A Bankrupt Heart (Complete)

Florence MarryatŽ

Library of Alexandria

About this ebook

Miss Llewellyn was standing at the window of her own room, in the house of Lord Ilfracombe in Grosvenor Square, gazing at the dust-laden and burnt-up leaves and grass in the gardens before her. It was an afternoon towards the close of July, and all the fashionable world was already out of town. Miss Llewellyn had been reared in the country, and she could not help thinking how that same sun that had burnt up all the verdure of which London could boast, had glorified the vegetation of far-off Wales. How it must have enriched the pasture lands, and ripened the waving corn, and decked the very hedges and ditches with beautiful, fresh flowers, which were to be had for the gathering. Her thoughts went back to rural Usk where King Arthur built a bower for Guinevere, and in fancy she felt the cool air blowing over its fragrant fields and woods. She heaved a deep sigh as she remembered the place of her birth, and, as if in reproach for such heresy to her present condition, she drew a letter from her pocket and opened its pages.

Miss Llewellyn nominally held an inferior position in the house of the Earl of Ilfracombe. She was his housekeeper. Old-fashioned people who associate their ideas of a housekeeper with the image of a staid, middle-aged woman, whose sole business is to guard the morals and regulate the duties of the maidens of the establishment, would have stared at the notion of calling Miss Llewellyn by that name. All the same she was a very fair specimen of the up-to-date housekeeper of a rich bachelor of the present time, with one exception, perhaps. She was handsome beyond the majority of women. Her figure was a model. Tall and graceful without being thin, with a beautiful bust and shoulders, and a skin like white satin, Miss Llewellyn also possessed a face such as is seldom met with, even in these isles of boasted female beauty. Her features would have suited a princess. They were those of a carved Juno. Her abundant rippling hair was of a bright chestnut colour; her eyes dark hazel, like the tawny eyes of the leopardess; her lips full and red; and her complexion naturally as radiant as it usually is with women of her nationality, though London air had toned it down to a pale cream tint. She was quietly, but well-dressed, too well dressed for one in her station of life perhaps, but that would depend on the wages she earned and the appearance she was expected to make. Her gown of some light black material, like mousseline-de-laine, or canvas cloth, was much trimmed with lace, and on her wrists she wore heavy gold bangles. Her beautiful hair was worn in the prevailing fashion, and round her white throat was a velvet band, clasped by a diamond brooch. The room, too, which Miss Llewellyn occupied, and which was exclusively her own, was far beyond what we should associate with the idea of a dependant. It was a species of half study, half boudoir, and on the drawing-room floor, furnished by Liberty, and replete with every comfort and luxury. Yet Miss Llewellyn did not look out of place in it; on the contrary, she would have graced a far handsomer apartment by her presence. To whatever station of life she had been brought up, it was evident that circumstances, or habit, had made her quite familiar with her surroundings. As she perused the letter she drew from her pocket for perhaps the twentieth time she looked rather pale and anxious, as though she did not quite comprehend its meaning. Yet it seemed a very ordinary epistle, and one which anybody might have read over her shoulder with impunity. It was written in rather an irregular and unformed hand for a man of thirty, and showed symptoms of a wavering and unsteadfast character.