The girlhood of Shakespeare's heroines in a series of tales

THE GIRLHOOD

SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES

IN

A SERIES OF TALES

BY

MARY COWDEN CLARKE

Author of the Concordance to Shakespeare

*

WITH A NEW PREFACE BY THE AUTHOR

gorft

A. C. ARMSTRONG AND SON

51 EAST 10* ST., NEAR BROADWAY

1891

COPT RIGHT, 1891, BT

A. C. ARMSTRONG AND SON.

tfc Corton (press
171, 173 Macdougal Street, New York

PUBLISHERS' NOTE TO NEW EDITION.

THE continued demand for this Standard Work has
induced the Publishers to have prepared, under the
Author's supervision, this new edition, with the addi
tion of a Third Series, never before published in this
country.

The graceful illustrations in this work were selected
by Mrs. Mary Cowden Clarke, from her edition of
Shakespeare's works, published by Messrs. D. Apple-
ton <fe Co., who have kindly consented to their repro
duction.

PREFACE TO NEW EDITION.

FORTY years ago, these Tales were written in all the
glow of having finished the sixteen years' labor in
completing the " Concordance to Shakespeare," of
having seen it published and already accepted into
public favor.

In entire contrast with the strictly verbal work thus
effected, these stories of pure imagination and senti
ment presented themselves to their author's thought
as an attempt likely to further her desire of still pro
moting the study and enjoyment of our great Poet
Teacher, and prove one of the many incentives thereto
which have produced so remarkable and so general an
increase of love and reverence for his genius during
the last half century.

This increase, with added comprehension of the full
extent of that genius, and of its infinite suggestions,
has elicited a desire for a New Edition of " The Girl
hood of Shakespeare's Heroines ," a desire which
gives its Author liveliest satisfaction, in the thought
that now a fresh generation will read these Tales and
— she hopes — will feel something of the pleased in
terest she felt while inventing and penning them.

The word " Girlhood," in their title, may perhaps
have induced some idea that these are juvenile tales ;
whereas, it is the grown reader who will be even more

vi PREFACE TO NEW EDITION.

likely to find attraction in tracing the careful develop
ment of character, in observing the minute pains taken
to render each accordant with the dramatist's perfect
delineation, while possessing maturer knowledge of
the vital human questions therein necessarily involved
than the youthful reader, who chiefly notes ' ' the story' '
when perusing a book.

With a heart full of gratitude for having been per
mitted to live to see the present renewed call for the
book written when half through her now advanced
age, its author gladly again signs herself her readers'
Faithful and devoted Shakespearian servant,

MART COWDEN-CLARKE.
VILLA NOVELLO, GENOA, May, 1891.

PREFACE.

IF ever Preface were especially needful, it is surely
so in the present instance, to state an explanatory word
concerning the design of the work, and an exculpatory
word touching the choice of its subject.

The design has been, to trace the probable ante
cedents in the history of some of Shakespeare's
women ; to imagine the possible circumstances and in
fluences of scene, event, and associate, surrounding
the infant life of his heroines, which might have con
duced to originate and foster those germs of character
recognized in their maturity, as by him developed ; to
conjecture what might have been the first imperfect
dawnings of that which he has shown us in the meridian
blaze of perfection : and it was believed that such a
design would combine much matter of interesting
speculation, afford scope for pleasant fancy, and be
productive of entertainment in the various narratives.

Although little or no attempt will be found in these
tales to give pictures of the times in which their chief
actors may be supposed to have lived, yet it is hoped
that no gross violation of probability in period, scene,
or custom, has been committed. The development of
character, not of history, has been the intention. In
the case of the early historic personag; who figures in
these biographic tales — Lady Ma beth — names and
facts have been used ; butwix1 PS little regard to their
strict place in history, as was paid by th - poet him
self, who took the story from the old chronicles, and
modelled it after his own fashion.

If it be borne in mind that all climax in incident and
sentiment was to be carefully avoided throughout these

Vlll PREFA CE.

stories, — inasmuch as they are merely preliminaries to
catastrophes already ordained, — the obstacles in the
way of giving them startling features of romance will
be understood. The aim has been to invent such
adventures as might be supposed to color the future
lives ; to place the heroines in such situations as
should naturally lead up to, and account for, the
known conclusion of their subsequent confirmed char
acter and after-fate ; in short, to invest each story
with consistent and appropriate interest.

I would also remind my indulgent readers (and may
mine be such !), when they find me venturing to make
Shakespeare's people act and speak, that here, his
women are in their girlhood, — these are their " sallet
days," when they are "green in judgment," — im
mature, — but the opening buds of the future " bright
consummate flowers" which he has given to us in im
mortal bloom.

My exculpatory word — my word in extenuation — is
this. I beseech my readers to believe that love, not
presumption, prompted the subject of this series of
stories : —

Not mine the sweetness or the skill,
But mine the love that will not tire ;
And, born of love, the vague desire
That spurs an imitative will.

" In Memoriam."

Shakespeare himself is my voucher that

Never any thing can be amiss
When simpleness and duty tender it;
***»*«

And what poor duty cannot do,

Noble respect takes it in might, not merit.

CONTENTS.
*

PORTIA.; THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT, . . 13

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER 115

HELENA ; THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN, . . 205

PORTIA ; THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT.

TALE I.

PORTIA; THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT.

" If two gods should play some heavenly match,
And on the wager lay two earthly women,
And Portia one, there must be something else
Pawn'd with the other ; for the poor world
Hath not her fellow."

Merchant of Venice.

IN the University of Padua were, once upon a time,
two fellow-students, who entertained for each other a
more than usually lively regard. This regard seemed
to grow out of a peculiar sympathy of feeling, which
sometimes exists between two lads of like age, though
of dissimilar conditions ; for one of these students
was lively, ardent, and prosperous, while the other
was calm, reserved, and very poor. But though
Guido di Belmonte revelled in every good gift of for
tune, — was the son of a rich Italian Count, and the
indulged heir of a fond father, yet his prosperity, in
stead of injuring his nature and rendering him impe
rious and selfish, did but make him frank and gener
ous, with a strong capability of enjoyment ; while
Bellario, the other student, the less favored of fortune,
— being the child of a retired officer, possessed of lit
tle but his honorably acquired wounds and an unblem
ished name, — found cheerfulness in a sedate, reflective
habit of mind, hope in the thought of achieving re
nown in the future employment of his talents, and en
joyment in the present epoch of study and intellectual

14 PORTIA;

culture. Thus it came that these two young men, each
earnest in his enjoyment of student-life, found sym
pathy exist between them, attachment arise and
strengthen, and a warmth of friendship ensue, which
burnt with a steady and kindly glow while life endured.

During this youthful period of his life, there was one
point on which Bellario's well-ordered mind and care
ful study did not lead him to a true wisdom. They
might have taught him that poverty was no shame,
that the practice of frugality and self-denial was a vir
tue rather than a blemish in a young man's conduct,
and that it was due to the nobility of friendship to have
no reserves upon such matters ; but the sensitive pride
of the young collegian shrank from the avowal of his
slender means, and the secrets of his penurious dwell
ing were coyly guarded from all eyes.

His friend Guido, in the plenitude of his own re
sources, had no suspicion of the real motive that held
his fellow-student silent upon all that referred to home
topics, and domestic relations ; and it was rather from
a desire to enjoy Bellario's society during the present
season of holiday and relaxation, that he always invited
him to spend the vacations at his father's seat at Bel-
mont, than from any idea that he was thus procuring
his friend an indulgence in luxury and refined enter
tainment, which he could never otherwise have an op
portunity of enjoying. Delightful were the intervals
thus spent together by the two young men. The sense
of entire leisure, rendered doubly grateful by previous
labor ; the freedom of action and open-air sports, after
a long course of sedentary pursuits ; the repose of mind
in contrast with its late strained exertion, — all these
enjoyed amidst a scene of rural beauty, voluptuous re
tirement, and tasteful magnificence, pervading the do
main and household of a wealthy nobleman, conspired
to make these vacations seasons of unalloyed gratifica
tion to our two students. Arm-in-arm they would
saunter up and down the avenue of lordly Belmont,
whiling many an hour in eager .converse. Here, be-

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 15

neath the cool umbrage of those thick-spreading trees,
secure from the noontide blaze of even an Italian sun,
they would discourse pleasantly of their books, their
courses of study past and to come, their treasured lore,
their increasing thirst for knowledge with every freshly-
acquired draught, their present zest in seeking, their
future hope of profit. Here, too, in the scarce less
radiant splendor of an Italian moonlight, would they
speak confidingly of heart-aspirations, of high-reaching
schemes for distinguished manhood, virtuous life, ra
tional happiness, and trusted immortality. The young
Count, Guido, would dilate, in all the gay tenderness
of an uncorrupted heart, upon the pure joys he pro
posed to himself, when he should at some future day
bring a fair bride to share with him the beauties of
his broad domain ; when he should dwell in loving com-
munion with a womanly heart ; when he should emulate
her in fostering kindness to the neighboring poor ;
when they should partake in the gentle duties of tend
ing the helpless infancy, and implanting goodly prin
ciples in the youthful breasts of their offspring ; and
when together they should live and die in sweet mutual
help.

And in his turn, Bellario would playfully declare that
he would live and die a bachelor, wooing and wedding
no other bride than Justice, who was his professed
mistress. That he meant to win honor and renown at
the bar, and that he intended to make his name fa
mous among the lawyers of his time. That such a
celebrity as he aimed at, was only to be attained by
the devotion of a life-long assiduity to his task, and
that he therefore must early resolve upon excluding all
claims of love upon his thoughts, dedicating them
wholly and undividedly to ambition.

Time wore on ; the old Count of Belmont died, and
young Guido inherited the paternal estate. Yet still
he lingered at the University, unwilling to quit the
sweets of study, and the associations of boyhood, or
to curtail the season of youth by assuming the prerog-

1 6 PORTIA;

ative of manhood. In the academic shades of learned
Padua he still tarried, well pleased to remain constantly
with his friend Bellario, who studied unremittingly
to qualify himself for his intended profession.

Shortly after the time when Guido di Belmonte wore
mourning for his father, Bellario's suit bore sable
marks that he also had to deplore the loss of some re
lation ; but as he alluded in no way to the nature of
his bereavement, so no allusion to the subject was ever
made by his fellow-students ; not even by his friend,
who was accustomed to observe silence on those points
on which Bellario did not speak first. There was
frank communion between the young men upon most
themes of pleasant converse ; but, as before remarked,
personal concerns and home relations were never re
ferred to by the young law-student, being matter of
his most scrupulous and proud reserve.

At length a season of vacation occurred, when, upon
the young Count's usual invitation to Bellario, that he
should accompany him to Belmont, the friend refused ;
without, however, alleging any reason for this refusal
beyond the bare fact of its being out of his power to
indulge himself with the pleasure of going, on this oc
casion.

"But why not, caro mio ?" urged Guido ; "you
have surely no engagements so imperative as to inter
fere with the one so long understood between us, — that
you should spend every vacation at Belmont, beauti
ful Belmont ; now all my own, but which will scarce
seem so without my friend to share its beauties with
me."

Bellario wrung his hand gratefully, for all reply,
merely repeating — " I cannot ; do not urge me."

' ' But I must, I will. How is it that I, the lord of
Belmont, am to be thwarted in my dearest wish ?
Come, good Signor Avocato, give me an infinity of
reasons why you ' cannot. ' Let us have some of your
special pleading here, to satisfy me. I know not why
I should be contented with your sovereign ' cannot '

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. IJ

without further explanation, any more than why you
are prevented from coming to Belmont when we both
wish it. Or do we indeed both wish it ?" added he,
smiling in his friend's face ; " are you tired of Bel-
most ? Confess, if you are ; and we will exchange
the shady avenue and solitary terrace of our country
life, for the gay revelry of Venice — her masques, her
f eastings, her torch-light merry-making. ' '

Bellario met his friend's look with one as frank as
his own ; — " Belmont is to me, as it has ever been—
the scene of my best enjoyment. The disappointment
is as great to me — nay, far greater — than it can be to
you, my generous friend ; be assured, I need no urg
ing, when my own desire to be with you pleads so
powerfully ; but in this case, you yourself would be

the first to " then checking himself, he briefly

added, " once more, I repeat ; believe me, I cannot."

" In this case ?" quickly repeated Guido ; in his
eagerness forgetting how nearly he was transgressing
the bounds of discretion in thus catechising his friend
beyond what even such friendship as theirs might war
rant : — ' ' In this case ? It is a point of honor, then !
A quarrel ? A duel ?" But seeing Bellario shake
his head, with a smile at his ardent questioning, he
ran on with : — " No, no, of course not ; had it been
so, you would have had me for your second — but how
then ? No friend has so good a right as myself to en
gross your company, and to no friend will I yield you
— mind, to no But stay ;" added he, interrupt
ing himself, as a sudden thought struck him :
1 ' though to no friend, no man, can I give you up, yet
it may be that ' '

He stopped ; and laying his hand on his friend's
sleeve, laughed out — " Ah ! ah ! Signor Avocato, fairly
caught ! So then the stern anchorite, the bachelor
student, the devoted bridegroom of the law, the des
tined spouse of Justice, is actually the thrall of some
fair lady ; and it is a mortal woman, after all, who
has these claims upon your time, and prevents your

1 8 PORTIA;

going with me to Belmont. I cry you mercy, caro

mio

I"

Bellario's face flushed crimson to his very brow.
He no longer met his friend's look as before, yet he
still smiled, though gravely ; and he grasped Guido's
hand in a firm conclusive manner, as if he would close
all further discussion. ' ' Be satisfied, dear friend ; it
may not be."

Guido di Belmonte warmly returned the pressure ;
and his generous, frank nature permitted no wounded
feeling at his friend's reserve, to mingle with the re
gret with which he now withdrew his suit, and bade
him adieu until they should meet again next college
term. But on the following morning, while pursuing
his solitary way towards Belmont, accompanied solely
by a faithful attendant, who followed him on horse
back, he could not help giving way to a feeling of
mortification akin to anger, at being deprived of the
company of his beloved friend Bellario on a journey
which had hitherto been so fruitful a source of delight
to them both.

"It is some whim, some fancied necessity, that
thus detains him," murmured the young Count to
himself, as he rode onward ; " Bellario is so scrupu
lous when he conceives some point of right to be in
question, that he is ever ready to sacrifice inclination
to duty. I know his unselfish heart, and I'll be bound
it is some vexatious claim or other upon his time and
aid, which is thus permitted to interfere with our pleas
ant holiday ! For after all, though he did change
color at my words, I do not believe it was a woman
that he stays for. Had he yielded his thoughts to love,
and forsworn law, he could not have kept so great a
revolution in his heart a secret from his friend Guido.
No, he is still constant to his old adoration for musty
precedents, yellow shrivelled parchments, and time-
honored precepts of legislation, over which he will sit
wrapt in enamored contemplation, hour by hour, for-
getful of all this bright world contains. I'll wager

THE HEIRESS OF B ELMO NT. 19

now, that it is in order to waste no hour apart from
the prosecution of this bewitching pursuit, that he has
thought it right to deny himself and me this holiday.
He dropped some words, not long since, to the effect
that his progress did not keep pace with his desires.
How came I to forget this, when I besought him yes
terday ? I did not urge him with sufficient warmth.
I have a great mind to turn back, and see if I cannot
plead with better effect. He must not, ought not to
shut himself up during this charming time. He will
be ill, or moped to death, with his absurd scruples and
notions. Duty, indeed ! It is his duty to enjoy his
holiday — to come and pay seasonable homage to all-
bounteous nature, to revel in her beauteous gifts, to
inhale the pure free air, to bask in the glorious sun
shine, to ride forth joyously — to come with me to
Belmont, in short ! — I will return and entreat him
once more to do himself and me that right !"

As he concluded his reverie, Guido turned his horse's
head in the direction whence he had just come ; but
he now proceeded at a very different pace from the
one which he had previously allowed the steed to take.
Then it had been slow, and accordant with the rider's
mind, all unwilling to pursue his solitary journey ; now
it was alert, eager, and bounding forward on the way
to Padua — to his friend Bellario.

On reaching the University, he hastily dismounted,
throwing the rein to his attendant, bidding him wait,
while he went to seek one of the heads of the college,
who might inform him where to seek his fellow-stu
dent, who by this time he knew would have returned
home. The professor mused a moment, when the
young nobleman made the inquiry ; but presently
said : — " Bellario has always made a secret of his
abode, praying me not to let it be generally known ;
but this prohibition could not be meant to extend to
you, Count Guido, who are, I know, his bosom friend.
It is in the Strada del Popolo, ' ' added he, indicating
a mean suburban street, leading out of the city, and

20 PORTIA;

describing accurately the house where Bellario dwelt.
The young man paid little heed to the former portion
of the professor's speech, in his eagerness to learn the
main point, the direction of his friend's dwelling-
place ; having obtained which, he took a hasty leave,
and set forth on his search, bidding his attendant,
Balthazar, saddle another horse, and bring it round
with his own, to a certain spot where he would meet
him, and proceed thence to Belmont once more, in
company with his friend, whose acquiescence in the
plan he now felt confident he should gain. So san
guine is youth ; so ardent in affection was Guido di
Belmonte.

He readily found his way to the Strada del Popolo,
and as readily distinguished the house indicated to him
by the professor. He was slightly struck by its lowly
appearance, but no otherwise than as unworthy to
contain so noble a being as his friend, and merely as an
additional reason for inducing him to exchange its
unattractive precincts for a more congenial sojourn
with himself at Belmont. He stepped forward to put
aside the dark heavy curtain, which hung in the door
way, according to Italian custom, to exclude the noon
tide heat ; but he paused on the threshold, struck with
what he beheld. He saw his friend seated at a table
strewed with books and papers, one of which he held in
his hand, while over the back of his chair leaned a young
girl of exquisite beauty ; who, with one arm around Bel-
lario's neck, in the other hand held a pen, with the
feather of which she traced the lines on the paper he
held, while her cheek closely touched that of the young
law-student, as they together scanned the document.
So engrossed were they with its perusal, that no idea of
Guido' s presence reached them ; and so absorbed was
he in the contemplation of this unexpected vision, that
he allowed some minutes to elapse ere he became con
scious of his intrusion, or made any movement to an
nounce his being there. Many conflicting feelings
rushed through his heart as he stood gazing ; the par-

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 21

amount one of which was admiration for the surpass
ing loveliness of the young girl whom he found in
such close companionship with his friend. The arm
which lay across Bellario's shoulders, was white and
polished, with a rounded grace of outline that would
have charmed a sculptor ; the slender waist and bended
figure were so harmoniously proportioned, that the
garment of humblest stuff which she wore could no
wise conceal their native elegance of beauty ; the head
was classically shaped, and compactly braided with
smooth raven tresses, surmounting a brow lustrous
with simple purity and intellectual dignity ; while the
face that so lovingly neighbored that of Bellario, could
boast not only delicately-formed features, but an ex
pression radiant with gentle goodness.

Amid the confusion of thoughts which held the
young Count motionless, was one which prompted him
to wonder how those downcast eyes, — now veiled with
their rich lashes as they remained bent upon the paper,
— would look when they were raised ; and to specu
late upon the appeal those lips would make when
parted in speech, even now so eloquent in their rosy
silence.

He was startled from his contemplation by the ful
filment of his wish. The eyes were suddenly raised ;
but he scarcely beheld their soft beauty, ere the look
of surprise they wore recalled him to a sense of his
embarrassing position as an unwarranted intruder.

The slight ejaculation of amazement that escaped
her lips as she beheld the stranger, caused Bellario to
look up also, and in another instant the fellow-stu
dents stood confronting each other with mutual con
fusion and embarrassment.

Bellario's cheek glowed partly from surprise, partly
from the stings of his old proud sensitiveness on the
score of his poverty, now so completely and un
expectedly betrayed to the eyes of his friend, and he
stood without power to utter a word ; while Guido,
in the perplexity of contending emotions, muttered a

22 PORTIA;

few half -articulate expressions of having returned to
ask for some book he had forgotten, a few more of
apology for having unwittingly infringed their privacy,
and then hastily withdrew.

He hurried to the spot where he had appointed Bal
thazar to meet him ; and flinging himself on horseback,
he pursued his way to Belmont in a perturbation of
mind he had rarely before experienced.

His ardent nature suffered much beneath the check
its affections had received. His generosity would not
suffer him to reflect upon his friend for having with
held this secret from him ; but a sense of disappoint
ment and chilled hope keenly beset him, and a painful
surmise of his own unworthiness 1o inspire Bellario
with as strong an attachment as his own, agitated his
mind, and took the place of the blessed unmistrustful
serenity of friendship which had till now formed his
chief happiness.

' ' He is so infinitely my superior, ' ' thought Guido,
in the more than candor of a generous heart, ever ready
to exalt the beloved object even at the expense of self-
humiliation and blame, ' ' that it is perhaps presump
tuous to hope he could share his every thought with
me, as I would with him. Entire confidence subsists
between congenial minds — and I know well how un
equal ours are in native power and intellectual wealth.
But a loving appreciation of his high qualities might
have substituted my own deficiency in the like endow
ments ; and my zeal should have supplied my lack of
merit. Had he but frankly told me that he was mar
ried ! That he could not have his new-made wife to
come with me to Belmont ! How readily would my
sympathy for him have admitted the plea ! How
ungrudgingly should I then have yielded his society !
How my interest in his hapiness would have prompted
me to rejoice in this addition to his felicity — to con
gratulate him on this new joy ! Had he but told me
that he was married !"

