There was something in her appearance and the temper of her being which
rebuked the material, sordid, calculating genius of our reign of Mammon.
Her presence in this world was a triumphant vindication of the claims
of beauty and of sentiment. It was evident that she was not happy;
for, though her fair brow always lighted up when she met the glance
of Tancred, it was impossible not to observe that she was sometimes
strangely depressed, often anxious and excited, frequently absorbed in
reverie. Yet her vivid intelligence, the clearness and precision of her
thought and fancy, never faltered. In the unknown yet painful contest,
the intellectual always triumphed. It was impossible to deny that she
was a woman of great ability.
Nor could it for a moment be imagined that these fitful moods were
merely the routine intimations that her domestic hearth was not as happy
as it deserved to be. On the contrary, Lord and Lady Bertie and Bellair
were the very best friends; she always spoke of her husband with
interest and kindness; they were much together, and there evidently
existed between them mutual confidence. His lordship's heart, indeed,
was not at Jerusalem; and perhaps this want of sympathy on a subject
of such rare and absorbing interest might account for the occasional
musings of his wife, taking refuge in her own solitary and devoutly
passionate soul.
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