a vivacious account o her journey from Paris to Roxborough, witl delightful touches of local colouring, and ai almost epigrammatic piquancy of expression wondered whether she had any motive fo: coming to Scarsdale." A BECOGHnTIOIT IN THE TWILIGHT. " The lampshadnotyetbeencarriedintotheambe: drawing-room when Marcia and Mr. Pauncefori entered the apartment. No one but a barbariai is ever in any hurry to put an end to a wintei twilight and the flickering glow of a fire in i brightly-furnished room. Mrs., Harding wai standing in one of the windows, with her elbow resting on the elaborate scroll-work of a higl backed chair, and her face towards the dusky land scape. She turned her head as Marcia and he] companion entered, but still stood in the deej embrasure of the window, half-hidden by th< shadow of voluminous curtains. Sir Jasper' tenant saw only the outline of a perfect figure and the warm reddish hue of a violet-silk dress touched here and there by the firelight. — ' Blanche, said Marcia, ' I hare brought you Mr. Pauncefort the owner of that romantic little Hermitage whicl you so much admired yesterday, as we drove through the wood.' — ' Then lam sure I shall be delighted to see him !" cried the widow ; ' for nc one but a man with the eye of a painter and the soul of a poet would be likely to select sueh a sweet spot. I must claim a kindred spirit, and shake hands with your friend on the strength oi our sympathy, Marcia.' That had been a dark brooding face which had looked out at the blackening winter sky ; but Blanche Harding spoke in her sprightfiest manner, as she came smiling out of the shadows, and advanced with outstretched hand towards Miss Denison's companion. There was a faint flavor of patronage in the sweetness of her tone. ** The widow was a woman of the world, and had concluded that a man who would consent to bury himself in the sombre recesses of Scarsdale Wood must have not only the soul of a poet and the eye of a painter, but the limited income of a man who finds himself unable to live anywhere else. She came smiling out of the darkness, her silken draperies trailing after her, deeply purple in the shadow, brightly red in the light, h&e tne convolutions ol some beautiful serpent j but as she stood a little way from Sir Jasper's tenant, with her hand outstretched, waiting for him to take it, and her handsome head uplifted with a kind of regal gracioußness, the capricious firelight — wliich played all manner of practical jokes with the pictures on the walls, making Etty's drawing absurd, and Turner's colouring ridiculous — leapt into sndden brightness, and flickered on George Pauncefort's face. Blanche Harding's extended hand dropped heavily upon a little table, a tiny gilded table, loaded with fragile toys, which fell crashing down beneath the weight of that falling hand. Sir Jasper's tenant stood unmoved as a statue, looking the widow full in the face. Marcia Denison glanced amazedly from one to the other. Was this a recgnition — a surprise — or what? — "There never was anything so preposterous as the delusions created by the hght of a ' wildfire,' cried Mrs. Harding, turning to Marcia. ' Mr, Pauncefort's face just this moment looked like the face of a man who died ten years ago ; and yet I daresay, when the lamps are brought in, I shall find no resemblance between your papa's friend and the person of whom he so terrible reminds me.' The widow shuddered — a coquettish little shudder, which brought hex sloping shoulders into play — and then breathed a faint languishing sigh, expressive of intense relief."