This last aspiration was still the burthen of his

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 23

thought. It haunted him with its perpetual recur
rence, as he wandered along beneath the trees of that
avenue where he had spent so many happy hours with
his friend. Until at length the oft-recurring idea was
followed by another — a question — that smote upon his
heart strangely. " Had he indeed told me that he
was married to that fair creature ! — How then ?
Would this intelligence have really given me content ?
Could I have yielded my friend joyfully to her — she
to him ? Did not rather the few moments in which I
beheld her, serve but to fill me with unwonted emo
tion, to the nigh forgetfulness of my friend, and my
errand to him ? Might not the too frequent contem
plation of her beauty, and a near acquaintance with
the gentle qualities that doubtless consort with such
outward perfection, end by inspiring me with feelings
no less treacherous to friendship, than destructive to
my own peace ? Perhaps after all I should rejoice
rather than regret that Bellario did not impart to me
the existence of this tie, or own that wedded love had
had power to win him from his old vows of lawyerly
celibacy and devoted friendship. So that his happi
ness is secured, why should I repine ?"

In such unselfish thoughts as these, did Guido di
Belmonte seek to console himself for the interruption
his course of friendship had sustained ; and it is not
to be doubted but that he derived better comfort
from such a train of reflection, than he could have
done from an indulgence in resentment or unworthy
suspicion. A noble heart finds no relief in reproach ;
no solace in distrust or injurious belief of those it
loves. And thus the impulses of a generous mind act
in liberal reversion ; like the earth's moisture distilled
by genial warmth, they redescend in wholesome
showers, invigorating and refreshing the soil whence
they originally emanate.

Not many hours had elapsed since the young Count's
arrival at Belmont ; and he was still lingering in the
avenuo, wooing a sense of returning calm, that was

24 PORTIA;

beginning to steal over him, in place of his late agita
tion, when he was awakened from his reverie by a
hasty footstep, and in a few moments more he found
himself clasped in the arms of his friend.

" Bellario !" he exclaimed in amazement.

" Yes, Bellario ;" returned the young law-student,
" Bellario, your unworthy friend, come to avow his
error, and to solicit indulgence."

He then made confession of his weakness. He
owned how he had always shrunk from a betrayal of
his poverty ; the foolish pride this had engendered ;
the habit of reserve it had induced, so unjust to warmth
of friendship such as theirs ; and the apparent unkind-
ness it had beguiled him into, by the late refusal to
accompany his friend to Belmont during the vacation.

" Any other but yourself, my dear Guido, might
have taken offence at so pertinacious a refusal from so
unexplained a cause. But knowing your generosity of
character, I was sure that you yourself would be the first
to yield the pleasure of our proposed holiday together, if
you were aware that I gave up the indulgence, in order
not to leave Portia in solitude. I overlook the cir
cumstance, that the total ignorance of my home inter
ests in which my own habitual reserve had suffered
you to remain, did not admit of your sympathizing
with the desire I have felt, ever since my father's
death, of spending as much time as possible with her.
It is lonely enough, poor thing, when I am at college ;
but my first vacation since his loss, I resolved should
be devoted to her."

" You shall return to her at once ! A horse shall
be saddled to take you back to Padua immediately !
I will not keep you another hour, my friend ;" said
the impetuous Guido.

" I knew this would be your feeling," replied Bel
lario ; " and yet my own folly might have occasioned
me to lose the pleasure of hearing you express it.
However, it is to Portia herself that I owe the present
happiness of explanation. Her surprise this morning

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 25

at your sudden appearance on our poor threshold,
drew from me immediately after your so abrupt de
parture, a full account of yourself, of the friendship
that subsists between us, and the probable cause of
your seeking me there. Her interest in the relation,
her sympathy for your disappointment, and her ad
miration of your generosity in returning to seek the
friend who by his want of frankness had risked offend
ing you, opened my eyes to the disingenuousness of
my own conduct, and to the injustice into which I had
been betrayed by the mere desire to keep a secret,
which, after all, involved no shame or disgrace. Be
sides, the sudden revelation of a secret which we have
long sedulously preserved, will sometimes at the same
moment reveal to ourselves the real worthlessness of
its tenure, and lead us to wonder how we could ever
have attached importance to its preservation. And
thus it was with me ; I found myself amazed to think
that I should have doubted for a moment whether the
knowledge of our poverty could possibly diminish the
warmth of your regard. I felt, too, that by the in
dulgence of my selfish pride in veiling from your view
the penury in which I lived, I at the same time with
held from you the pleasure of learning the sources of
better happiness which that home has lately con
tained ; and that, while I concealed from you the
scantily-furnished dwelling, I also debarred you from
knowing one who can make a palace of a hovel, a bower
of bliss of a poor student's chamber — my dear and gen
tle Portia !"

" Return to her, my friend ; return to your

lovely " Poor Guido could not articulate the

word wife, but he echoed her name — " your Portia !"

' ' But not till I can take back with me the assurance
that I have not forfeited my friend's esteem. As I
told you, it was Portia who occasioned my coming
hither, for she would not let me rest until I had
sought you, and expiated my past reserve by a full
confession. She is tenacious of her brother's honor,

26 PORTIA;

I can tell you, and will not consent toBellario's suffer
ing an abatement of regard, even though his own con
duct to his friend may have deserved so severe a pen
alty."

" Your sister !" were the only words Guido could
utter, in his amazement at finding the true identity of
the beautiful girl whom he had taken for granted was
his friend's bride.

" Portia — my sister. Let me return to her with the
assurance that you have forgiven whatever pain my
unexplained refusal may have given you ; that you
still hold me worthy of your esteem ; that though you
are content to give her my company, yet that we are
as fast friends as ever. ' '

" For ever !" exclaimed Guido, ardently, as he
threw himself into the arms of Bellario. ' ' I will take
you back to her myself ! We return to Padua to
gether !"•

Then, springing up the steps of the terrace, which
lay in front of the house, at the end of the avenue,
he led his friend into the dining-saloon, where refresh
ment had been awaiting untouched and unthought of
during the late tumult of the young Count's mind.
Now, however, in his sudden joy, he felt the desire
for food, and as he pledged his friend in wine, and
urged him to eat, after his late journey, and before
his coming one, he manifested by his own enjoyment
of the good cheer before them how many hours had
elapsed in fasting and inquietude.

Bellario felt the full force of this betrayal of his
friend's previous suffering, and he inwardly resolved
that no future reserve of his, should ever be permitted
to risk estrangement, or to mar so perfect an attach
ment ; while he gave himself up to the present delight
of watching Guide's joy, and tasting with him the
happiness of reconciliation.

The young Count's spirits rose high ; he seemed inca
pable of remaining still, now and then starting up from
table, giving orders to his attendants, and pacing up and

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT, 27

down the apartment, as if action were a necessary relief
to the ebullition of feeling within.

" Come, Bellario, one more cup to the health of
the gentle being who has restored us to each other, ' ' he
at length exclaimed, " and then we will set forth to
Padua. I am impatient to be gone, impatient to be
equal with her in the magnanimity of yielding you ;
impatient to relieve her sisterly suspense. Come, we
shall find the coach awaiting us at the park gate, at
the lower end of the avenue."

" Do we not ride as usual ?" inquired Bellario.

" I have told them to prepare the coach, instead of
saddling our horses, ' ' replied Guido ; ' ' for I have
allowed myself to entertain a hope that we shall not
have to stay long in Padua — that we shall even return
to-night, and not alone. ' '

" How mean you ?" asked Bellario, smiling at the
animated eagerness that shone in each feature of his
friend's face ; that danced in his eyes, and played in
the flexure of his mouth.

" I mean, that I have formed the hope that your
sister will be prevailed upon to accompany us back to
Belmont, caro mio ; and you must promise me to join
your persuasion with mine to effect this. I shall think
but poorly of il Signor Avocato's eloquence in plead
ing, if we do not succeed. ' '

" We will hear what the Counsel has to say on the
other side ;" answered Bellario. " Perhaps her pru
dence may suggest some obstacle to so sudden a
scheme."

' ' But I do not admit her as Counsel against us, ' '
said Guido ; " she shall be judge in this case."

"Then you consent to abide by her decision?"
asked Bellario.

" Gladly ;" rejoined the young Count. " I have
no hesitation in placing my cause in the hands of one,
who "

" You forget that you are now changing her
character again from a Judge to that of an Ad-

28 PORTIA;

vocate ;" interrupted the young law-student, laugh
ing.

' Well then, — I willingly refer my sentence to the
judgment of one who has already given so generous an
instance of consideration in my behalf, by sending
me my friend," replied Guido.

" In betraying that there was originally a favorable
leaning to one side, you impugn the strict uprightness
which ought, to characterize a Judge, ' ' rejoined Bel-
lario, " and thus invalidate the impartiality of the
verdict you hope ultimately to obtain. ' '

' ' So that the verdict be what I desire, I will com
mute for any amount of partiality to which it may be
owing, ' ' said the young Count gayly ; adding with a
tender depth in his voice, which the gayety but half
concealed, " the more I owe to the favor of my
Judge, the more welcome will my hoped-for sentence
be."

In such playful conversation did our two friends pass
the time, until they reached the lowly dwelling in the
Strada del Popolo. From its casement, the light of a
lamp streamed forth, and showed Bellario that his
sister was beguiling the time of his absence in copying
for him. On alighting from the coach and entering
the apartment, they accordingly found Portia seated
at a table, busily engaged in writing ; and as the rays
of the lamp shed their reflection upon her glossy hair,
and gently-inclined head, Guido thought she looked
like the picture of some inspired sibyl irradiated by
an intellectual glory, or halo of light.

The moment she perceived her brother, she arose,
and flung herself into his arms to welcome him home.
" Dear Bellario !" she exclaimed ; then, perceiving
his companion, she added in some surprise : — " Count
Guido, too !" After a moment's modest pause, she
thanked him in her own simple frank manner for thus
proving how heartily he forgave the selfish brother and
sister who wished to be together, regardless of the
claims of friendship. " By permitting you to return

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 29

to me so soon, my Bellario, and by accompanying you
home himself, your kind friend has indeed shown how
nobly he can pardon an interference with his proposed
pleasure, ' ' concluded she, turning to her brother.

" But I may still enjoy my proposed pleasure ;"
eagerly rejoined the young Count. " My holiday may
yet be spent with far greater delight than even I had
pictured 1o my self, when first I asked Bellario to share
it with me. ' '

He then, with his characteristic ardor, poured forth
his petition that Portia would crown her former kind
ness in behalf of the friendship that subsisted between
her brother and himself, by consenting to accompany
them back to Belmont ; that thus they need neither of
them relinquish the society of Bellario, but, on the
contrary, might enhance their respective pleasure by
enjoying it in common. And when Portia, half yield
ing to his seductive arguments, offered a faint resist
ance by saying she ought to finish copying the paper
she had in hand, he instantly overruled that plea with
the reminder that her brother could now copy it for
himself ; that they could tumble whatever books and
papers Bellario required into the coach, and take
them to Belmont to be used at leisure.

Smiling at his impetuosity, and finding it more and
more difficult to withstand his warmth of urgency, she
looked appealingly at her brother, and said : — " If
you do not think it too late, dear Bellario "

Guido immediately burst in with a torrent of assur
ances that the evening was not far advanced — that the
moonlight was as brilliant as noonday — that it was
infinitely more agreeable travelling by night than in
the heat of the sun — that it was but a two hours' drive
to Belmont — that it was the pleasantest road in all Italy
— that he had set his heart upon this little journey —
that he was sure his friends would enjoy it as much as
he should, and that he trusted they would not refuse
so great a pleasure as it would be to them all.

The hearts of the brother and sister received almost

30 PORTIA;

as much delight in complying, as he felt in their com
pliance ; and the three friends set forth in all the hap
piness of youth and elastic spirits. These will derive
pleasure from even every-day incidents, and common
place occurrences ; and truly, a moonlight drive,
through a beautiful country, to a charming house, in
the company of those we love best, at any period of
life might be capable of inspiring enthusiastic enjoy
ment. What wonder, then, that Guido, Bellario, and
Portia, thought they had never passed two hours so
enchantingly, as those in the coach that took them to
Belmont.

On arriving, they were received by an old lady, who
acted somewhat in the capacity of housekeeper, but
who had been no less a personage than companion, or
duenna, to the late Countess di Belmonte, Guide's
mother. This Madame Ursula was a most stately
dame, who wore the stiffest of silks, held herself in
the stiffest of attitudes, and entertained the stiffest of
dragonian opinions. She was the ruling rigidity of the
house — the tight hand over Casa Balmonte. From
the late Countess, whose unaffected gentleness and
easy suavity she chid as want of due regard to the
dignity of her station, down to the female servants,
whose sins of carelessness, idleness, boldness, or un-
thrift, she visited with the severest reprehension, all
submitted to her sway, all trembled at her frown.

Strictly correct, even to austerity, in her own con
duct, Madame Ursula could make no allowance for
difference of temperament, admit of no excuse for a
dereliction from duty. In her estimation, a fault was
a sin ; an error, a crime. She was sensitively alive to
indecorum ; and seemed almost to court impropriety,
so anticipatively did she discern the very shadow of its
approach. With her, the sight of smiles conveyed some
thing of moral offence ; gayety of speech was akin to
depravity ; and light-hearted merriment little short of
abomination and wickedness. High spirits were, in her
eyes, a heinous excess ; laughter, an odious levity ;

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 31

and the mere fact of youth, a sort of vice in it
self.

Madame Ursula was well-born, though the decayed
fortunes of her family, and the sudden death of her
parents, compelled her early to become a dependant.
This circumstance she could never forget ; and while
it operated with the Count and Countess di Belmonte
to make them treat her with the extreme of kindness,
it urged her to take advantage of their toleration by
indulging her pride of virtue and self-importance, until
she became the imperious personage here described.

There was one individual, however, in this house
hold, over whom the frowns of Madame Ursula failed
in exercising their usual supremacy. The young
Count Guido treated her with consideration, for the
sake of her age, her misfortunes, her former attach
ment to his mother, and the services she had rendered,
and still continued to render, in the family ; for she
was as conscientious in the discharge of her own du
ties, as she was exacting with regard to those of
others : but he plainly showed that he thought the
deference with which her opinions had been regarded
was excessive, and that he was not inclined to observe
the same obedience himself. He did not evince this
by opposition, or the slightest discourtesy of any kind ;
he only let it be tacitly understood that his smiles
were not to be controlled, his gayety not to be checked
by any forbidding looks on her part, and she soon
learned to curb all expression of reprobation, with the
exception of a slight compression of the lips, and a
little shrill hem, caught back, stifled, and swallowed
up, as it were, ere it could reach his ears.

On the evening in question, when the young Count
returned to Belmont, bringing with him Bellario and
his sister, Madame Ursula received the young people
with a lofty coldness intended to mark the disappro
bation she felt at such a wild expedition as the moon
light drive, which wore rather the aspect of a juvenile
frolic, than of a staid visit ; but the pleasure and the

32 PORTIA;

novelty of the adventure occupied them wholly, and
prevented their noting the old lady's frigid looks.

Neither did they perceive the supercilious glance she
bestowed upon the plain attire of the young Count's
guests, for it was almost immediately followed by a
look of complacency at her own brocade, and a com
forting reflection that she herself would never have
dreamed of inviting persons to Belmont, whose dress
bespoke their humble fortune, and whose gentle birth
was no otherwise indicated than by their grace of per
son and elegance of demeanor.

" The Signorina Portia will doubtless like to retire
early, after her journey ;" said Guido, when they had
partaken of a supper to which gayety and pleasant
conversation had given the air of a feast. " You, of
course, took care to order the preparation of the
chamber which I appointed for the lady's reception,
Madame Ursula?"

" The blue chamber has been prepared, according
to my lord 'swishes," replied the stately dame. Then
turning to one of the attendants, she added — " Rico,
bid Lisetta come hither, that she may show the Sig
norina to her apartment."

The young Count, who had evidently expected that
Madame Ursula herself would have paid his guest the
respect of attending her to her room, rose hastily from
his seat, saying : — " The Signorina 's kind heart will
excuse Madame from accompanying her ; years claim
the privilege of rest. I will myself show you and your
sister whereabout the rooms lie, Bellario. "

Thus saying, Guido led his friends out, preceded by
an attendant bearing a branch of wax-lights ; leaving
Madame Ursula with the vexatious consciousness that
she had been the means of heightening the honor of
Portia's escort, while her sense of propriety was out
raged by the young Count wilfully playing groom of the
chambers to guests of such evidently humble rank — one
of them a female, too !

Her discomfiture vented itself in a shriller hem than

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT, 33

usual, that quavered down into a groan, as she heard
the gay voices of the trio echoing along the gallery
that led from the saloon where she sat.

" That ungovernable young man will be more wild
than ever, now he has those two foolish young persons
to abet him in his ridiculous sallies of mirth, ' ' mut
tered the dame, as she sat starchedly in her chair, still
at the supper-table. "Very sad, very sad," added
she, helping herself to a bumper of Lachryma Christi ;
" and the worst of these thoughtless gigglers, who
chatter and laugh the whole of meal-time, is, that they
totally neglect the duties of the table, and forget to
see that one has one's glass filled as often as needful.
The Count never perceived that I wished for more
Montepulciano to-night at supper ; I may as well take
some now it is my favorite wine. Ah, very sad, very
sad !" repeated she, touching the back of her chair
with her perpendicular spine, which was the nearest
approach to lounging in which she ever permitted her
self to indulge. " Sad indeed !" she ejaculated once
more, with a virtuous sigh, as she set down the second
empty glass, and looked again reprehensively towards
the door through which the young Count and his
friends had disappeared.

This kind of tacit superintendence and mute reproof
maintained by Madame Ursula, during the visit of the
young Count's guests, possessed a double advantage ;
it solaced her own conscientious notions of duenna-
ship, and nowise interfered with the enjoyment of the
young people.

Never had holiday been so full of delight for Guido
as the present one ; never had the period of vacation
been so thoroughly enjoyed, or appeared to fleet
away so rapidly. To the known and valued charms
of Bellario's society, were now added the excite
ment and joy of each day discovering those contain
ed in the character and. person of his friend's sis
ter. To mark her artless unspoiled simplicity, her
native good sense, her warmth of heart, her modest

34 PORTIA;

deference to her brother's opinions, her high appre
ciation of his merits, her maidenly gentleness, yet
unaffected ease, all united to a face and person of ex
treme beauty, now formed a daily source of study to
the young nobleman, as new as it was interesting.
Each unfolded page of Portia's mind revealed fresh
wonders ; he gazed on the attractive volume, and pe
rused every lineament of this fair book, until its varied
excellences seemed to comprise all the intelligence, all
the fascination of his entire previous reading. What
science could vie with a knowledge of those gentle
thoughts ? What learning outweigh the speaking
earnestness of those persuasive eyes ? What scholas
tic arguments exceed in eloquence the music of that
soft voice ? What erudition could exert so refining an
influence as one of those appealing smiles ? Or what
store of acquirement be worthy of so zealous a toil
and confer so glorious an empire, as the gain of that
tender heart ? There was a witchcraft in the present
subject of the young student's contemplations, which
seemed to absorb him wholly, and to cast into com
parative disregard all other study, past or to come.
He was like a man suddenly impressed with the belief
that he has discovered a clue to the secret of transmut
ing metals ; the absorbing pursuit withdraws him from
all others, and henceforth alchemy is his engrossing
thought, his sole study.

With characteristic ardor did Guido di Belmonte
give himself up to the magic that enthralled him ;
and the only discretion his enthusiasm knew, was in
the refraining from any overt expression of his feel
ings, lest their too early or too eager avowal should dis
solve the spell. He would not risk seeing the present
ingenuous ease of her manner exchanged for conscious
timidity. Portia now treated him as the intimate and
cherished friend of her brother, and in that character,
almost with the freedom and unrestraint of a second
brother ; so Guido was well contented for the present
to enjoy all the charm of frank communion which such

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 35

a mode of treatment established between them. As a
third in this pleasant friendship, therefore, the young
girl joined in all their rambles through the park, visited
their favorite haunts, be held their most admired views,
lingered in their choicest nooks and recesses, and not only
accompanied them in their excursions, but showed by
her active sympathy and earnest intelligence, that she
enjoyed their conversation, shared in their aspirations,
and partook of their enthusiasm. AVhile the presence
of Portia thus doubled and trebled all the previous de
light that the two students had derived from these
scenes, she herself tasted a pleasure she had never before
known, and for the first time in her life, this hitherto
solitary young creature might be said to learn the true
happiness of existence. She had till lately lived in com
plete seclusion beneath her sole surviving parent's roof
at Verona ; and it was only since the recent period of
their father's death, that Bellario had brought her to
Padua to share his humble dwelling.

Day after day the three friends wandered amid the
woods and lawns of Belmont ; and unwitting time crept
on.

One afternoon they had set forth to visit some ruins
on a beautiful spot at the extreme verge of the estate,
and the distance being farther than Guido had esti
mated, in his eagerness to take his friends thither, it
came, that, on returning homeward, the shades of even
ing overtook them, ere they reached even the avenue
that led to the house. The sudden darkness that suc
ceeds to day, beneath an Italian sky, where there is
short interval of deepening twilight, prevented the two
young men from noting the pallor that stole over the
cheek of their companion, and betrayed the fatigue
that so long a walk had occasioned to a frame less cal
culated for exertion than theirs. Her bravery of
heart, and ambition to prove herself a not unfitting
companion, as well as a dread of the implied reproach
to them if they discovered her fatigue, made her
anxiously endeavor to conceal her lassitude by an effort

36 PORTIA;

to maintain her share in the animated conversation,
which was as usual going on between them ; but at
length she involuntarily yielded to an overwhelming
sense of weariness, and permitted herself to lapse into
silence. Suddenly this was observed by Guido, who
interrupted himself with an abrupt exclamation of self-
reproach at the want of thought which had thus sub
jected his fair guest to so undue an exertion.

" We have been very thoughtless, I fear, Bel-
lario ;" said he ; "or rather I have been culpably
selfish to urge an expedition so far too long for her !
No time allowed for repose, either ! We were seated
scarcely half an hour among the ruins ! So long since
our early meal, too ! I neglected to bid Madame
Ursula provide us with refreshment, though I ought
to have known we should be detained beyond our
usual hour of return ! Unpardonable folly ! You
are ill, carina ! You are pale, you tremble !"

The moon had now risen, and revealed to the young
Count the gentle white face that leaned for a few
moments against Bellario's shoulder ; but her brother's
affectionate support, and cheering words of en
couragement, with, still more, the torrent of re
proaches which Guido continued to pour forth upon
his own heedlessness, enabled her to rally, and she
assured them she was quite recovered, and equal to
proceed.

" There is only the avenue to pass, and the terrace,
and then you will have thorough rest, cara mia, ' ' said
her brother ; " you shall have the couch wheeled over
to the supper-table, Guido and I will let you queen it
as much as you please, the whole evening. Come,
lean well upon my arm, and we shall soon reach Bel-
mont !"

" Lean upon mine too ; we will support you be
tween us, ' ' said Guido : and thus linked in kindliness,
the three friends passed together beneath the shadow
of the stately trees that formed the avenue to Belmont.

They had often walked arm-in-arm thus before,

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT 37

Portia between her brother and his friend, during their
wanderings through the grounds ; and yet how was it,
that now, the familiarity and closeness of the prox
imity which it occasioned between them, struck her
with a significance which it had never assumed before ?
Was it that the low soft tones of Guide's voice, which
only at intervals interrupted the cheerful strain of the
remarks with which Bellario sought to divert her, ad
dressed her with more tender solicitude than usual ?
Was it that the arm of Guido, upon which hers
rested, occasionally pressed the hand it sustained,
against a heart that throbbed in unison with the ten
derness of the speaker's tone, and gave eloquent mean
ing to his few murmured words ? Was it that though
the deep shadow of the over-arching trees permitted
her not to see his eyes, yet she felt those eyes to be
bent upon her, as if they would fain pierce the gloom,
and ascertain that the healthful color of her cheek
was restored ?

Certain it is, that her recent pallor was now replaced
by a rich carnation hue ; as certain that her heart had
learnt responsive throbs from the one which vibrated
against her hand ; and still, as certain that the languor
of her frame was forgotten in the delicious thrill which
crept over her senses. It seemed that she could have
walked on ever, through that dim avenue, as if in a
voluptuous dream, gliding onward without action or
volition.

And thus they reached the end of the avenue ; and
there, on the marble terrace, in the broad clear moon
light, stood the stiff figure of Madame Ursula, willing
to show the young people, by her coming thus far to
meet them, that they had considerably outstaid their
usual period of return.

The length of time which had elapsed since the due
hour of supper, and the protracted sufferings of her
importunate appetite, had in all probability tended to
sharpen her habitual acerbity, and to exasperate the
dame's rigid observance of etiquette ; for she no

3 8 PORTIA;

sooner beheld Portia approacli thus supported, than
she cast a piercing glance of reproof upon the fair arm
that hung with such unseemly confidence upon the
young Count's, and hemmed so piercingly, that the
terrace rang, as if a night-owl had suddenly shrieked.

The glance and the hem awakened the young girl
from the trance in which her senses had been steeped,
and she involuntarily quitted her hold of Guide's arm,
and clung solely to that of her brother ; while the
young Count, biting his lip, hastily seized the pointed
elbow of Madame Ursula, and placing Portia's hand
upon the stately dame's arm, exclaimed : — " Ay, good
Ursula ; you assist the Signorina into the house,
while I hasten to the saloon, and arrange a couch for
her. We have overtired her with too long a walk. ' '
So saying, he sprang through one of the windows that
opened on the terrace, and bade them follow at a pace
suited to Portia's fatigue.

In their subsequent rambles, Guido found that by
some strange chance, their old mode of progression
was never resumed. They walked arm-in-arm, it is
true, as they strolled through the grounds, or along
the avenue ; but it so happened that the young Count
could never contrive to have Portia between her
brother and himself. She invariably possessed her
self of that arm of Bellario which was on the side
farthest from Guido ; and though he at first endeav
ored to frustrate this arrangement, yet when he found
himself more than once foiled in his attempt to return
to their old position, and regain her arm within his,
he wanted courage to insist iipon a point from which
she seemed averse.

His want of courage arose from a doubt. He could
not resolve the question he frequently asked himself ;
whether Portia herself shrank from a renewed avowal
of that tenderness which his manner had betrayed on
the evening when she had last permitted her arm to
rest upon his, or whether it was merely a confused
consciousness of Madame Ursula's rebuking glance,

THE HEIRESS OF B ELMO NT. 39

and the implied censure it conveyed, that caused the
timid girl to withdraw from this sweet familiar con
tact.

When he was inclined to attribute the change to
this latter cause, he could scarcely forbear visiting upon
the stiff dame the chagrin and mortification he felt,
and putting an end to it at once by a candid avowal of
his love ; but when he fancied that it arose from Por
tia's own coldness to his suit, and from an anxiety on
her part to extinguish hope on his, without a more ex
plicit declaration of their mutual feelings, which might
only serve to disturb the serenity of the friendship
which now united the three, he felt his courage fail,
and he submitted to see her maintain her station on
the other side of her brother.

One morning they were threading the intricacies of
a neighboring wood, where, deep in its recesses, a
briery dell led to the foot of a waterfall. The in
equality of the path they were pursuing, made the
offer of his aid but a mere common courtesy, yet she
evaded his proffered arm, though tacitly, and as if not
perceiving his intention, in the eagerness of conversa
tion. Even when Bellario interrupted himself to say :
— " You had better take Guide's arm as well as mine,
Portia ; you will stumble, if you do not, this path is
so rugged and steep," she still paid no attention to
the proposal, but chatted on as before.

So marked a rejection, could scarcely pass un
noticed ; and Guido in a half -hurt tone said : — ' ' Your
sister is resolved to owe assistance to none but a
brother's care."

He had no sooner given way to this momentary
pique, than he repented ; but he could not judge of
the effect his effusion might have upon Portia, as her
downcast eyes and averted countenance were partially
hidden from him by Bellario, who was again between
them. As for the latter, he did not perceive the vex
ation which embittered his friend's tone, and he merely
simply replied : — " She well knows how entirely she

40 PORTIA;

may trust that care, and with what fondness it will be
devoted to her through life. ' '

The sister for an instant raised her loving eyes to
meet those of the brother, which were bent proudly
upon the beautiful young creature beside him ; and
Guido, as he looked upon them, felt as if the love
that aspired to assert its superior claim to that which
existed between the two orphans, must needs be a
presumption foredoomed to disappointment.

The profound feeling of regret and desolation of
spirit into which such a reflection plunged the young
Count, revealed to himself how far he had permitted
his heart to indulge the hope of one day inducing Por
tia to own a preference even paramount to her affec
tion for Bellario ; and he returned but mechanical an
swers to the animated dissertation upon some favorite
topic, in which his friend was indulging. While the
young law student eagerly pursued his theme, he per
ceived not the silence of his companions, and they
emerged from the wood on their return, and had
reached the avenue, without an idea having crossed his
mind, that he had for some time been the sole speaker.

At length Guido was roused from his reverie, by a
pause in his friend's speech, and by some remark that
fell from him a moment after, touching the superlative
beauty of Belmont, and his regret that this delicious
holiday was drawing to a close. " But three days
more, ' ' added he, ' ' and we must return to Padua ;
to relinquish the delights of Belmont, for study, col
lege discipline, and recluse assiduity. Farewell, beau
tiful Belmont !"

At this instant, Guido's ear caught the sound of a
deep sigh from Portia's lips, as she murmured in echo
of her brother's words : — " Farewell, beautiful Bel
mont, where we have all been so happy !"

The sigh, the mournful cadence of the voice, gave
the young Count the encouragement that lovers in
variably gather from a betrayal of emotion in the ob
ject beloved. Strength strangely generated of weak-

THE HEIRESS OF B ELMO NT, 41

ness ! A look, too, a timid, hasty, involuntary look,
met his eyes for one second, as they wandered for the
hundredth time that morning towards the gentle face
that had still bent droopingly on the other side of
Bellario, despite of all his vigilant endeavors to win a
single responsive glance.

Now, however, in the look that met his, although it
flashed upon him but instantaneously, he read a mute
confession as ample as it was brief, as impassioned as
it was modest, as unreserved as it was involuntary,
and the blissful conviction that it carried in a tumultu
ous rush to his heart, sprang into words with all the
impetuosity of his nature : — " We must not part !
We will never leave Belmont ! Give her to me, Bel
lario ! Give me your sister for my wife !"

The young law-student paused in utter amazement.
It seemed as if such an idea as the possibility of love
growing out of friendship, had never suggested itself
to his mind. He stood still, regarding them both
with an air of perplexity that might have amused Guido
upon any other occasion. At present, however, he did
not even see it ; his whole soul was in his eyes, and
they were riveted upon Portia only, who remained
rooted to the spot, and covered with innocent blushes.

At length Bellario said, smiling, as he beheld the
truth in that crimson cheek : — " What does my sister
herself say ?"

His sister said nothing ; but after a moment's pause,
she drew her hand softly from the brotherly arm to
which she had hitherto clung, and creeping round to
his other side, she again placed one arm within his,
and held forth the other with a faltering motion, as if
it sought to resume its former resting-place upon that
of Guido. The young Count needed no words to bid
him construe aright her gentle action, so eloquent in
its confiding sweetness, but as he caught the bounte
ous hand with transport to his lips, he repeated ; —
" What does fairest Portia say ? Will she give her
self to me ?"

4* PORTIA;

" Her brother shall answer for her ;" said Bellario.
" My own affection for the friend of my heart teaches
me how surely his noble qualities have won my Portia's
love ; and I ought perhaps to rejoice that an earlier
suspicion of the truth did not awaken scruples which
false delicacy might have suggested. Had I sooner
surmised this, I might have thought it due to our own
honor to avoid the seeming attempt to secure an alliance
so far above our station ; but Portia's heart is now
yours, and knowing (though but lately, in its full ex
tent) the value of the treasure you have gained, no
unworthy pride of mine shall withhold it from your
possession. To show you how my friend's generosity,
and my sister's simple integrity of mind, have wrought
their due effect in eradicating my former prejudices,
I will not say one word of the portionless condition of
the bride you have chosen. I resign my Portia to
your care, with the conviction that you will cherish
her with no less regard than had she brought you mill
ions for her dower ; and for her, I place her in your
arms, with as proud a joy, as if she were descended
from a throne."

As Bellario concluded, he gently withdrew the
trembling palm that clung to him, and placing it in
that of his friend, who still retained the one she had
first bestowed fast locked in his other hand, he left
them together, that they might tell each other their
full hearts.

The fond brother wandered apart for awhile, that,
in devout thanksgiving, he might unburthen his own
of the tide of gratitude that swelled it, for the blissful
lot which was thus secured to his ^orphan sister, and
for the increased happiness this union promised, not
only to his beloved friend, but to them all. After
some time spent thus in grateful reflection, he was
ascending the terrace by another approach than the
flight of steps leading from the avenue, in order that
he might still leave the lovers undisturbed, when he
met Madame Ursula, just as she was emerging from

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 43

one of the windows that opened down to the ground
on to the terrace.

" Alone, Signer Bellario ! Where is your sister ?
Where is Count Guido ?" exclaimed the dame, aghast
at this instance of what she thought the young law-
student's plebeian ignorance of propriety. " Miseri-
cordia, I think I see them yonder in the avenue to
gether ! Is it possible you can permit Santa

Diana ! If my eyes do not deceive me, his arm is round
her waist ! Santissima Madonna ! He stoops his face
towards hers — I do believe ' '

She paused and gasped.

" I should not wonder," said Bellario with mali
cious calmness, ' ' if Guido is actually giving my sister
a kiss. ' '

" Hold, Signor !" shrieked the Duenna, " don't
utter the filthy word !" So saying, she hurried down
the marble steps with all the speed the stiffness of her
dignity would allow, and bustled along the avenue like
an enraged goose, fluttering, and sputtering, and
screaming.

When she reached the lovers, who, seeing and hear
ing this discordant approach, came towards her, to
discover its meaning, she could scarcely articulate
a word, but panted out : — ' ' I am surprised, Signorina,

that " " Stay, Madame Ursula ;" interrupted

Guido, smiling. " Give me leave to surprise you still
more, by informing you that henceforth you are to
address this lady as Countess di Belmonte."

The return to Padua was of course deferred ; Bel
lario remaining at Belmont to behold the happiness of
his friend and sister confirmed in marriage. But after
the wedding, the young law-student pleaded his anxiety
to resume those labors that were to insure him future
independence and renown.

When the young Count would fain have urged him
to stay with them ever saying how little need there
was now to endure the pain of separation, since his
possessions sufficed for a purse* in common between

44 PORTIA;

them, Bellario ingenuously acknowledged that even
could the generosity of his friend reconcile him to
such a proposal, his own ambition to create for him
self a name among the eminent lawyers of his country,
would not permit him to exchange so proud a hope
for a life of inaction and inutility.

Guido yielded to this argument with involuntary ap
proval and esteem, that counterbalanced the regret he
felt in parting with his old fellow-student ; and the
two friends separated with the understanding that all
Bellario 's vacation-time was in future to be devoted to
Belmont.

Years thus happily rolled on. The young student
spent his time in alternate labor at learned I'adua, and
relaxation at lovely Belmont ; until he rose to the
attainment of the position in society, which had so
long been the object of his ambition. While still
young, he was old in fame and reputed ability ; and
few lawyers of the time ranked in public estimation
with the learned Doctor Bellario.

Count Guido and his fair wife dwelt in uninterrupted
happiness on their estate, carrying out the youthful
visions of the former, by a life of peaceful virtue and
benevolent utility. The only drawback to their felic
ity, was their remaining unblessed by offspring ; but
after they had been married twelve years, and had re
linquished all hope of beholding a child of their own,
Portia confided to her husband the prospect she had
of presenting him with an heir.

When Bellario next visited Belmont, he was apprised
by the happy parents of their new cause of joy, and he,
with them, awaited the advent of the expected stranger
with scarcely less delight than their own. He did not
fail to rally his sister on the confirmed manner with
which she always spoke of the expected little one as a
boy ; and bade her remember, that as Guido and
himself would both prefer to possess a miniature copy
of herself, there were two to one in favor of the ac
complishment of their wish instead of hers. In the

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 45

midst of their gay anticipations, came an express from
Padua to summon Bellario thither, as his presence was
required during the decision of an important case that
was about to be tried.

As he mounted his horse to depart, he waved his
hand to Guido and Portia, who stood on the terrace
to bid him farewell. " God bless you, my sister !" he
cried. " No son, mind ! Give Belmont an heiress,
as you value my brotherly love !"

lie rode off hastily, lest he might not be able to
preserve the cheerful tone he had assumed in address
ing her ; for he felt reluctant to quit this beloved sister
ere her hour of peril had passed. Still, no foreboding
whispered that the farewell had been for ever ; no
thought that he had looked upon her face for the
last time ; and he was totally unprepared for the blow
that smote him some days after, in receiving this ter
rible letter : —

" Our angel is now an angel indeed. Come and be
hold what lives to prove her earthly sojourn. An in
fant Portia is all that is left of our lost one, whose
image alone rests in the heart of her miserable hus
band. The most unhappy

" GUIDO."

The almost equally-afflicted Bellario lost no time in
hastening to his friend ; but when he arrived at Bel
mont, he found even the sad hope of bringing com
fort by his presence was denied. As Madame Ursula
placed the infant Portia in his arms, she informed
him that since the hour when the remains of the
Countess had been consigned to the grave, her un
happy husband had been seen by no one. He seemed
suddenly to have vanished from tho face of the earth
with her whom he mourned. How or when he had
disappeared was a mystery, and Bellario could hardly
doubt that he had for ever lost a brother as well as a
sister. The last person who had beheld him, was his
faithful attendant, Balthazar, who told Bellario, that

46 PORTIA;

on the evening of his lady's funeral, he was crossed
in the avenue by a dark figure, which had at first
startled him with its muffled spectral appearance ; but
that on taking courage to look at it again, he was
almost convinced it was his poor master. This belief
made him turn, and follow it ; but it fled faster than
he could pursue, and soon vanished entirely among
the trees in the distance.

There was one slight circumstance, which alone per
mitted Bellario to hope that his friend had not madly
destroyed himself. In Guide's study, he found a
fragment of a paper, apparently addressed to himself,
though it was incoherent, abrupt, and written in evi
dent distraction.

* * * " She will be your care, I know. All I have
is hers — your justice and tenderness will be her best
safeguard — should I ever return, she may ' ' * * *

It was on these few last words, that Bellario
founded his hope. They were all that remained to
dispel his apprehensions that his infant charge might
be wholly orphaned ; and he took a solemn vow as he
bent over the sleeping babe, that he would devote
himself to her welfare, in the fervent trust that he
might one day be permitted to replace her in the arms
of a living father. Meanwhile, having learned of
Madame Ursula in as explicit terms as her prudish
lips could muster, that a healthful wet-nurse had been
provided in the person of one of the Belmont tenantry ;
and having ascertained that the affairs of the estate
were placed in an advantageous condition for the
future benefit of the infant heiress ; he returned to
the duties of his profession at Padua, until such time
as she could profit by his presence and immediate
superintendence.

Letters from Madame Ursula brought him continued
intelligence of the babe's thriving, and he would fre
quently steal a day from his labors to ride over to Bel
mont, that he might indulge himself with a sight of
the child. For in the small unformed features, and

THE HEIRESS OF B ELMO NT. 47

diminutive limbs, the force of affection taught him to
find traces of his lost sister and friend ; in the mite
of a nose, and the wondering eyes, he thought he
could read the animation and intelligent fire of Guide's
expression ; in the little dimpled hands, he fancied
he discovered the slender fingers of Portia ; and even
in the fair golden curls of the little one, he dreamed
he beheld the raven tresses of her mother. So whim
sical is the sweet blindness of love ! Such tricks of
imagination were the senses of the bachelor lawyer
accustomed to play, while, spell-bound by loving
memories, he held the child in his arms, and pored
over its baby lineaments.

Soon, it learned to know the face that hung so ten
derly over its own ; and almost its first look of intel
ligence was given to him. It would crow and coo in
answer to his caresses ; it would learn to hold up its
fairy finger while hearkening to the sound of his horse's
feet, and clap its hands when it saw him approach.

Once, as he was galloping up the avenue, he saw
the nurse and her charge playing on the grass ; and
suddenly, to his great delight, he beheld the little
creature bundle itself up from its squatting position
on the turf, and come toddling toward him ; it had
learned to run alone, since his last visit !

Then — in a visit or two after that one — a new pleas
ure ; the child could welcome him with a few
prattling words ; and as she sat on his knee, she could
beguile his solitary breakfast with her pretty voice,
and lisp out her newly-mastered phrases.

In the course of some months more, a period of
vacation occurred, and the bachelor-uncle looked for
ward with absolute pleasure to the thought of spend
ing some time with a mere child ; the grave lawyer
had learned to love nothing in the world so well as his
little Portia. She was now not merely the child of
his sister and friend, she had become a joy in herself.

And the little creature repaid his love with a fond
ness singularly intense in one so young. She seemed

48 PORTIA;

to have inherited her father's ardor of disposition,
with much of her mother's gentle sweetness. She
never tired of being with him ; and even showed none
of the usual restlessness of children, when his serious
occupations demanded his attention. She would sit
quietly on the ground, amusing herself with the
pictures or toys that he had given her ; and seemed
to be aware that by silence she preserved the privi
lege of remaining in the room with him. When
Madame Ursula would appear at the door of the
library, where he usually sat, and offer to take away
the child lest she should disturb il Signore Dottore,
little Portia would cast beseeching eyes up to her
uncle's face, and say : — " I'll be so good, if you'll
let me stay. ' ' And she always kept her word ; sit
ting sometimes for hours on the floor, and only vary
ing her position by creeping like a little mouse to a
low drawer which was considered hers, where her toys
were stored, or by kneeling before a chair upon which
she might range her pictures side by side.

Once Bellario observed her put her finger on her lip
and glance timidly towards him, as she checked her
self in some little nursery-tune which she was uncon
sciously beginning to murmur to herself. " I mustn't
sing," he heard her whisper. " Yes you may, if
you sing very softly," said her uncle ; and thence
forth he accustomed himself to hear the little under
song going on while he was writing, till at length, had
it ceased, he would have well-nigh missed the pretty
music of its humming.

But these hours of needful stillness, were delightfully
compensated by the games of romps, the races on the
greensward of the avenue, the rides on the shoulder,
and the scampers on horseback, that the fond uncle
indulged her with, when he had concluded his day's
avocations. Indeed, it is a question whether the in
dulgence was not as great on one side as the other ;
whether, in fact, the learned man did not as fully enjoy
these innocent gambols as much as the frolicsome child

THE HEIRESS Of BELMONT. 49

did. To judge by the facility with which he accom
modated himself to her infantine ways, the unreserve
with which he abandoned himself to her disposal, and
the happy ease of his manner while devoting himself to
sport with her, this companionship was now his chief
delight, as it evidently was hers.

A look more bright than any that had beamed in
his eyes since his sister's death, would dwell there now
as he tossed her baby-daughter high in his arms
towards the ceiling of the saloon, and watched the
ecstasy with which she found herself so near its glit
tering gilded fret-work ; a gentle smile would play
round the grave lawyer's lips, as he suffered himself
to be harnessed and driven along the avenue as the
little girl's mimic steed ; but some of their happiest
times of all, were when he placed her on horseback
before him, and rode through the glades, and
shadowy woodlands, telling her many a pleasant tale
of wonder and delight. Sometimes the learned head,
so well stored with weighty precedents, that directed
senates with its judgment, and swayed princes with
its counsel, would rack its memory for fairy legends
or gay stories for the sole delight of a little girl ; at
others, the lips that poured forth eloquence and erudi
tion commanding the plaudits of his fellow-men, and
influencing the destinies of the human race, would
frame simple precepts of goodness and loveliness fitted
for the comprehension of the fair-haired child that sat
upon his saddle-bow. But in this single, childish
auditress, a world of sympathy, intelligence, and sensi
bility had their being, which found expression in the
absorbed and enchanted gaze with which she fixed her
eyes intently on his face while he spoke.

A favorite theme with them both, was the excel
lence of the parents she had lost. He was never tired
of telling, or she of hearing, about the beautiful gentle
mother who was now an angel in heaven ; who dwelt
in the clear blue sky, and watched her little girl when
the stars were shining, and the moon was peeping in

5° PORTIA;

at her chamber- window, while she was fast asleep ;
who loved to see her little Portia good and happy ;
and hoped to have her one day in the blue and glorious
heaven with her. And then he told her of the kind
handsome father ; of the loving friend he had been ;
of how dear they had been to each other ; of how he
had grieved to lose the beautiful mother, who had gone
to be an angel ; and how, in impatience that he could
not yet go with her to be one also, he had wandered
away no one knew whither, but might perhaps one
day return to see his little Portia if she continued good
and gentle.

And then the child would put up her rosy mouth
for a kiss, and tell her uncle she ' ' meant to be so
good — O, so good — and always good." And then
they would ride home cheerfully and happily ; and
patting the horse's neck, would think no time so pleas
ant as that spent on his back, when he carried them
far and wide through the broad domains of Belmont.

One morning, after breakfast, there happened to
be fewer law papei's than usual to examine, and Bel-
lario told his little Portia that if she would be quite quiet
for an hour, he would then be ready to take her out
for a long, long ride ; and he asked Madame Ursula
to be so good as to let them have a little basket with
something nice to eat while they were out, in case they
were away some hours.

The dame made a curtsey of acquiescence ; then
turning to the child she added : — " Now, Contessina,
come with me."

The little girl arose, and followed her half-way
towards the door, then stopped.

Madame Ursula looked back, and seeing the fixed
attitude in which the child stood, in the middle of the
room, frowned heavily, saying: — "Did your hear
me? Come!"

Bellario quietly watched this scene, though his head
was bent over his papers ; and he observed an obsti
nate inflexibility take possession of the little girl's

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 51

and figure, as she replied : — " Not unless you promise
that I shall come back in time for the ride. ' '

" I shall promise nothing. Come this instant !"
said Madame Ursula ; then, glancing at Bellario, and
seeing, as she thought, that he was absorbed in his
occupation, she added in a stern low tone : — " Re
member !"

Portia's face flashed scarlet, and she moved forwards
a step or two ; but presently she stopped again, and
said : — " No, if you beat me, I don't care ; I won't
go till you promise."

Bellario was just going to exclaim : — " Beat !" but
he checked himself, resolved to satisfy himself further,
while they still thought themselves unobserved.

"Promise a chit like you, indeed ! A fine pass
things have come to, truly !" exclaimed Madame
Ursula. " I insist upon your coming to your tasks,
when I bid you. ' '

" But I'm not a chit — I'm heiress of Belmont —
Lisetta told me so ; and she said I needn't learn my
letters if I didn't like — and I don't like. Besides, I
want to ride with cugino mio ; and I won't say my
letters till you promise I shall have done in time to
come back for my ride. Nasty letters ! I hate them. ' '
And the child uttered the last words with flashing
eyes, and an insolent lip.

Madame Ursula stalked back, and seized the little
rebel whom her own injudicious unrelenting had
created. As she clutched Portia's wrist, the child
uttered a piercing scream ; but the next instant she
seemed to remember her promise not to disturb Bel
lario, for she looked towards him hastily, and then,
checking herself, writhed and struggled mutely in the
housekeeper's grasp.

Bellario now thought it time to interfere.
" Madame Ursula," said he, " why do you wish the
Contessina Portm to go with you ? May she not stay
here, as usual ?"

" I need hardly tell il Signore Dottore," replied

52 PORTIA;

the dame, " that it would be disgraceful for a young
lady of the Contessina's distinguished station to be
brought up in ignorance. I have therefore thought
it my duty to teach her her letters, that she may one
day know how to read. I presume so illustrious and
learned a gentleman as yourself knows the importance
of early tuition ?"

" But did I not hear something about ' beating,'
Madame ? Surely that is not apart of your system ?"
said Bellario.

" Oh, a birch-rod, merely hung up in my room by
way of a threat, Signor. We all know that a threat is
sometimes as effectual as a punishment, ' ' replied she ;
" and the Contessina's pride makes her dread the
shame of a whipping, as much as the rod itself."

' ' Do you know, I am not a great advocate for either
shame, or the rod, Madame, in teaching. ' ' Bellario
saw the scarlet mount to the child's brow again, at the
mention of the birch-rod ; but he saw also a look of
triumph, as if she understood that Madame was being
rebuked instead of herself. He was vexed at being
thus compelled to discuss the matter in her presence
at all, but as it was hardly to be avoided after what
had passed, he added : — " If you please, we will for
the present allow this little lady to go on in her igno
rance. She will one day find what a pleasure it is to
read, and will wish to learn, and be grateful to those
who will take the trouble to teach her. Allow me to
thank you for that which you have already taken,
Madame Ursula ; although I request you will indulge
me by letting the lessons cease, until Portia is wise
enough to wish for them herself. ' '

Madame Ursula curtsied stiffly, and withdrew ;
muttering to herself that the illustrissime Dottore
was a fine person, forsooth, to be a judge ; when ho
did not know how to manage a little child better than
by letting her have her own way.

The ride that day was not so pleasant as usual.
Portia, young as she was, could understand that what

THE HEIRESS OF R ELMO NT. 53

had Jnade her uncle ride on so thoughtfully and so
silently, was the scene that had taken place that morn
ing. After peering up in his face several times in the
vain hope of meeting the fond smile that generally an
swered hers, she felt the rebuke contained in that sad
abstracted look, and at length said : — " Are you angry
with me, cugino mio ?"

" I am sorry, very sorry, that my little Portia was
so naughty, this morning ; I do not like to see her so
unlike the little girl I love."

" I'll say my letters, if you'll love me still ; I'll
never be naughty about reading again. ' '

' ' It was not your naughtiness about saying your
letters, that made me sorry, carina ; it was to see my
little girl behave so rudely to Madame — to see her look
so insolent and proud — and to hear her talk of being
heiress of Belmont, as a reason for not learning to
read."

" Lisetta said so — she said I should be a great lady
by and by, and need only do what I like ; and needn't
take any trouble to learn."

" Lisetta should have told you that a great lady
would never like to be ignorant ; that you would be
more to be pitied if you were a countess who did not
know how to read, than if you were a poor peasant ;
and that, the heiress of Belmont ought to be gentle and
kind, not wilful and rude, if she ever expects to be re
spected and obeyed in her turn. Besides, though you
will one day be lady of Belmont, you are now only a
poor little weak child, who ought to be very thankful
and obedient to those who are so good as to take care
of you, and do many things for you which you are
not able to do for yourself."

The child laid her head meekly against his breast,
and whispered : — " I'll try and be good, if cugino will
love me." And when his arms softly pressed round
her, she felt that she was forgiven ; and they could
again enjoy the beauty of the ride, and laugh and
chat, as gaily and happily as ever.

54 PORTIA;

Next morning after breakfast, the papers and' law-
books were again speedily despatched, and Portia
started up from her toys, expecting to be summoned
for a ride ; but she saw her uncle take down a book
from one of the shelves of the library (which was the
room in which they usually sat), and placing it upon
a low desk by the side of his easy-chair he lolled
back, and began to read.

Now Portia, though so young a child, had already
found out the difference between business-reading and
pleasure-reading ; for she knew that when her uncle
was leaning over those yellow papers, crackling parch
ments, and plain-looking books, while his eyes were
intently fixed, and his pen occasionally dipped in the
ink, and he wrote a few words, and his lips looked
grave and unmoved, — he was on no account to be dis
turbed, and that was the time for her to remain per
fectly still ; but when she saw him draw the reading-
desk to the side of his easy-chair, and stretch his legs
carelessly out, and lean back comfortably, and place
his elbow on the arm of his chair, and prop his chin
with his closed hand, and look at his book with happy
eyes and smiling mouth, she knew then that she might
creep to his side, scramble on to one of his knees,
nestle her cheek against his bosom, and thus sit on
his lap and play with her doll without interrupting him.
Nay, at such times of idle reading, she might feel that
she was welcome ; for the arm that supported her on
his knee, would now and then give her a hug, or the
head that bent over hers would press its lips upon her
hair, when the leaf of the book wanted turning over.

She looked at him now, as he sat there reading, and
wondered that he preferred sitting still, and gazing at
those lines, and turning page after page, and reading
on and on, instead of going out for a ride, or a race
in the avenue, or a frolic on the lawn, or some other
pleasant amusement. " I suppose he finds reading
very pleasant too ; I suppose he likes reading as well
as I like playing." Some such thoughts as these

THE HEIRESS OF SELMONT. 55

doubtless passed through little Portia's mind ; she
went close up to Bellario, and leaned her two elbows on
his knee, and gazed steadily up into the face that was
looking as steadily into the open book ; and she pres
ently said abruptly : — " I wish you would teach me
my letters ; I want to read with cugino mio. ' '

Her uncle, — or cousin as she called him, — caught her
up in his arms with delight at finding that his hope
was fulfilled ; the sight of the pleasure derived from
reading, had inspired the voluntary desire to taste
that pleasure ; of her own accord she wished to learn.

From that time forth, the hours devoted to pleasure-
reading were partly spent in pointing out the big letters
in each page to the little girl upon his knee. First
their forms were pointed out, and pretty stories were
invented, to fix their different shapes and names in the
child's memory ; then came the amusement of finding
out the shortest words in each line, that the little one
might spell them, and find out the sound the letters
made, when put together in words. For this purpose,
any book that happened to lie upon the desk to charm
the grave lawyer in his hours of poetic recreation,
would serve equally well to display the alphabetic sym
bols, and mere first syllables, to the infant student.
To him, the magic page might often conjure up vis
ions of the proud JEneas, and forsaken Dido ; of
meek-hearted Griselda, or wandering Constance ; of
the pale pair of lovers, swept upon the whirlwind of
the hell-storm ; of the docile giant Morgante ; of
Orlando, Rinaldo, handsome Astolfo, the daring Eng
lishman, mounted on his hippogriff, and the lovely
Angelica, with her beauteous boy-lover, Medoro ; of
the noble amazon, Clorinda, with her dying face irra
diated by immortal hope ; of all these poetic images
might Bellario in turn behold traces in the opened
page, while to his neophyte it merely bore elemental
figures and hieroglyphic shapes — but in which never
theless lay a hidden world of future intelligence and
beauty. To endow his tender scholar with the power

56 PORTIA;

to seek this enchanted region, to render her worthy of
its attainment, and to gift her with the right of par
ticipation in its happy possession, became Bellario's
chief delight ; and in order that he might devote as
much time as possible to his little Portia, he thence
forth had all writings and papers brought over to Bel-
mont, and contrived to conduct every case, and to
transact all business there, that did not absolutely re
quire his presence in Padua, Venice, or elsewhere.

Thus they became closer companions than ever ;
and while Bellario beheld the happy looks, and gay
smiles of the little creature, he could scarcely regret
that she had no fitter playmate than a grave bachelor-
uncle, — a learned doctor of law.

From the day when she had besought him to teach
her, Portia had learned to love her lessons as much as
she had formerly dreaded them. They were never
after that time called " nasty letters" — but were
" pretty letters, " and " dear pretty books, " and now
no longer thought of as a dreary task, but as a pleas
ant play — nearly the pleasantest play she had. Now,
she would follow the pointer with unwearied interest
as it traced the curves of the letters, and indicated
their combination and succession in the formation of
syllables and words ; sometimes she would guide her
own baby finger along the line in pointing mimicry,
sometimes she would pat with her spread hands upon
the lower part of the page, as in childish impatience,
or in sportive concealment of what was to come, and
sometimes she would lean her folded chubby arms
upon the ledge of the desk that supported the book,
and listen earnestly to the recited story, or gaxe at the
wondrous picture.

There was one picture, an especial favorite. It
was very large, and folded up into a book, that it be
longed to, in several folds. As these folds were suc
cessively and carefully undone, and spread forth (for
Portia was taught to respect books, and to handle
their leaves very gently lest they should be injured),

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 57

she loved to watch the gradual appearance of the
different portions of the curious scene, which, though
she knew so well, she was never tired of looking at.
There was a wild mountainous district towards one end
of the long picture ; and here she beheld a singular
building, that looked half like a house and half like a
ship, near which stood a venerable old man, and two
or three younger ones, with some women, who were
watching the approach of a vast train of animals, that
walked two and two, and formed a strange procession,
extending and diminishing away into the distance,
where might be seen a tumult of troubled waters, and
the dark clouds of a threatening storm.

It was 'these numberless animals that riveted the at
tention of the little picture-gazer ; and she would coax
from her indulgent teacher an endless repetition of
histories descriptive of the tawny lion, with his majes
tic roar that echoes through the forests as he stalks
along ; of the velvet-striped tiger, with his cruel eyes ;
of the stately elephant ; the swift and noble horse ;
the faithful dog ; the graceful stag ; and the nimble
squirrel. He would tell her of the humble little
mouse, whose gratitude lent it patience and persever
ance to nibble through the bonds that held captive the
king of beasts ; of the fox that used its cunning wits
to get out of the well, at the expense of the silly cred
ulous goat ; and of the wise young kid, who, in re
membering her mother's advice to keep the door fast,
saved herself from being eaten up by the treacherous
wolf. He would tell her how the eagle's strong eyes
can boldly stare into the sun, his powerful beak can
cleave the skull-bone of his prey, and his firm wing
upbear him towards the sky ; how the bee-like hum
ming-bird can creep into the cup of a flower ; and
how the winged creatures of the air, from the crested
vulture to the diminutive wren, know how to construct
their curious nests, and build them warm, snug, close,
and cleverly, of mere bits of twig, and straw, and
moss.

While these things were telling, the rides and o;i1 -<>!'-
door pastimes would be well-nigh forgotten ; but the
prudent monitor would let neither his pupil's eagerness
nor his own, detain them too long from the pure breath
of heaven, or the due exchange of mental exertion for
physical exercise ; and so the books were laid aside,
and out the two would sally, through the window that
opened on to the terrace, and down the steps (Portia
clinging to her cousin's hand, as she tottered from one
marble stair to the other, bringing each foot safely
down at a time), till they reached the shady avenue,
the scene of most of their open-air sports.

But though the child and the bachelor-lawyer sufficed
thus for each other's happy companionship, there were
times when Bellario thought it might have been better,
could his little Portia have had the society of other
children. As it was, she was too much the object of
exclusive attention to people all older than herself, and
this tended to foster the idea that she was a personage
of vast importance, which, her position in life, as well
as the remarks of injudicious dependents, Avere calcu
lated to engender. He thought that, had she some
young associate, this impression might be weakened
by the equality that naturally establishes itself between
children, who know little of forms and observances,
and are apt to play together, asserting their individual
opinions and wishes, regardless of difference in rank
or station. He thought, too, that with one younger
than herself, the sense of power, almost inseparable
from her condition, might assume the form of benevo
lence and kindness ; and that in lieu of the imperious
insolence which too .often accompanies the command
of those older than the mistress herself, she might learn
to rule with bounteous consideration, and affectionate
protective care. He wished that the future lady of
Belmont should be beloved, as well as obeyed, by her
dependents.

p An opportunity offered shortly after, for carrying
out his desired experiment. Madame Ursula confided

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 59

to him a grievous trouble respecting a sister of hers,
who had some time since degraded herself, and com
mitted the honor of her family, by marrying a small
tradesman in Venice. " The miserable girl too late
found out her mistake," said the dame ; " for I can
in no other way account for her death, which happened
soon after giving birth to a little girl. As for the poor
wretch, who dared to marry her, he doubtless awoke
to a sense of his presumption, although, also, too
late ; for he is just dead, and has left his child with
out a single bagattino* to bless herself with. She
must go into service, of course ; but, she must wait
till she is grown up, for that. Though I took Bianca's
folly deeply to heart, and vowed never to forgive the
injury she had done our family, yet I hope I know my
duty better than to let her wretched offspring starve.
I thought, therefore, I would consult you, Signore
Dottore, upon the propriety of letting the child come
here and stay at Belmont, until she is old enough to
become cameriera to the Contessina Portia. I will
promise that the miserable little creature shall be kept
strictly within the precincts of the housekeeper's apart
ments, and shall not be permitted to intrude upon the
presence of either yourself or the Contessina."

" Let her come to Belmont by all means, Madame ;"
answered Bellario ; " and pray do not restrict the
children from playing together as much as they please.
Your little darling will make a charming companion
for mine, I doubt not."

' ' My ' little darling, ' Signor ! She is none of
mine ! Nerissa is none of my child !" exclaimed
Madame Ursula with a chaste shiver ; " but as my
sister's child, I thank you for the permission that she
may come here."

The faithful Balthazar was dispatched' to Venice to
fetch the little Nerissa to her future home ; and Bel
lario told Portia of the new playfellow who was coming

* A small copper coin, formerly current in Venice.

60 PORTIA;

to be with her at Belrnont. She answered that she
wanted no one to play witli her but her own cugino ;
nevertheless, he could perceive that as the time drew
near for the expected arrival, Portia's eyes were often
directed towards the door of the saloon, where they
were dining ; Madame, as usual, presiding at the head
of the table.

At length they heard a horse's feet coming up the
avenue, and Portia slid down from her chair, to peep
out of the window at the new-comer. Presently, they
heard a child's voice, and then a peal of joyous laugh
ter ; the door opened, and Balthazar, who had used
his best exertions to entertain his young fellow-traveller
during their journey, brought the child in, in his arms,
while she was still shouting with merriment at some
droll story he had been telling her.

This indecorous entry scandalized Madame, and she
frowned appallingly.

The little Nerissa, placed suddenly upon her feet in
the midst of strangers, stood transfixed, gazing at
them ; and as she scanned these new faces, the smiles
faded from her lips, which she began to pull poutingly
with one finger, eyeing the group askance.

" Take your fingers out of your mouth, do, child ;
and come here," said Madame Ursula.

It seemed that the uninviting tone had more force
than the words, for the child said shortly : — ' ' No. ' '

" Come here when I bid you ; come to me ;" re
peated Madame with a still more forbidding look and
tone than before.

" No ;" again replied the little one. Then, turn
ing to Balthazar, and clutching his skirts, she added :
— " I'll come to you ; take me on the horse again."

Bellario had purposely said nothing, that he might
see what Portia would do of her own accord. She
now took a cake and some sweetmeats off the dinner-
table and went towards the little stranger, holding
them out to her, and said : — ' ' Won't you have some ?' '

Nerissa looked at Portia for a moment, then tcok

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 61

one of the offered sweets, and next held out her rosy
mouth, as she had been taught to do, that she might
kiss her thanks ; but she still maintained her grasp of
Balthazar's skirt.

Portia went back to the table for a nectarine, and
returning again, stuffed that also into the child's hand,
then holding out her own, she said : — " Won't you
come with me to cugino ?"

The little hand dropped its hold of the attendant's
coat, and was given confidingly to this new friend,
who led her in a sort of triumph to Bellario.

The acquaintance thus begun, went on prosper
ously. Nerissa looked up to Portia as her abettor and
protectress in all her encounters with her awful aunt ;
while the encouragement and patronage which the
little lady of Belmont accorded to her new playmate,
was accompanied by a gentle feeling of care and
tenderness for one younger and more helpless than
herself.

It is true that there was but a year's difference be
tween them ; but at their age a few months make a
prodigious disparity ; besides, the little lady had not
only constantly associated with her grave cousin, but
was of a naturally intelligent reflective mind, whereas
the humble damsel was one of the most thoughtless,
gay, giggling, sportive, merry little rogues in the
whole world.

This temperament of Nerissa 's caused Bellario to
rejoice more than ever at the fortunate chance which
had brought the two children together ; for he felt
that it acted as an antidote to the too grave society
in which his beloved Portia would otherwise have ex
clusively passed her youth. Now, he had the delight
of hearing the two merry voices constantly echoing
through the halls and woods of Belmont in sportive
gladness ; and the laugh of Nerissa herself could
scarcely ring more clearly and happily than that of his
gifted but cheerful-hearted Portia. In playing together,
the two children seemed animated by one spirit ;

62 PORTIA;

equally buoyant, active, mirthful, nay wild in their
gayety of heart while sporting about ; but in one point
they differed materially. Nerissa was the veriest lit
tle dunce that ever was ; neither frowns and threats
from dame Ursula, nor coaxings and rallyings, and
pettings and teasings from Portia, could induce the
little damsel ever to look into a volume ; whilst, on the
contrary, Portia's chief delight continued to be the
hours she spent with Bellario and his books. She
was gay with Nerissa, but she was happy with him.

It was perhaps fortunate for Portia that her young
companion was thus indifferent to study ; it made the
hours spent with her, the more completely a relaxation,
and by forming a wholesome contrast, invigorated and
refreshed her mind for new culture. With the giddy
little madcap Nerissa, the freedom and elation of spirit
which characterized Portia, no less than her mental
endowments and superiority of intellect, found full
scope ; and childhood sped merrily away.

Even the austere supervision of Madame Ursula
was withdrawn ; for not many months after Nerissa 's
introduction to Belmont, the housekeeper died. The
stern dame was stricken into the eternal rigidity of
death ; and the waiting-woman Lisetta was heard to
observe in her hard way, that " the old lady looked
scarcely more stiff, as a corpse, than she had done
when alive."

As years went on, Bellario's hope of beholding his
friend, grew fainter and fainter ; and yet, in propor
tion as his hope waned, his desire increased. Besides
the yearning wish to look upon his face, he longed for
Guide's return with strengthening intensity, as he be
held the still-improving graces of the daughter so rashly
quitted. lie longed to show him the worth of the
treasure he had relinquished ; to unfold to him the
sources of consolation he had abandoned, in the person
of this dear being, so worthy a representative of the
sainted angel they had lost. As he dwelt with rapture
on the beautiful form and face of his darling, ;md

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 63

watched the expanding of her noble nature and capa
cious mind, he pined to share so dear a privilege with
the friend of his heart — the being in the world best
fitted to receive and enjoy delight from such a source.
Still Guido returned not ; and Bellario was fain to be
guile himself with the fancy that he cherished even a
remote hope of the reward he had once proposed to
himself for his devotion to his friend's child. Had he
allowed himself honestly to question his reason, he
would have found how little faith he had left, that the
delight of ever placing Portia in a father's arms was
yet in store for him ; but he continued his zealous cul
ture of her moral and mental excellences, as if to
strengthen the delusion he hugged the closer for its
very instability.

Relieved, by the companionship of Nerissa, from any
dread that Portia might become too exclusively ab
sorbed in serious strains of thought, he could now
freely permit her to indulge their mutual and increasing
taste for study together ; and he would often laugh
ingly tell her, that though she had no regular school
ing, no masters, no accomplishments, no womanly
teaching, — no set education in short, yet that he should
in time make her an excellent scholar, and a most
capital lawyer.

Bellario was an enthusiast in his profession ; and
Portia loved to hear him dwell at length upon its at
tributes, its privileges, its powers, and its value. He
would descant upon his favorite theme ; and she, well
pleased to listen, would often introduce the subject,
and urge and induce him to continue its disquisition.

Then would he tell her of the divine origin of Law ;
and dilate upon its universal existence and influence.
"It is an emulation of God's own wisdom," he
would say, " who appointed laws unto himself as
Creator of the universe. The system of planets, the
courses of stars, the processes of vegetation and repro
duction are all so many applications of force and
power, and ordained forms and measures of carrying

64 PORTIA;

out His will — and are His manifest laws. The obe
dience of these Natural agents to the laws of the
Creator, set a sublime lesson to us voluntary agents, that
we may meekly conform to those Human Laws which
have been the inspiration of His Wisdom, and are the
instruments of His Will upon earth. Law acts as a
perpetual memorial to man ; Divine and Natural laws
remind him of his duty to God ; Moral laws of his
duty to himself ; and Human laws of his duty to his
fellow-creatures. See," he continued, " how the
heathens themselves exalted Law — naming her Themis,
and deriving her from both heaven and earth, by mak
ing her the daughter of Coelus and Terra ; one of their
historians declaring her to be ' queen of gods and
men.' Law unites mankind in a universal bond of
fellowship, gathering the human brotherhood beneath
its wings ; teaching them the wisdom of mutual re
gard and support, instead of leaving them to wander
in primeval and savage individuality of interest — each
man's hand against his brother. Men, by agreeing to
conform to appointed laws, yield individual judgment
to the matured wisdom of the many ; and by consent
ing to abide by such decrees, show that they prefer
the common good to a private indulgence — general
order to single satisfaction. ' '

" By taking the law in our own hands, we but per
petuate evil in the world ; dealing a private revenge,
instead of awarding a publicly sanctioned punishment.
Constituted law revenges not ; it chastises. Law,
after its first universal love for the good of the human
race, abjures passion ; and rewards or punishes, know
ing neither love nor hate. Law shows tenderness, only
in the protection it affords to the weak against the
strong ; when it substitutes justice for the right of
might."

" Law ascertains men's dues by no capricious stand
ard ; it acts from virtuous principle, not from im
pulse. It promotes social order, and diffuses harmo
nious concord. Men who will not act equitably and

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 65

in accordance with duty at a friend's suggestion, will
often submit to the same intimation from the Law,
which they know to be indifferent, impartial, and no
wise personal in its dictates ; and inasmuch as Reason
is insufficient to bind some men, Law was instituted
to constrain and enforce universal obedience. Would
men but live honestly, hurt nobody, and render to
every one his due, the necessity of Law would cease,
for in those three precepts are contained the essence
of what Law exacts. Law but seeks to establish
man's true and substantial happiness. It sets forth
man's duties, and the penalties of transgressing them,
for his timely instruction and warning. Laws are the
result of public approbation and consent ; the act of
the whole body politic, and not the edict of one des
potic mind. Law is one of the monuments of man's
accumulated wisdom ; like a vast intellectual temple,
its range of columns stretch through successive ages,
ever receiving renewal and addition, without destruction
to the harmony of the universal edifice."

At another time he would tell her that Human Law,
like all mortal systems, was subject to error, both in
its ordinance and dispensation. ' ' But law, ' ' said
Bellario, u should ever err rather on the side of
leniency and mildness, than severity. Where laws
are enacted of too stringent a nature, and where the
penalties inflicted are too rigorous in proportion with
the transgression they retaliate, an evasion of the due
action of the law frequently ensues, and thus tho ends
of justice are frustrated, by an escape of punishment
altogether. The object of correction is reform ; and
the penalty enforced should be so appropriate to the
crime committed, as to excite universal acquiescence
in its award. In passing sentence clemency should
ever take the precedence ; for better that many guilty
should escape, than one innocent suffer. A culprit
may be reclaimed ; but what too-tardy justice, how
ever ample, may redress an undeserved condemnation ?
Mercy in all her aspects is the fairest sister of Justice.

66 PORTIA;

She bestows on the crown its dearest prerogative — a
privilege akin to that of Heaven itself — when she re
serves to the king the power of reversing doom, and
granting ultimate pardon. ' '

' ' The practice of Law, ' ' he would say, ' ' induces
magnanimity. It teaches us tolerance towards the in
firmities of our fellow-beings ; seeing how the best na
tures may be warped by unkindness, ingratitude, or
injury. It engenders compassion for human frailty ;
forbearance on account of man's prejudices, mistakes,
and ignorance ; pity for his imperfections, and desire
for his enlightenment. It inculcates benevolence,
patience, consideration. It bids us grieve over the
evil we discover, and wonder at the good we find
hidden beneath rage, neglect, and destitution. It
helps us to mature and chasten our judgment. It in
structs us to command our temper, and guard against
the heat of feeling, to moderate suspicion, and to avoid
misconstruction. It reminds us that to be just we
must be calm, and that the faculties should be held
clear, collected, and alert. We should be ready to
consider not only facts, but the times and circum
stances of facts. We should cultivate a retentive
memory, a patient and attentive habit of listening,
acuteness of penetration in observing, and an appre
ciation of physiognomy, expression, and character.
We should aim at general acquisition, as well as at
peculiar study ; and endeavor to enlarge the mind upon
various subjects, rather than narrow it by a too exclu
sive store of mere cases and precedents, so as to be
enabled to decide in matters that befall otherwise than
consistently with recorded experience, and so as not to
be taken wholly by surprise when a totally new and
original set of circumstances arise and invest a case.
Accomplishment in oratory as well as soundness of
judgment is essentially valuable, that you may not
only carry conviction by the train of your reasoning,
and the strength of your arguments, but that you may
secure the attention, and win the favor of the more

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 67

superficial among your auditors, so as at once to pre
possess them in favor of your cause."

" Might not we women make good advocates, then,
cugino mio ?" Portia would playfully ask ; " you
know we are apt to speak eloquently when our hearts
are in a cause, and when we desire to win favor in its
decision."

" It is because your hearts generally take too active
a part in any cause you desire to win, that your sex
would make but poor lawyers, carina. Besides,
women, though shrewd and quick judging, are apt to
jump too rapidly at conclusions, and mar the power
of their understanding by its too vivacious action.
They are liable to decide upon delusive inferences, and
to arrive at false convictions. In the exercise of their
discernment, they will frequently triumph too early
in the discovery of an advantage ; and it is the part
of a clever lawyer not to betray his own strength and
his adversary's weakness too soon. To skilfully treas
ure up each point successively gained, and by a tardy
unmasking of your own plan of action, to lead your
opponent on to other and more sure committals of him
self, is more consonant with the operation of a man's
mind, than suited to the eager, impulsive nature of
woman. Her wit is more keen, than her understand
ing is sedate. ' '

" Well, one day or other you may be brought to
acknowledge that I could make a profound lawyer,"
. replied the smiling Portia ; " am I not your disciple ?
and must not the pupil of the learned Doctor Bellario
needs become so if she choose ?"

" My Portia will become quite as proficient as I
could wish her, if she know enough of law to manage
worthily and justly her own estate by and by," an
swered he ; " and it is with the thought that she will
hereafter be called upon as lady of Belmont, to rule
her tenantry, to adjust their rights, to settle their
differences, to decide their claims, and to secure their
welfare, that I allow her to cross-question me upon the

68 PORTIA;

mysteries of law as she Las done. And so now, that
I may not make an absolute pedant of you, a juris
consult in petticoats, a lawyer in a girl's white dress
instead of a sober silk gown, go call Nerissa to have a
game of ball with you in the avenue, till I come and
join you, that we may take a long walk together. ' '

And still time crept on ; and the young girl grew
almost into the beautiful woman. Her slight childish
figure had rounded into graceful proportions ; her de
portment had assumed more high-bred ease and pol
ish ; her countenance shone with brighter intelli
gence ; and her voice and manner, without losing
their native sweetness, had acquired a tone of com
mand and dignity well suited to the lady of Belmont.
But the profusion of golden locks which waved upon
her shoulders, and the unclouded spirits that bounded
in her elastic step, and sparkled in her lips and eyes,
bespoke her youth, and her happy innocent nature.
She looked still the child, in some things.

It was the morning on which she completed her
seventeenth year. She entered the library where Bel-
lario sat, and as she stepped forward to present him
with a rare old volume of poetry and a heap of blush
ing dew-covered flowers which she had just gathered
as a birthday token, she looked so radiant with hap
piness and beauty, that he involuntarily gazed at her
as he would have done at a beautiful vision — an im
personation of childhood on the verge of womanhood.
Her fair hair, partly disordered by the eagerness with
which she had collected her flowers regardless of
thorns, spray, drooping leaves, or sweeping branches ;
her cheeks glowing with morning air and exercise ;
her April eyes, bright with mingled smiles and tears,
as she greeted him who had been father and brother
both in one to her infancy and girlhood ; her tender
looks, her gentle sweetness, her loving manner, half
lavish, half timid, while contending with all the strong
emotion that filled her heart towards him, as she knelt
upon the cushion at his feet, and laid her head caress-

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 69

ingly upon his knee, all made him fancy her a little
fondling child again. But when, some minutes after,
she stood at his side, discussing with enthusiasm the
beauties of the poet whose richly-emblazoned volume
she held in her hand ; when her eyes beamed with
intelligence, her figure dilated with the energy of her
appreciation of lofty sentiment and daring imagina
tion, her tone thrilled with admiration and awe, and
her whole appearance was instinct with elevation and
sublimity of thought, Bellario felt that he gazed upon
a sentient, high-minded woman — one capable of bear
ing her part in the great drama of life, and of influ
encing the destinies of others by her intellect, her
sentiment, her actions.

In acknowledging her birthday-gift, Bellario told
Portia that he had chosen this occasion for the fulfil
ment of a desire she had expressed, that a band of
household musicians might be added to the retainers
of Belmont. He said, they had been appointed to
come from Venice on this very day, in honor of the
event, and he felt somewhat surprised that they had
not already arrived.

" But we will contrive to spend the day happily,
notwithstanding," added he ; "we will forego the
pleasure of music for one day more ; and meantime
we will order the horses and take one of our long
rambles together. You cannot remember the time,
my Portia, when one horse served well for us both,
and you needed no other seat than my saddle-bow ?"

" It seems as though that, and all other particulars
of the season when your arms were my only support,
even from the very moment when I first was placed a
mere infant within them, lived in my memory, as truly
as it does in my heart's core," replied she.

They rode that day, far and wide through the do
mains of Belmont. They visited the waterfall, deep
in the recesses of the wood, and as they guided their
horses down the steep path of the briery dell, and
listened to the soft rustling of the leaves, the warbled

70 PORTIA;

song of birds, the hum of insects, and the murmur of
the cascade, Bellario's voice would subduedly chime in
with those sounds of Nature, telling her of the growth
of her parents' love, of their noble qualities, of their
worthiness of each other, and of the happy pride with
which he himself had shared in the friendship which
united the three.

They lingered beneath the group of ruins, which
had once formed the object of a memorable walk, and
Bellario told her of the unselfish fortitude with which
her mother had sought to conceal her fatigue, of her
generous impetuous father, of the feelings which he
had since detected were lingering in the hearts of each,
and of his own complete blindness to the lovers' in
creasing passion for each other.

" I have often wondered since, how I could have
failed to note what was passing beneath my very eyes,
so closely concerning two beings whom I loved so
well," said Bellario ; " and two beings, also, who
were singularly transparent and unreserved. My sis
ter's nature was pure, ingenuous, and simple, and her
every thought seemed unveiled, as you looked into her
clear eyes ; your father's ardent sensibility glowed in
every expression of his look and voice, and perfect
candor dwelt upon his brow. Every emotion of that
noble heart seemed written in his countenance ; and
never had generous impulses fairer and truer transcript
than in the manly beauty of my friend's face."

' ' I feel as if I should know that face, meet it how
or where I might," said Portia, in a low voice.

' ' God grant that we may one day behold it, ' ' re
plied Bellario ; " but it must needs be strangely
changed. Suffering, grief, wanderings, years of ab
sence ; — perhaps even I might not now know my
Guido."

That evening, while the two cousins were pacing
the moonlit avenue together, Nerissa's blithe voice
was heard from the terrace, announcing the arrival of
the expected musicians.

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 71

" Come in, madam," cried she in high glee,
" come in quickly, for the love of laughter ! If these
same players have as ill-favored fingers as features, if
their instruments yield a sound as coarse as their suits,
if they have no better sets of tunes than teeth, or no
tones less sharp than their noses, we are like to have
but sorry music. But come and see them, and tell
me if you have ever seen a more wry-necked, ill-
dressed, ugly set of grotesque figures than your lady
ship's musicians elect. There is one fellow's crooked
nose, puckered eyes, puffed cheeks, and pinched lips,
that make him look for all the world like a head on
the rainspout of a church."

The girl hurried back, as she spoke ; and Bellario
leading Portia to the terrace-steps, kissed her hand,
and told her he would join her in a few moments to
try whether they might not forget the plain persons
of the musicians in the music they played. Mean
while, he paced the avenue, full of a thought which
had that day pressed heavily upon him. His first
perception that now his charge was no longer a child,
his conviction that she had actually grown into a lovely
woman, was accompanied with the thought that he had
no right to detain her in solitude, apart from that
world where she might shine, imparting and receiving
a more extended happiness. He felt that he ought
not to confine her sphere of existence to so limited a
range as that which had hitherto formed the bounda
ries of Portia's experience. He knew that the heiress
of Belmont should now be introduced into a wider
circle than she had hitherto known, that she might
form her judgment of mankind itself, while she ma
tured and enlarged the store of knowledge she had
hitherto reaped from books alone.

" Were her father but here to aid me with his
counsel," thought he. " Who so qualified to decide
a daughter's conduct ? Who so proper to lead her
among her fit associates ? Who so meet to assist her in
their selection, and to guide her in a still more im-

72 PORTIA;

portant choice ? For she will marry — she ought —
she must ; — so fair, so gifted a creature will one day
bless and be blest by a man worthy of her. But how
to discover him ?"

In a deep reverie, Bellario threw himself upon a
low grassy bank that swelled from the turf of the ave
nue. The bank itself was in the full light of the
moon ; but it was near to the trees, which cast a deep
shadow within a few yards of where he sat.

As the thought of his beloved friend again vibrated
through his heart with a passionate yearning, he almost
articulated the name of Guido in the deep sigh he
breathed.

A sigh still more profound responded to his own.
lie started up in surprise, that any one should be so
near ; when a figure emerged from the dark shadow
of the trees, and stood mutely before him. Bellario
gazed strangely upon the countenance he beheld ; for
in no lineament of that pale, haggard face, — neither in
the flattened temple, the sunken cheek, the contracted
mouth, or in the dull and wistful eyes, could he trace
any memorial of the youthful image that dwelt in his
heart's remembrance.

But when the stranger staggered forward, and put
ting one hand upon his shoulder, muttered huskily
" Bellario !" the voice revealed all ; and with the
rapturous conviction that it was Guido indeed re
turned, he strained his long-lost friend in his arms,
and felt the terrible thirst of years appeased.

A few hasty words sufficed to tell the story of his
absence ; for Guido cared not to dwell upon the cir
cumstances of that dark period of exile and anguish.
In the transports of his despair, he had fled from the
scenes of his buried happiness, and wandering away
to the coast, had embarked and set sail for the East,
where, amid rocky deserts and sandy plains, he had
dragged on a weary existence, in ascetic solitude, un
able to endure the sight of his fellow-men. In latter
years the first torture of his grief had yielded to a

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 73

craving desire to behold the child, whom he still could
not help regarding in the light of one who had been
the destruction of his earthly happiness — of one whose
birth had caused the death of her whom he loved bet
ter than life. And still his anxiety to look upon this
innocent murderer grew stronger and stronger ; and
at length it arose to a strange fascination, and had
determined him to endure all, — to brave the torment
of revived sorrows, that he might satisfy this burning
wish.

" I long, yet dread to see this child," he con
cluded, with a wild sadness in his manner, which had
something almost fierce in its eagerness ; " show it to
me, give it me, Bellario ! I will not injure it, I
will not harm a hair of its young head ! Though it
killed her, yet it is her child ! Where is it, Bellario ?"

' ' She left me but now, ' ' replied Bellario calmly,
trying to soothe his friend's perturbation ; ' ' you think
of her as a child, forgetful that seventeen years have
elapsed. She is now a beautiful woman ; she quitted
me but a few moments before I beheld you."

" That fair creature whom you led to the terrace,

then, was • Gracious heaven ! I have seen her !

My child ! I fancied that fair being by your side was
your own, your wife ! A second such delusion !
And are you indeed destined to bestow upon me an
other Portia ?"

A strain of music arose at this moment. Solemn,
sweet, and exquisitely tender was the melody that came
wafted towards them upon the night air ; it seemed
vouchsafed, consolingly ministrant to the wounded spirit
of Guido, that his long-pent heart might find relief in
the tears which flowed responsive to these appealing
sounds.

Bellario hailed the benign influence ; but suddenly
he laid his hand upon his friend's arm, and pointing
towards the terrace, he whispered ; — " She comes ;
control your own agitation, my friend, that you may
spare hers. ' '

74 PORTIA;

Guido gazed in the direction indicated ; he beheld
one of the windows that opened on to the ground, thrown
hack, and a flood of light from the saloon, together
with a swelling burst of the harmony, accompanied
forth a radiant figure that stepped out upon the terrace,
and took its way towards them. The white raiment,
the floating golden hair, the graceful mien, the spirit
ual look, as she approached bathed in the full glory of
the moonbeams, made her seem a seraph sent by pity
ing Heaven, and Guido stretched forth his arms, as
towards a celestial harbinger of happiness.

As she reached the spot where they stood, Bellario
took her hand, and said in his calm impressive voice :
— " Remember your words of this morning, my Portia.
Does your heart tell you whose is the face you look
upon ?"

" My father !" she exclaimed ; and the parent and
child savored the ineffable transport of a first embrace.

Guido thus restored to them, the happiness of Portia
and Bellario seemed now complete ; while the Count,
in discovering the fruitful source of comfort and joy
existing for him in the person of his child, wondered
how he could have voluntarily remained dead to its
enjoyment during that long and dreary period of self-
imposed banishment. Thus blindly does mortal judg
ment err in its choice of what may constitute its own
felicity ; casting forth its trust in Providential care,
forsaking appointed consolation, and dully embracing
woe for its portion. But now, his eagerness to duly
estimate the treasure he possessed, partook of all the
characteristic ardor of his nature. His love for this
new-found daughter amounted to idolatry ; and in the
passionate desire he felt to retain her ever in his sight,
it seemed as though he sought to indemnify himself
for the years of separation already suffered to elapse.
In his craving wish to behold her unceasingly, to enjoy
her presence exclusively, he would fain have engrossed
her thoughts as she absorbed his, and he almost jeal
ously beheld her eyes, her words, her attention directed

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 75

to any other object but himself. There was a kind of
dread, a misgiving that he could not occupy her heart
as she did his ; and in the humiliating consciousness
that if this were the case, he could alone .blame his
own rash exile from the child whose love he might
have secured, a feverish inquietude mingled with his
present happiness, and threatened to embitter its frui
tion.

Bellario noted the struggle existing in his friend's
mind, and well knew how to deal tenderly with such a
mood of affection. He could compassionate its suffer
ings, forgive its involuntary injustice, and minister to
its relief. Accordingly he determined to quit them
for a time, that the father and daughter might be
thrown solely upon each other's resources ; and, by
being constantly and uninterruptedly together, they
might thus learn to find their mutual happiness in one
another alone.

A cause imperatively requiring his personal presence
formed sufficient pretext for his absence ; and after
confiding to his friend the anxiety he felt respecting
Portia's future introduction into more general society,
when they should have enjoyed a sufficient period of
tranquil seclusion together, Bellario left Belmont, and
retired to Padua, where he had always maintained a
modest establishment of his own, for the reception of
clients, and in transacting the business of his profes
sion ; as well as that he might indulge the old love of
independence which had ever characterized him.

Here, he had the delight of learning from Portia
the complete success of his scheme. In the frequent
correspondence she maintained with her beloved
cousin, the restored serenity of her father, the affec
tion that reigned between them, the happiness of their
present existence, which knew no abatement to the
fulness of its perfection save the want of Bellario 's
presence, formed the constant theme of her pen, and
caused him to rejoice that he had acted as he had
done. He knew, too, that this bond of mutual affec-

7 6 PORTIA;

tion, thus daily knit and strengthened, would cause
them only the more to depend upon each other, when
they should come to encounter the world, and be sur
rounded by indifferent people ; and he could now await
with security the period of Portia's presentation under
a father's auspices.

Meantime, Guide's confidence in the love existing
between his daughter and himself had also acquired
firmness. He could no longer entertain a misgiving
of the fondness that dwelt in every look, that prompted
every action, that lent sweetness to every tone, and
dictated every word, as she hovered perpetually near
him, evidently drawing as much delight from his
vicinity as he from hers. He could not doubt the in
terpretation of the joy that played in her smiles when
she saw him approach, the eagerness that impelled her
towards him, the beaming eyes that met his in soft re
sponse, or the warmth with which his paternal caresses
were welcomed, and returned by her filial ones. He
felt that his Portia was indeed fully and entirely his
own ; and his satisfied heart flowed in rapturous
thanksgiving to the Almighty, for so gracious a boon.

As his faith in her love became assured, he called to
mind what Bellario had said respecting her introduc
tion in life, and he felt that he had now courage to
risk the intrusion of other objects upon her time and
attention, secure that he himself was paramount in her
regard.

He accordingly consulted with her upon the appoint
ment of a day when he should invite all the families
with whom his own had formerly held intercourse and
intimacy, to meet at Belmont in celebration of his
return, and thus to renew those connections which had
been broken by his absence.

' ' In presenting my Portia to the noble ladies of the
houses of Manfrini and Barberigo ; to the several
families of Montenegri, Sforza, Foscari, and others of
my friends and kindred, I shall offer my best apology
for venturing to ask a renewal of what I forfeited by

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 77

my own neglect ; and they will readily accede to a
reconciliation with the father for the sake of his
daughter, that they may obtain her society."

" If my father flatter his daughter thus," said
Portia gayly, " she need fear no spoiling from flat
terers abroad. The veriest courtier of them all could
scarce find prettier speeches than Count Guido, when
he chooses to praise his Portia. ' '

" It is in order that her giddy head may be steadied
betimes," replied he in the same tone, " and learn to
bear all the flood of nonsense that will be poured into
her ears by and by, without being turned ever after. ' '

' ' And so, to prevent me from wearing my head like
a weathercock or a mill-wheel by and by, you'll risk
stuffing it with vanity now. This is willing me to be
presently vain, lest I become a vane ; and leads me
into the sin of vain talking. ' '

" Then leave vain talking, and hearken seriously to
a story I have to tell thee touching a member of one
of those noble families, whom I mean to be among our
guests at our approaching festival. The young Mar
quis of Montferrat is able to tell a witching tale in a
fair lady's ear, I doubt not, like one of those flatterers
we spoke of but now ; for he is a likely gallant, hand
some, brave, and courteous."

" A good beginning to your story, padre mio ;
' handsome, brave, and courteous ! ' What follows ?
Generous, accomplished, witty, perhaps ? What is
your sequel ?"

" This gentleman is the sole surviving representa
tive of the rich and noble house of Montferrat, famed
for the splendor of their taste at home, and for the re
nown of their arms abroad. The young Marquis,
some months since, happened to be indulging his
Venetian predilection for the Adriatic, by coasting
along her shores with some young friends in the pleas
ure-galley he has for such marine excursions. One
day the party had landed to enjoy the beauty of the
scenery, and had caused their noontide repast to be

78 PORTIA;

brought from the vessel by their attendants, and spread
beneath the shade of some trees that formed a group
round a spot of attractive coolness. They drooped
over a spring of fresh water, which welled and bubbled
forth like Galatea's transformed love, taking its pellucid
way in meandering streams across the plains towards
the sea, as if it sought to join its white mistress once
again and for ever. ' '

1 ' The young gallants had finished their repast, ' '
continued Guido, " and had most of them wandered
away in different directions amid the neighboring
woods in search of sport, or led by curiosity ; only
two or three attendants remained near the spot to col
lect the plate and various utensils before returning to
the ship. But the fulfilment of this duty was post
poned, and the men were indulging in a game of
Mora, carried on somewhat apart, and in as subdued
a key as the excitement of play would permit (gradually
arising from sotto voce to eager crescendo and sfor-
zando), under pretence of being unwilling to disturb
their young master with the clatter of the glass and sil
ver during his slumber ; for the Marquis had fallen
back upon the soft grass, and had yielded to the sooth
ing influence of the scene and the combined geniality
of the late feast, in a siesta. ' '

" At this moment, three or four brigands, belong
ing to a band that infested this quarter, and had their
lurking-place in the adjoining woods, rushed forwards
in hope of making an easy spoil of the gold and silver
plate which lay spread around, and had doubtless lured
them to the spot. The scared domestics fled ; and
the ruffians were about to make sure of the sleeping
nobleman, by stabbing him at once, when a travel-
worn stranger suddenly came up, and by opposing the
cowardly attack, roused the Marquis, who was thus
enabled to draw his sword, and assist the traveller in
their joint defence. "

" The noise of the affray soon recalled the dis
persed company ; and as the gentlemen of the party

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 79

successively hurried to the spot to the rescue of their
friend, the brigands fled before this reinforcement. ' '

" The Marquis and his company now surrounded
the traveller, and offered him their thanks for his
timely succour, with an earnestness more the result of
their own courtesy, than due to the service rendered,
which was no more than an act of common Christian
charity."

" You tell me who was the traveller, in thus un
derrating the gallantry of his behaviour, padre mio, ' '
interrupted Portia ; " nobody but Guido di Belmonte
himself, would thus talk of the act that saved a man's
life."

" The Marquis more than requited the service, in
his profuse acknowledgments, his generous treatment
of a stranger, and the kindness and zeal with which
he sought to promote his wishes when he found that
the traveller was eager to proceed on his journey,
which had been delayed by an adverse accident that
had compelled him to land, a day or two before, from
the vessel, in which he had been sailing from the East,
and which was bound to Venice. He entreated him
to use his galley, to direct its course whithersoever he
might desire ; and said that he and his company
would proudly escort him to his destination. They
accordingly set sail for Venice immediately, entertain
ing him as an honored guest during their course
thither ; and when they discovered that a profound
sorrow which possessed him wholly prevented the
stranger from participating in their revelry, these
gentlemen discreetly forbore to intrude upon his grief,
leaving him to indulge his solitude undisturbed and
respected. ' '

' ' When, however, the galley made the port of Ven
ice, and the stranger and his entertainers were about
to take leave, the Marquis begged to know the name
of the man to whom he felt himself obliged ; and he,
in his turn, feeling that a mere cold adieu was but poor
requital for the courtesy and kindness he had received

8o PORTIA;

at the hands of the generous young nobleman, confided
to him the sorrowful story of his life, and told him
that should he ever know a period of restored tran-
- quillity and peace of mind, he would entreat him to
come and see if Casa Belmonte could yield as pleasant
entertainment and welcome, as he had met with on
board the galley ' Aglaia. ' With this compact we
parted ; and now that I have indeed found greater
happiness than I ever dared to hope for again, 1 mean
to invite my noble young friend hither, that he may
behold its existence and its source. So good a heart
as his, will not fail to rejoice in my joy ; so high a
taste as his for all that is rare and beauteous, must
needs be struck with the cause of that joy — my child,
my Portia. I would now, methinks, have all my
friends behold her father's treasure ; and see how
bounteous Heaven, in her, repays him for all sorrows
past."

As Guido finished speaking, his faithful servant Bal
thazar came to apprise him that his steward was
awaiting an audience in the library, with some papers
relative to the estate, which required inspection and
signature.

The Count withdrew to the library, bidding his
daughter join him there as soon as the steward should
have retired, that they might write the invitations for
the approaching festival, and despatch messengers
with them to the several families in Venice and else
where.

Portia remained bending over her work, lost in
thought, but Nerissa, who was seated at the embroid
ery-frame, assisting her lady, yet maintaining a dis
creet silence in the presence of the Count, now gave
free course to her usual liveliness of speech. The cir
cumstances of their early companionship, the unre
strained intercourse of the South between mistress and
attendant, the gay pleasant nature of Nerissa herself, as
well as the happy spirits of Portia, all tended to pre
serve their freedom and ease of intimacy little less than

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 8 1

that which had subsisted between the two, when chil
dren together.

" What think you, madam, of your father's story ?"

" That it shows him, as I have known him ever,
through my cousin Bellario's knowledge ;" answered
Portia. " The facts of the tale showed him to be,
what his modesty in the telling would fain have hid
den — ardent, brave, and generous. ' '

' ' Ay, that is what he would fain have had you be
lieve the Marquis to be," said Nerissa. "And yet
from the story I could find no such thing. The gal
lant was asleep when he should have been awake,
which tells not much for his ardor ; he drew his
sword, indeed, but we heard not that he used it — or
if he did, it was to save his own life when it was hard
beset, which is no great argument of his bravery —
surely, any common sworder would do as much ; then
as for his courtesy and generosity, a galley that fol
lows no course but pleasure, has no appointed haven
but amusement, its master makes no wonderful sacri
fice in letting its sailing-orders be at another man's
bidding ; and though my lord the Count talked of the
Marquis and his friend's discretion in respecting his
grief by leaving him in solitude, it seems they had no
thought of moderating their own gayety and revelry. ' '

' ' The hero of the story seems to have won no favor
of you, Nerissa," said her mistress.

" None, lady ; and yet I fancy your father intended
that his hero should seem one in your eyes, whatever
he might in mine. But we shall see what he is
like, when the festival brings the Marquis of Montfer-
rat, with the rest, to Belmont. ' '

And now the thought of this approaching festival
engaged every member of the household, that due
splendor and effect might preside in all its arrange
ments to do honor to two such interesting occasions,
as the return of Count Guido to his patrimony of Bel
mont, and the presentation of his beautiful daughter
to the ancient friends of the family. Bellario was

82 PORTIA;

entreated to be present, that they might have the de
light of seeing him lend weight and honor to the re
ception of the guests, by the illustrious and learned
reputation of his name.

It may well be believed that this tender friend himself
eagerly seized this occasion of beholding his Portia's
first entrance upon the arena of life ; of marking how
she should put into practice those maxims he had in
stilled, how remember those precepts he had incul
cated, how act upon those principles he had implanted.
He longed to see how her native dignity would sup
port her through such a trial to her modesty as the
first introduction to so large an assemblage of dis
tinguished persons would needs be ; he longed to see
her courtesy have wide field, her wit free play, her
beauty extended admiration, her graces universal ac
knowledgment.

His love was no less ardent than her father's ; for
while Guide's was a sort of rapturous fondness towards
this child of affection, Bellario's partook of esteem
and regard for those intrinsic qualities which he knew
her to possess, and which he had watched and cherished
from their earliest germ to their fullest development.
It was with almost equal pride and delight therefore,
that these two loving guardians beheld the object of
their tenderest thoughts fulfil all that even they could
have anticipated of excellence in her own person and
demeanor, while she won universal homage from those
around. The ladies commended her modest dignity
and self-possession, expressing their hope that it would
not be long ere they drew amongst them so bright an
ornament as she would prove to their Venetian circle ;
the noblemen, one and all congratulated the happy
father of so fair and accomplished a maiden ; and the
young gallants vied with each other in adulation, com
pliments, attentions, and endeavors to attract her re
gard.

Among these latter, the foremost was the Marquis
of Montferrat. He at once placed himself among the

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 83

rank of her avowed admirers ; and from the marked
courtesy and warmth of the reception with which her
father had welcomed him, he seemed to have already
gained a priority of claim and advantage above his
fellows. Of this superiority he seemed fully conscious,
from the air of triumph and assured success that
sparkled in his eyes when he addressed her, and which
pervaded his manner towards them. It shone insinu
atingly and languishingly in his looks to her ;, it
flashed haughtily and defyingly upon them.

Nerissa, who leaned upon the back of her lady's
seat (which was in one of the alcoves in the grounds,
and formed a sort of sylvan throne for her to receive
her train of admirers, anxious to tender their homage
to her charms, and pay their court to her good graces),
found early occasion to whisper : — " Your father's
report of the handsome looks of the hero of his story,
is as false as his estimation of his other qualities.
The Marquis is scarce better looking than your lady
ship's musicians ; who, like their brethren, the sing
ing-birds, have the plainer the exterior, the better
their song. ' '

" Nay," returned Portia in the same tone, " the
prejudice you took, even ere you saw the Marquis,
lets you render him but scant justice. He is hand
some, but he knows it too well. His vanity mars his
straight nose, his arrogance blurs his smooth com
plexion, his conceit puts out his eyes, and I can hardly
see his good looks for his assurance. ' '

" There is one among the company, who surpasses
him in good looks a hundredfold, to my thinking,"
said Nerissa ; u the young cavalier in the murrey
doublet, yonder, who is listening to something that
the Marquis is telling. Do you see him whom I mean,
Madam ? Such eyes as those are worthy a lady's
look, and the mouth seems as if it could say something
worth her hearing ; which I'm sure is more than can
be said for my lord Marquis's eyes and mouth."

Portia answered not, but Nerissa could see that her

84 PORTIA;

mistress had distinguished the gentleman, for she was
looking steadily upon his face, which was slightly
averted, and presented only its profile to her gaze.

Nerissa tripped away from her lady, to try and learn
who he was ; and soon heard that he was the Lord
Bassanio, one of the friends and associates of the
Marquis of Montf errat.

' ' They are two foolish young men, ' ' continued her
informant, who was a gray -headed old gentleman, one
of the guests ; ' ' they try who can spend their money
fastest and least wisely. Even the princely fortune
which the Marquis inherited from his worthy father,
is speedily dwindling ; and as for the young Lord
Bassanio, it is whispered that he must shortly be
ruined by such a perpetual round of extravagance as
he indulges in, to please this friend of his, whom he
emulates in all his follies though not in his vices.
Bassanio bears an unblemished reputation for honor
and integrity, while the Marquis "

The old gentleman paused, and Nerissa could ex
tract no further information from him, respecting the
objects of her curiosity. But this was now thoroughly
roused ; and she determined to spare no pains to sat
isfy it entirely. The more she saw of the Marquis of
Montferrat, the more did she find the prejudice she
had originally conceived against him, strengthen and
increase ; and the more she saw of the Count di Bel-
monte's conduct towards this young nobleman, the
more did she feel confirmed iir the surmise she had at
first formed, that he intended him to win his way to
the good graces of Portia, and to become eventually
his son-in-law. She resolved to communicate her sus
picions to Doctor Bellario, that his wiser counsel
might decide.

She found that his observation had led him to much
the same conclusions with her own ; but, merely com
mending her vigilance and prudence, and cautioning
her against speaking farther on the matter to any one
beside himself, he bade her rely upon him for the nee-

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 85

essary inquiries, and for an ultimate satisfactory ter
mination.

Before he quitted Belmont, Bellario took occasion
to speak to his friend upon the subject of this new
acquaintance, the Marquis of Montferrat.

Guido, with his usual warmth of manner, dwelt upon
the many excellencies that distinguished this young
gentleman ; repeated the origin of their acquaintance
in testimony of the bravery and generosity of his char
acter ; and said that all he had since seen of him con
firmed his admiration of his personal qualities.

' ' Be quite sure, my dear friend, that these personal
qualities are not the only ones that distinguish him ;"
replied Bellario ; " ascertain that his handsome face
and figure be not his only graces ; and that the extent
of his worth exists not solely in your generosity of im
agination — which has faith for every excellence in
others."

' ' And are not you lawyers apt to be too skeptical
in the existence of human goodness ?" asked Guido,
smiling. ' ' Do you not too often imagine every
stranger an enemy till you know him ?"

" On the contrary, we would have every man be
lieved innocent, till he prove guilty ;" replied Bellario
in the same manner. ' ' But, ' ' resumed he in his
original graver tone, " for Portia's sake, be quite sure
he is worthy her regard, before you introduce him too
frequently or too encouragingly to her notice. ' '

" He is to be here again in a few days by my invi
tation ;" replied Guido. " I asked him to spend
some time with us. He is the son of a most worthy
father, a scion of a most noble and honorable family,
and he himself is an accomplished and right gallant
gentleman. You surely do him wrong, to misdoubt
that he is all he seems ; and if he be all he seems, he
would form no unfitting match, even for our Portia."

" He must be worthy indeed, who deserves her ;"
was all Bellario's reply ; for he resolved to say no
more, till he could speak with better knowledge. He

86 PORTIA;

therefore bade his friends adieu, and took his depart
ure, determined to lose no time in obtaining accurate
information relative to the character and habits of the
Marquis of Montferrat.

Belmont had scarcely time to recover its wonted
serenity of aspect, after the departure of the bevy of
visitors who had attended the late festival, when the
young Marquis and his train returned, and by their
arrival again thronged its tranquil precincts with gay
equipages, horses, hounds, hawks, and troops of
liveried attendants.

His retinue was so numerous, and its appointments
so costly, that it showed like that of a sovereign prince,
rather than that of a private gentleman. But in this
profusion, the Count beheld only evidences of a mag
nificent taste on the part of the Marquis de Montferrat,
and an additional instance of the refinement and lux
ury which directed the expenditure of a rich young
nobleman.

On Portia, all this display seemed to produce little
effect ; any more than the nattering importunities,
compliments, and assiduous attentions with which he
personally besieged her. She received all his admir
ing speeches with either a lofty acquiescence, as if
homage were a part of her birthright ; or with a
sportive gayety, as if they were mere idle gallantry
and matter of trivial unconcern. She heard all eulogy
on her beauty with sovereign indifference, and treated
all compliments to her wit, as a challenge to exercise
its least merciful powers on the adulator himself.
Portia, ever distinguished for courtesy and true dig
nity, would have treated a less confident suitor with
no such haughtiness ; but the pertinacity and assur
ance of this Marquis left her scarcely any other alter
native. He seemed determined not to be repelled ;
while he contrived that it should appear as if the
strength of his passion alone induced him to yield such
implicit submission to the caprice he deplored.

This was the light in which his behavior appeared

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 87

to the Count ; who believed him to have conceived an
ardent and sincere love for his Portia.

Not so Nerissa ; who, in witnessing any of these in
stances of the suitor's paraded deference, would not
fail to remark, that where a man accepted with undue
passiveness the tyranny of his mistress, he not un-
frequently did so with the view of securing a slave in
his future wife.

But at length the increasing scorn with which Por
tia treated the distasteful assiduity of the Marquis,
struck her father as being beyond the gay disdain
which ladies are sometimes accustomed to affect
towards their wooers ; and he was one evening walking
in the avenue, his thoughts employed with this sub
ject, when a messenger approached at a smart gallop,
and seeing the Count, placed a letter in his hands,
and rode on.

Guido read as follows :

" Dear friend and brother,

I possess undoubted proofs that the Marquis
is a notorious and confirmed gambler, and an un
scrupulous libertine. Until I can myself bring you
these proofs, believe that this accusation is not made
lightly, or without sufficient warrant. Suffer not such
a presence longer to sully the pure atmosphere of Bel-
mont ; nor let a too late heed of my intelligence in
jure our Portia to the latest term of her life.
Your faithfully devoted

BELLARIO.

Guido remained for a moment as if stunned ; then
recovering himself, he was hastening to the house with
the thought of rescuing his child instantly from the
contamination of such a guest's presence ; when he
heard voices near which convinced him that the Mar
quis was not then with Portia. There was one de
partment of the gardens of Belmont which ran parallel
with the avenue, and which was divided from it only
by a thick hedge of myrtle. From immediately the

88 PORTIA;

other side of this hedge the voices proceeded, and the
Count at once discovered that they were those of the
Marquis and Nerissa.

" Do not detain me, my lord ;" he heard the latter
say, ' ' my lady sent me for these roses, and she will
be impatient at my delay. ' '

" Nay, fairest of waiting-maids," replied the voice
of the Marquis, whose accents betrayed that he was
flushed with wine, " do not imitate the airs of that
dignified piece of frost-work, your mistress, but listen
while I tell you how far you transcend her in beauty.
By heaven ! were she not heiress of Belmont, she
would seem but a paltry weed to you, my flower of
loveliness !"

' ' Good my lord gardener, let both the weed and the
flower alone ; they neither of them seek to be your
prize-blossoms, I'll warrant you ;" replied Nerissa,
with her usual vivacity ; but the next moment she
added in increasing alarm, " let go my hands, my
lord !"

" Not till I have gathered some of the flower's fra
grance from its blooming cup, — those rosy lips," he
cried ; ' ' not till I have said ' '

" Say what you please, my lord Marquis, but do
not hold me ; let me go !"

" Hear me say this, then ;" he suddenly stooped,
and whispered in her ear.

" Foul villain lord !" she exclaimed vehemently ;
and the next instant uttered a piercing scream.

The Count flung open a small wicket gate that led
through the myrtle hedge, and stood before them.

The Marquis quitted his grasp of Nerissa, and made
a faint attempt at some laughing excuse ; but he read
in the stern countenance of the father, that the gross
insult of his behavior was discovered.

"Return to the house, Nerissa," said the Count
after a pause, " and desire the Marquis of Montferrat's
servants to assemble their master's retinue, and pre
pare his equipage, as he intends quitting Belmont im-

THE HEIRESS OP BELMONT. 89

mediately. Your lordship will excuse this abrupt
leave-taking," added he, " when I inform you that I
have overheard your late conversation with my daugh
ter's waiting-maid, and that I have good authority for
believing that to the arts of a seducer, the Marquis of
Montferrat adds other accomplishments equally op
posed to the qualifications I require in a friend or
guest. ' '

He bowed haughtily, turning on his heel, as he con
cluded ; while the Marquis returned his bow as
haughtily, in silence, and, hastening away, in less than
half an hour had quitted Belmont for ever.

Count Guido remained in bitter reverie. ' ' So much
for my perspicacity, ' ' thought he, ' ' in judging of the
qualities of the man I chose for a friend, and whom I
might have gone on to Avish should be my son-in-law,
— my Portia's husband ! And to a mere trick of
fancy, to a poor credulity, which Bellario would fain
call generosity, and faith in goodness, because it char
acterizes me, — to this miserable blindness of mine,
might my child have been sacrificed ! It was just such
blinded judgment that led me to cast away the means
of consolation vouchsafed by Heaven, and fly from the
fresh well-spring of joy contained in my infant daugh
ter, to bury myself in arid oriental solitude. Little
has my own poor judgment bested me in my course
through life. Better to refer all things to chance,
even things of greatest moment, than decide them by
so erring, so worthless a guide, as judgment of mine.
Chance once befriended me beyond all the judgment I
ever exercised. It was chance that determined my
return, and led me to the first beholding of my love,
my sainted Portia. And shall not chance prove a bet
ter trust than judgment ?"

He lingered in such dark thoughts of bitterness and
self-reproach, until at length his daughter came to seek
him, wooing him to return with her to the house, lest
too late wandering beneath the trees in the night air
should injure his health, which had never been strong

9° PORTIA;

since the period of his absence. Long fasts, neglect,
gnawing sorrow, during his sojourn in the desert ;
with, latterly, a restless desire for return thence, had
totally undermined his constitution, rendering him
the wasted, worn, altered being, whom his friend had
failed to recognize on his return home, for the once
blooming, animated Guido di Belmonte. The reaction
of delight, in discovering his daughter to be so fertile
a source of happiness, had at first exercised a salutary
effect ; but now his slowly-engendered malady assumed
a more decided form, and his health and strength were
evidently failing.

He was perfectly aware of his own declining state ;
but his chief anxiety was to prevent it from being
perceived by his daughter ; he carefully withheld from
her his sleepless nights, his unequal pulse, and the
constant fever that consumed him. He made cease
less pretexts to veil his loss of appetite, his varying
spirits, his parching thirst, from her observation ; and
when he noted her affectionate eye dwelling upon the
wan and wasted cheek, when he felt her fresh palm
linger inquiringly upon his thin burning hand, or with
fond solicitude her look would minutely question the
tokens she dared not believe she saw of illness and
decay, he would rouse himself to evade her suspicions,
to dissipate her fears.

In order the more effectually to do this, he made a
strong effort to carry out a resolution he had for some
time entertained, of taking her himself to Venice, to
introduce her to the several families of distinction,
who had urged Portia and himself to return the visit
paid to Belmont on the occasion of the festival there.
He was desirous that she should form some valuable
friendships, which might support her in that sad period
when he himself should be compelled to quit her. He
knew that she would always possess a father in Bel-
lario ; but he was anxious to smooth the way for that
generous friend himself, by establishing those relations,
which he would best wish her to form in the world.

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT 91

He felt, too, that this would afford him an oppor
tunity of accomplishing a project which had occurred
to him in that self-communing he had lately held with
regard to chance and judgment. Impetuous ever, in
his nature, his sensitive conscience had lately yielded
to feverish promptings and rash fancies, and he now
conceived a scheme as eccentric in its aim, as his
former exercise of judgment had been hasty and de
fective.

He determined that while he was in Venice he
would order to be constructed three caskets, severally
made of gold, silver, and lead ; and that on the choice
of these caskets should rest a decision of dearest mo
ment. In one of them he resolved to inclose the por
trait of his daughter, and whosoever of her suitors
should choose the casket containing her picture, should
be her appointed husband. In devising this mode of
election, he seemed to give chance the full weight of
the decision ; but in the carrying out of his plan, it
will hereafter be seen that judgment on the part of
him who should choose from the caskets was involved
in the election itself.

An early day was appointed for their departure from
Belmont. Portia, delighted to find her father in suffi
cient health and spirits for such a visit, anticipated
her introduction to Venice, with all the pleasure and
eagerness usual to a young mind about to enter for the
first time upon so new and brilliant a scene. Their
noble friends vied with each other, who best should
contribute to render the welcome of the Count di Bel-
monte and his daughter gay and attractive ; and all
exhibited rival splendor and variety of amusement to
entertain such honored guests. Each day some new
pastime was proposed ; each day some diversity of
sport, some ingenuity of device, some reunion of illus
trious people, some gay masking, some daylight ex
cursion, or nightly revelry.

On one occasion, the grand canal presented a scene
of unsurpassed brilliancy and animation ; a boat-race

92 PORTIA;

was to take place, a distance was appointed, prizes
were instituted, and all Venice thronged to behold the
issue of the contention. Boats of all sizes and de
scriptions crowded hither ; craft of every kind pushed
and jostled ; gondolas glided to and fro ; boatmen
shouted and called ; gayly-dressed ladies and gallants
smiled and flirted ; draperies of every vivid color
depended from windows ; balconies were filled with
gazers ; steps and doorways, like the entrances to
beehives, supported their clusters, and swarmed with
living creatures.

The appointed boats that were to engage in the
race, were of peculiarly small plain construction, well
built for making their way over the water, and each
occupied by two men only, who impelled them in the
manner peculiar to the Venetian boatmen — pushing
rather than rowing.

These contesting boats were singularly in contrast
with others of a larger size, which were hung with
silken festoons, and glittered with gold and silver
fringe, waved with crested plumes, and were richly
adorned and emblazoned with the arms of the several
families to whom they belonged. The rowers or gon
doliers in each, varied in number, but were dressed in
livery of a superb though singular kind ; being of
variegated and fantastically assorted colors ; oddly
fancied stuffs, and forming quaint devices ; sometimes
a set of husbandmen with straw hats, flowers, floating
ribbons, and rustic attire ; sometimes a band of green
foresters ; and sometimes a row of nondescript beings
with red arms, yellow bodies, and blue legs.

In some of these decorated vessels (which generally
contained the patrons and abettors of the race) might
be seen lounging at the prow, extended on cushions,
some representative of a noble house, who by his neg
ligent attitude, and affectedly abstracted look, seemed
willing to afford others the gratification of contemplat
ing his fine person and studied dress. Many of these
gallants indulged in only a furtive glance at the beauty

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 93

that surrounded them, and it seemed to be a sort of
fashion among them to affect being the admired in
stead of the admirers on this occasion.
fm In one of these boats, there reclined a young Vene
tian, who was remarkable, even among so much sur
rounding brightness, for the splendor of his dress, the
costliness of his boat-decorations, the whimsicality of
his men's attire, and the gravity with which he ob
served the affected fashion alluded to just now. He
maintained an air of profound abstraction, as if
noways concerned in the busy scene around him, and
looked like a recumbent statue rather than a living
man. As one in the procession of boats which glided
idly backwards and forwards in mid-stream before the
race began, his vessel passed and repassed the galley
in which the Count di Belmonte and his daughter sat
with their friends to behold the pageant ; and in the
downcast eyes and listless figure of this young gallant,
Portia recognized the young gentleman pointed out by
Nerissa among the company at the Belmont festival
as being so superlatively handsome.

" His affectation would spoil him altogether, but
that it seems merely assumed in conformity with the
prevailing mode here, " thought she. " I will look at
him once more, when his vessel comes round again. ' '

She was so intently watching his return, that she
paid little heed to an old lady, a member of the house
of Manfrini, who had taken a great fancy to her, and
who was endeavoring to entertain her with a descrip
tion of the various persons she recognized. ' ' Yonder
is Signor Luigi and his three fair daughters, ' ' said
the old lady ; ' ' they are saluting that grave gentleman
in the sober suit, who is no less a personage than
Signor Antonio, whom my lord calls the ' royal mer
chant. ' He is as worthy as he is wealthy, and does
a world of good with his riches. They say he is very
generous to poor struggling tradesmen, and tender to
unfortunate debtors. Moreover he has good blood in
his veins, and is of gentle birth. There goes that

94 PORTIA;

pleasant scapegrace, Signer Gratiano ; and in the
farther boat is young Signer Lorenzo, with two of his
friends. Yonder is the galley of his highness the
prince of Morocco, who has lately arrived in this city
with his train, and who, I understand, is so courteous
and pleasant-spoken, that you forget he is black. But
for my part, I can't fancy a black man could be so
agreeable as a white man ; I own I have prejudices,
and that's one of mine, — I hate people of color.
Talking of prejudices, there's that detestable old Jew !
How dare he come among us, I should like to know ?
But that's one of the drawbacks on such an occasion
as this. It allows of so mixed an assemblage. A
paltry trafficker may elbow a magnifico, or a Jew
usurer associate with us Christians ! They say the
villainous dog has a pretty black-eyed daughter whom
he keeps shut up in his miserable den of a house, in
stead of bringing the poor thing out to have a peep at
such a sight as this ! Ah, here comes young Lord
Bassanio again ; he is a true gentleman ; and my lord
says, a brave soldier, and an excellent scholar, for all
he is playing off such coxcombical airs to-day. I am
sorry to hear that he is ruining his fortune with the
extravagant course he is running. Why, the equip
ment of that vessel, I should say, never cost him less

than "

What the gossip-loving old lady might have gone on
farther to say, Portia knew not, for at this moment,
her father leaned forward to accost the young gentle
man, who, starting from his abstracted condition, and
seeing who spoke to him, recognized the Count with a
respectful earnestness and a lively warmth of manner
that offered a remarkable contrast with his previous
apathy. As the young man stood there with his hat
courteously removed, and his attitude full of grace and
deference, replying to her father's salutation, Portia
thought Nerissa's estimate was certainly correct ; and
when, a moment after, the young Venetian happened
to raise his eyes to hers, he found them fixed upon

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 95

him with the complacency inspired by such a thought.
Several times again in the course of the day he met
that look ; and when, at the conclusion of the race,
he retired from the contention as one of the losers, he
felt consoled by the sympathetic glance of interest that
once more flashed upon him from those expressive
eyes. A thought for the first time thrilled through the
heart of Bassanio, that had he not injured his fortune
by a hitherto idle and spendthrift course, he might
have aspired to obtain a far more glorious prize than
the one awarded to the winning boat.

" What if I consult with my friend and kinsman,
Antonio, upon the means of repairing my fortunes ?"
thought he. " Even were I to entreat of his generos
ity to bestow upon me a fitting sum to equip me for
entering the lists that I might contend for her favor —
his kindness hath that extent, I am certain. I will
think of it ; meantime, I vow to undertake a pilgrim
age to Belmont, at some not very distant day. ' '

After a gay and pleasant interval spent at Venice,
the father and daughter prepared to return ; and
Portia had the satisfaction of remarking, that instead
of the injurious effects which might perhaps have been
dreaded from such unusual excitement and exertion
upon the weakened frame of her father, the change
seemed, on the contrary, to have been beneficial. As
they proceeded homewards in their coach, which met
them on the mainland, after ferrying across, the Count
spoke playfully with his daughter of their late scenes
of gayety ; and in his sprightly tone and cheerful
glance, Portia read more healthful symptoms than she
had noted for many a day.

" And of all those stores of splendor, of all those
bright gayeties, I have brought you away no richer
token than this slight bauble, ' ' said he, placing a ruby
ring upon her finger, " but it will serve to remind my
Portia of a pleasant holiday with her loving father ; and
such thoughts I know she prizes above jewels the most
rare and precious that might be found in all Venice. ' '

96 PORTIA;

His daughter kissed it fondly, as well as the hand
that placed it on hers, and said : — ' ' It shall never quit
my finger, dear father."

' ' Nay, you shall give it some day to him, who shall
possess the hand itself — to your husband, my Portia. ' '
And the father unconsciously sighed.

Portia looked brightly in his face, and said, till she
met with one she could love and honor as she did her
father and cousin, she cared not to behold the man
who was to claim the ring ; but that as it was not
likely she should ever encounter such a being, she
might safely engage to endow him with the ring, with
herself, and with all she possessed whenever so superla
tive a knight should appear.

Her father pressed the hand that lay in his, and
looked proudly into the beaming countenance that was
raised to his own. He seemed about to say something
earnestly to her, when he perceived that the carriage was
approaching a group of ruins which lay on the confines
of the Belmont domain, and he leaned from the win
dow to regard them. Portia, observing the look, called
softly to the attendants to pause ; and they remained
a few moments in contemplation of a scene as lovely
as it was replete with gentle memories for those two
who now gazed upon its beauty.

The spot was bathed in the gorgeous light of the
setting sun, and the stillness of the evening was so
profound that the beating of their hearts might almost
have been heard, as the father and daughter sat there
in silent yet perfect sympathy.

Suddenly, a groan, as of one in pain, reached their
ear. They listened. Another ; and then another.
"Open the door, Stephano !" called the voice of
Portia to one of the attendants. " Let me get out of
the coach. I will see who this sufferer is, dear father,
and return to you immediately," added she ; and
scarcely waiting for his reply, she bounded from the
carriage-step.

" Follow your young mistress, Stephano ; and you,

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 97

Rico ;" said the Count. " Balthazar, and the rest,
may remain here." And he watched the light figure
of his child, as Portia, intent upon her charitable
quest, pressed eagerly forward in the direction whence
the sound had seemed to proceed.

At the foot of an aged tree that cast its broad
shadows among the broken columns and fractured
arches of the ruins, which formed the remains of some
antique temple, and lay scattered in classic fragments
around, she found a man stretched upon the grass,
apparently in the last stage of exhaustion. He wore
the coarse and travel-stained garb of a pilgrim ; and
by his side lay the staff, and hat sewn with cockle
shells, that bespoke his being one of those pious way
farers.

Portia addressed herself to the succor of this un
fortunate ; bidding one of the attendants, who had
been sent after her, return quickly that he might re
lieve her father's suspense, and bring back some of the
restoratives that had been placed in the coach for the
Count's use. She then desired Stephano to place him
self beside the apparently dying man, and to raise his
head upon his knee, while she herself fanned the
sufferer's brow, and chafed his horny sun-burnt hands
with her own delicate palms.

As she gazed upon the wan lips, closed eyes, and
contracted brow of this poor creature, she could not
but call to mind the sufferings of her own father, when
he too had been an unhappy wanderer upon the earth ;
and her charitable anxiety to restore him became even
more strenuous. Presently Rico arrived, bearing with
him such remedies, as were not long in restoring the
pilgrim to himself ; for it appeared that he had fainted
from want, fatigue, and exhaustion ; but was so far
from being in a dying state, that, with the aid of the
two attendants, he was shortly able to raise himself,
and pour forth fervent thanks to the fair being who
had bestowed such timely succor.

" Do not exhaust yourself with speaking, good

98. PORTIA;

father, ' ' said Portia, ' ' but lean upon Rico and
Stephano, and they will support you as far as my
coach, which will carry us to Belmont, where we shall
find food and repose. ' '

In this manner they contrived to reach the spot
where she had left the Count ; who, assisting his
daughter to place her charge within the carriage, bade
the attendants proceed at a pace accommodated to the
wanderer's aching limbs. In the course of the drive
home, they learned that he was a poor pilgrim, return
ing from the Holy Land ; that he had been endeavor
ing to reach a neighboring monastery, which lay two
miles from Belmont, where he might obtain hospi
tality, but had travelled so far in the heat during that
and the preceding day, without having been able to
procure food, that he had at length sunk fainting upon
the grass beneath the ruins, where he might have per
ished, but for Portia's seasonable aid.

" And now, methinks, I could ask no better fate of
Heaven, than to spend the remainder of my days on
that spot where my opening eyes beheld that minister
ing angel of bounty ;" concluded the pilgrim. " In
such a hermitage, I might calmly and peacefully pass
the remnant of my life in heavenly contemplation, in
lauding His mercy who sent her thither, and in be
seeching Him to grant her the happiness she so richly
merits. ' '

" And you will let me plan this hermitage, and
provide all the arrangements of the cell, will you not,
padre mio ?" asked Portia, with all the elation of a
young heart enjoying the pleasure of a kindly deed, — •
and which elation of spirit was peculiarly hers. ' ' You
will allow me to install this holy man in the spot he
has himself chosen for his pious retirement, will you
not, my dear father ?"

" My Portia knows I can refuse her nothing," re
plied the Count ; ' ' more especially when she seeks to
secure for us so holy a neighbor as yourself, good
father."

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 99

Accordingly, when a day or two had elapsed, and
the worthy pilgrim had sufficiently recovered his
strength, he removed to the hermit's cell, which was
provided for him among the ruins by the permission of
the Count, and under the immediate superintendence
of his daughter ; and so eagerly, so indef atigably, did
1'ortia work at these arrangements, that Nerissa ban
tered her upon all this zeal and ardor in behalf of a
poor old hermit and his cell, when she had not found
time for one single hour's gossip, to tell her about
Venice, its revelries, its gallants, its rival beauties, its
braveries of attire, its thousand attractions, or the
millions of broken-hearted suitors, whom she must
have left with no other resource than to throw them
selves headlong into the lagune.

But Portia's ardor was not of that kind which
burns itself out in the first glow of emotion, upon the
performance of a good deed ; she was as steady as
she was warm-hearted, as firm and consistent as gentle
and benign. She not only established this venerable
man in his chosen retreat ; but she ceased not to cheer
and delight its solitude by her occasional visits and
kindly presence, receiving in return pious instruction,
and interesting narratives of his former wandering life,
in his own person furnishing meek and consoling ex
ample of patience, faith, and peace.

Soon, she had need indeed of consolation. One
morning, she was sitting by her father's side in the
library, reading to him from one of his favorite vol
umes, when she suddenly felt his hand, in which hers
was locked, twitch convulsively, while his head, a mo
ment afterwards, dropped powerless upon the back of
the chair in which he sat. She leaned towards him
— he was speechless ; but he gave her one of those
mute yet eloquent looks, in which the soul speaks
through the eyes.

" My dear, dear father !" AVith her disengaged
hand, she hastily bared his throat, drew his hair back
from his temples, and bathed them with some essence

loo PORTIA;

which happened to stand upon the library -table within
reach.

Her first anxiety was to still the fears that throbbed
at her heart, lest they might agitate her father, and
render herself less capable of commanding thought and
energy for his assistance ; her next, that she might be
able to reach the bell to summon help, for she found
she could not withdraw her hand from her father's
strict grasp, which seemed rigid and involuntary.

After one cautious effort, without being able to suc
ceed in stretching her disengaged arm so far, she
leaned towards his ear, and said in a low voice, which
she endeavored to render steady and calm : — " I am
about to call aloud, dear father ; do not be alarmed
at the noise. ' ' And then she called in a clear ringing
tone : — " Balthazar ! Balthazar !" But at this period
of the morning, few of the servants were in that por
tion of the house ; most of them being busy in the
offices, and dispersed elsewhere, knowing that this
was the hour when the Count and his daughter usually
sat quietly reading in the library, not requiring their
attendance.

All this passed through Portia's brain, in a strange
reasoning kind of calmness, as she stood there, vainly
endeavoring to make her voice bring other response
than its own echoes. Between every call, she held her
breath, that she might catch the most distant sound
of approaching help ; but nothing could she hear,
save these vain echoes as they travelled fruitlessly
through the long galleries, alternated by the fearful
pauses, and the beating of her own heart.

Her father seemed to comprehend her position, for
he continued to cast those expressive looks upon her ;
though he could articulate no sound, nor unclasp his
fingers from the strict grasp they maintained round
those of his daughter.

She gazed into those speaking eyes which seemed
striving to convey some injunction to her, that she
might try to read their meaning ; and she once saw

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. iol

him attempt to- raise his other hand, as if in the
languid endeavor to make some signal, but she could
not divine its import.

She whispered words of tenderness, beseeching him
not to exhaust his strength by such efforts, while she
continued to bathe his temples, and renewed her own
attempts to summon help.

At length she heard a sound, at once discordant with
her present feelings, and welcome from its assurance
of aid — Nerissa's merry laugh ! Clearly and impera
tively once again Portia called. Nerissa hastened
towards her lady's voice ; but the mirthful look and
tone with which she entered, were stricken into dismay
by what she beheld.

Portia, by a steadfast effort, controlled her emo
tion, while she desired Nerissa to speed for Balthazar
and other attendants, to dispatch a messenger for med
ical assistance, and another to Padua to summon Bel-
lario to Belmont.

With the mastery of a well-disciplined mind, and
the fortitude of a firm, loving, unselfish heart, she
compelled herself to issue these orders in a calm,
almost unfaltering tone, and to assist Balthazar in his
attempts to alleviate his master's condition. The
faithful servitor wished to persuade his master to be
supported to his own apartment, but at this proposal
for removing him, the features of the Count expressed
so visible a repugnance, that Portia would not permit
it to be urged.

" If we could but get my lord to lie down, Madam,"
whispered the weeping Balthazar, ' ' I feel sure that he
would be easier. My lord the Count had one of these
seizures before — a night or two before you went to
Venice ; but he would not permit your ladyship to be
informed of it, because it went off by the dawn of
morning, and he said it was nothing, and you should
not be made uneasy about such a trifle. ' '

Portia repressed the bitter words that arose to her
lips, with which she felt inclined to reprove Balthazar

102 PORTIA;

for having concealed from her so vital a secret ; but
she would not permit herself to give one thought to
regret, while she could devote them to the present suc
cor of her father. She knelt by his side, and mur
mured softly : — " Will my father try if lying down
may relieve him ?"

There was a look of acquiescence.

But when Balthazar and another attendant advanced
to support him away, the same expression of denial
crossed his features as before.

" Will you not let us place you in bed, dearest
father?"

The expression remained unchanged.

" We think if you were reclining, it would be a
better position than as you are now, dear father. Will
you not try to lie down ?"

His eyes resumed their eager look.

" I think my father objects to remove from this
room, Balthazar, and that he would lie down, if a
couch were made for him here." Portia fixed her
eyes upon her father's, as she uttered these words,
and perceived unequivocal tokens that she had inter
preted his wishes aright.

The thought that the love between them enabled her
thus to read his unspoken desires, caused tears to
spring from sudden joy, which had been forbidden to
the pangs of grief. A sorrow may sometimes be
wrestled with, and denied the indulgence of expres
sion, when a tender transport over-masters resolution
and will have vent in sobs.

As his daughter thus hung over him, yielding to the
emotions of her heart for the first time since his attack,
her father seemed equally clearly to read the interpre
tation of his Portia's feelings ; and thus did true and
perfect love reveal to each, the silent articulation of
their mutual thought.

The attendants speedily arranged one of the library
couches for the reception of the Count, and they laid
him softly down in a recumbent position ; his daugh-

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 103

ter still with her hand fast locked in his, which could
not unclench its grasp.

She bade them lower the dark green draperies of
the nearest window still more, over the blinds that
excluded the glare of the noontide sun, and desired
Balthazar alone to remain in the room, as she hoped
her father might sleep.

Portia sat gazing upon that beloved face, listening to
the low, irregular breathings, and striving to hush the
forebodings that appalled her with the thought that
she might behold him die there, before the physician
and surgeon could arrive.

She struggled hard with the terrible fear, and
dropped softly to her knees by her father's side, that
she might beseech strength and comfort of her Father
in Heaven. As she knelt meekly there, pouring out
her soul in prayer to the Almighty Parent in behalf
of the earthly one, she felt the hand that still held hers,
slightly relax its grasp ; and a moment afterwards, that
deep, tender tone she knew so well, and which she had
almost despaired of ever hearing again, murmured the
words : — " My Portia !"

She arose hastily but quietly, and bent over the
couch.

" Are we alone, my Portia ?" he said.

Portia bade Balthazar retire to the ante-room, but
to wait within call, and not to fail letting her know
when the medical men should arrive.

" We are alone now, dearest father," said she.

" I have no moment to lose," said the Count.
" This interval of speech and strength is mercifully
lent to me, but it may not last long, and I dread lest
I once more behold myself reduced to my late torture
of impotency in speech and action, while so much re
mains to be said and done for the welfare of my Por
tia."

She strove to tranquillize him ; and besought him
not to let anxiety for her, risk fresh exertion, which
might occasion relapse.

104 PORTIA;

He regarded not her words, but proceeded with an
eagerness that partook of his old spirit : — " Unlock
yonder cabinet, my Portia, and bring me the three
caskets, with the fold of sealed parchment which you
will find beside them."

She obeyed his directions ; fearful lest in endeavor
ing to dissuade him from the exertion, opposition to
his wishes might produce worse effects than submis
sion.

" Tell me what words are engraven upon the lid of
each of these caskets, my Portia. ' '

" Upon the golden one is inscribed, ' Who chooseth
me, shall gain what many men desire ; ' upon the sil
ver one, ' Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he
deserves ; ' and upon the leaden one, ' Who chooseth
me, must give and hazard all he hath, ' ' ' replied she.

" By this parchment deed, which is a will I ex
ecuted when in Venice, my child, feeling even then
convinced that I might shortly expect this fatal sum
mons — I have provided that on the choice of these
caskets shall depend your destiny in marriage. In
one of these caskets is locked your picture ; you will
find the three corresponding keys of gold, silver and
lead, in the right-hand drawer of the cabinet. Of
these keys take charge yourself ; you will find speci
fied in the will, on what occasions you are to deliver
them up. My original aim in devising this scheme,
on which I have rested the decision of my Portia's
fate, has been somewhat modified ; but my wish is
still that she promise to abide by the terms of my
will. Yes, ' ' continued he, as if to himself, and with
a wild earnestness that lighted his fast-dimming eyes,
and lent a momentary energy to his half-extinct voice,
' ' I have learned to think that thus chance and judg
ment may be made to aid each other, and wisely com
bine to decide what else might never justly be awarded.
For who shall deserve her ? Bellario truly said it. ' '
He paused an instant ; but meeting the eye of his
Portia, and reading there her terror at his wandering

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 105

words, he strove to recall what he wished especially to
say to her. " 'Tis for your sake, my Portia ; 'tis
best thus, believe it. Will you give me your prom
ise ? Do you pledge your word to dispose of yourself
according to the plan set forth in my will ?"

' ' I vow solemnly to obey your will in all things, my
father ;" exclaimed Portia.

A serene peace dwelt upon his features at her words,
and he feebly stretched his arms towards her. She
flung herself upon the bed beside him, and tenderly
straining him in the embrace he sought, she heard him
murmur : " Now happily I go to await with her the
future coming of our child — our Portia."

When Balthazar came in with the doctors, they
found the father and daughter clasped thus in each
other's arms ; both profoundly still. But the daugh
ter's was the stillness of a death-like swoon — the
father's, that of death itself !

When Portia recovered from the fainting-fit in which
her senses lay steeped, during so lengthened a period
that it alarmed Nerissa for her life, the first object
that met her eyes was Bellario. That dear and tender
friend, that devoted cousin, was there watching over
her ; to hail the first look of returning consciousness ;
to assist in reconciling her to meet the light of exist
ence, now so shorn of its beams for that loving daugh
ter. He was there to temper the first shock which
the restored sense of her loss would surely bring ; he
was close beside her, to lighten her grief by sharing it,
to console her by his sympathy, to strengthen her by
his help, and to afford her comfort and hope by his
love, his tenderness, his true affection.

Between them there had ever been perfect under
standing and intimate knowledge ; and she had scarcely
lost a truer father, than the one she possessed in Bel
lario.

In his society she learned to encounter the blow
which had befallen her, to endure the daily sense of
her bereavement, and, in time, to convert its remem-

106 PORTIA;

brance into a source of hallowed memories rather than
of bitter regrets. For, once again, did this devoted
friend make his other duties subservient to the exigen
cies of his Portia's welfare ; once again, did he dedi
cate his time and thoughts to Belmont and to her ;
once again did he constitute himself a father to this
father-left young creature. During the whole time of
her mourning, he never quitted her ; consecrating him
self entirely to the task of affording comfort and con
solation by his presence, and of cheering and strength
ening her in that period of seclusion and retirement.

But when more than a twelvemonth had elapsed,
and he had beheld sorrow succeed to despondency,
resignation to sorrow, and cheerful hope of one day
rejoining her parents to resignation, he felt that she
ought no longer to indulge in so strict a privacy ; but
that the time had now arrived for the fulfilment of her
father's will.

The terms of this will, as regarded the heiress of
Belmont, were generally known ; and it was only in
accordance with the respect due to the period of her
mourning, which she desired to pass in complete seclu
sion, that the host of suitors, attracted by the hope of
winning so rich a prize, had hitherto refrained from
entering the lists, and seeking to ascertain their fortune
by the decision of the fateful caskets. The reputation
of her wealth and beauty had extended far and wide ;
and Bellario knew that it sufficed but to proclaim the
period of Portia's season of mourning and retirement
to be at an end, in order that suitors without number
would flock to the gates of Belmont. He was well
aware of her determination to abide scrupulously by
the dictates of her father 'swill ; and however he might
secretly doubt the merits of the prescribed plan, which
assigned so important a point of decision to a trial for
the most part of chance, he respected the daughter's
pious obedience too much, to utter a single word sub
versive of her resolution.

When therefore Bellario announced to her that he

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 107

thought it now behooved her to deny herself a longer
indulgence in solitude, and to throw open the gates of
Belmont for the advent of visitors, she, with her usual
good sense and dignity, sought not to delay an inevi
table consequence ; but told him that however she
might have of herself desired to live still to them
selves, seeking no other companionship, no better
friendship, no dearer love, she yet perceived the wis
dom of his counsel, and was prepared to conform to
his suggestion.

" And that you may now appear in your true and
exclusive right as mistress of Belmont, my Portia,"
said he, " I shall now withdraw myself to my quiet
bachelor house at Padua, and leave you to receive
these visitors, unsupported, save by your own dignity
and noble discretion." Then seeing her about to re
monstrate at losing him just when his presence was
most desired, he went on to say : — " It will be wiser
for you to accustom yourself henceforth to rely firmly
upon your own conduct, my Portia, and to relinquish
the society of one, who, though most dear to you, I
know, is yet one to whom you have been habituated
to look for counsel and assistance. For these you may
still apply, by letter ; we have long had the custom
of corresponding with each other. Fail not therefore
to inform me of yourself constantly, and above all, to
send for my help whenever it may avail you in aught
of exigence or emergency ; but in conduct, in action,
learn to depend upon yourself, and determine to hazard
rather some mistake, so that you may rely upon your
own understanding, your own powers. You know,
my Portia, that I have never flattered you ; I have
even preferred over-sedulous watching and reforming
your errors, to remarking upon your mer.ts. But I
have discerned those merits none the less clearly from
my having noted them silently instead of lauding them ;
and it is now an occasion when I may honestly speak of
their existence, and tell you that I think their nature
and number are such, that they serve to make you one

Io8 PORTIA;

of the noblest and worthiest of your sex. You have
reached an age when a woman is at her brightest, her
most attractive period of life. You have youth,
beauty, wealth, virtue, native intellect, a cultivated
understanding, and a generous, innocent, happy heart.
Your attractions, affluence, and rank, will command
attention ; your courtesy and dignity will insure re
spect ; your talents and virtues will win esteem and at
tachment ; and your loving nature will be a source of
happiness to yourself and others. Your generosity
and beneficence will prevent your riches from exciting
envy ; and it will be only those men who cannot bear
that woman should be the bestowing party, who will
be mean enough to impute pride to one who has so
much in her gift yet who bestows it so liberally. Your
intellectual accomplishments will draw the accusation
of pedantry and unfeminine pre-eminence, from the
ignorant and consciously-inferior alone, among men ;
when it is seen how modestly and wisely you exercise
your faculties. It is merely because I know that the
most perfect of human beings never yet entirely
escaped censure, that I point out whence it may reach
you ; but with the good, the gifted, the refined and
exact in judgment, Portia of Belmont must ever be
loved and admired as the exemplar of all that is
worthiest in woman. Feeling and knowing this, as I
do, your faithful friend and cousin commits you un-
fearing to your own guidance, to your own undirected
course, secure that it will be one of unblemished
beauty, of distinguished excellence. God bless and
protect you, my dearest Portia ; omit not to write of
all you think, say, or do, to your own true Bellario. "

Thus proudly confiding, thus tenderly yet wisely,
did Bellario quit her ; and it required all Portia's judg
ment and prudence, to bid her acquiesce in a meas
ure which deprived her of so beloved a friend — who
to his self-denying discretion joined so fond a par
tiality, so perfect and devoted an attachment.

In less than a week after his departure, Belmont

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 109

was once more thronged with visitors. Not only the
nobles and magnificos of Venice, with their families,
crowded to offer their congratulations to their fair
friend, the heiress of Belmont ; but suitors of every
country, renowned in fame, and illustrious in birth,
poured from all quarters, and sought the adventure of
the caskets, contesting for the glorious prize therein at
issue.

As the successive competitors tried their fate, and
withdrew, one after the other equally unprosperous in
their selection, Portia half unconsciously indulged a
sanguine thought that the right choice might perhaps
be reserved by destiny for one whom she could pre
fer, and she each day learned less and less to dread
the decision, seeing it so often deferred. But she
would now and then playfully complain to Nerissa of
the waywardness of her fate, which placed her dis
posal at the mercy of a lottery. Nerissa would laugh
ingly attempt to console her by assurances that she
would make her own marriage depend on the same
chance.

' ' I know, ' ' said she, ' ' that whenever I may think
of a husband, I shall make a quick choice ; I'm very
sure I shan't be long making up my mind whether I
could like a man well enough to take him for good
and all ; and, who knows ? perhaps when the right
suitor to your ladyship shall select the right casket,
the right lover for me may present himself at the
right same moment, and so the rites of marriage may
give both the gallants a right over us at once from that
day forward, and every thing may end rightly and
happily after all."

Sometimes, Nerissa would think of that young lord
whom she had thought so handsome, so graceful, and
so seeming- worthy of her lady at the Belmont festival ;
and allowed herself to indulge a secret hope that he
might some day or other present himself at Belmont
among other suitors, with better success than they.

And in fact, he, like every one else, had heard of

HO PORTIA;

the heiress of Belmont ; of the adventure of the cas
kets, and of how it was to decide of her disposal in
marriage. His former thought recurred, which had
lain dormant during the period of her mourning and
seclusion ; and he now resolved that he would seek
advice and assistance of his friend Antonio, and
would try his fate at Belmont, where he would com
mence his suit to Portia by a frank disclosure of the
state of his ruined fortunes, and his desire to owe all
things to her bounty and her love — could he once obtain
confirmation of his hope that he was not wholly in
different to her.

Bassanio's spendthrift course had been rather the
result of youth, and exuberance of spirits, than arisen
from a native tendency to foppery and extravagance.
He was possessed of high qualities, as well as of a
handsome person. His love for his friend Antonio
was warm, sincere, and fervent ; and the sense he
entertained of the many benefits he had received at
the hands of this munificent kinsman, which in a
baser nature might have degenerated into humiliating
consciousness and consequent dislike, in Bassanio's
took the shape of gratitude, respect, and indestruc
tible attachment. He had also an exalted sense of
honor, a refined appreciation of goodness and beauty,
and entertained an utter scorn of falsehood in word
or deed.

But to return to Belmont — to Portia — to Nerissa.

One day, when there had been as usual a numerous
arrival of suitors during the preceding week, and there
were then abiding in the house no fewer than six
gentlemen, — a Neapolitan prince, a County Palatine,
a French lord, an English baron, a Scotch earl, and a
German duke's nephew, — all attracted hither by the
fame of the rich heiress, Portia and Nerissa sat at
their embroidery frame in the library. Portia loved
this room for the sake of her father, whom she had
here beheld for the last time, and for the sake of Bel-
lario, with whom she had here spent some of the

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. I J I

happiest hours of her existence. She made it her
own peculiar sitting-room, therefore ; and here she
sat on the morning in question, chatting gayly with
Nerissa in their usual free, pleasant, light-hearted
manner.

And so, in the pretended pouting of a favorite of
fortune, Portia said : — " By my troth, Nerissa, my
little body is aweary of this great world."

What Nerissa answered, we all know — or ought to
know. Her words are to be found in the second scene
of a certain play ; where ' ' my master desires to speak
with you. ' '

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

TALE II.

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

" I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the
dignity of the whole body." — Macbeth.

THE night- wind howled and swept over the heathy
plains that surrounded the castle. It drove on shriek-
ingly ; then paused ; and then the sharp lashings of
the rain-storm pelted onward before its fierce will.
The distant hills were hung with mist ; and when the
flashes of lightning darted a momentary glare upon all
around, they served but to illumine the dense dank veil
that shrouded castle, hill, and valley.

Dismally and wailingly the gust panted on, lament
ing ; and but held in its mighty breath to take fresh
force for the next burst of rage. Moaning and plain
tive, it lulled and halted ; then screaming and hurling
wildly on, it poured forth its fury, aloud, abroad,
aloft, scattering clouds and mists, wrenching trees
from their rooted firmness, dashing the waters of
stream, lake, and torrent, and filling the sky with
uproar and tempest.

Round the walls and battlements of the castle it
beat, and tore, and raved ; the rain whirled its
sheeted drifts against the stony security, as if mad
with impotent endeavours to penetrate the building,
and whelm all beneath its washing inundation ; the
lightning darted fiery threats amid turret and tower,
in vivid, sudden, quick-succeeding flashes ; while the
deep-rolling thunder mingled its awful menaces with

Ii6 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

the howls and complainings of the wind. The wrath
of nature seemed striving to find voice in the tumult
of the vengeful elements ; as these storm-ministers still
beat, and tore, and raved round the castle walls.

For within these walls — in one of the upper chambers
of the castle — lay one in the pangs of travail ; and that
night a child was born into the world, destined to read
a world-wide lesson, how unhallowed desires and
towering ambition can deface the image of virtue in a
human heart, and teach it to spurn and outrage the
dictates of nature herself.

The lights in the chamber were screened ai>d
dimmed, that they might not disturb the sufferer.
The voices of the attendant women were suppressed,
as they muttered among themselves ; and their step
was cautious, as they occasionally moved about in
obedience to the behests of an aged woman, who seemed
to preside over the sick-room, officiating as midwife,
and directing all things according as her skill prompted,
to alleviate her lady's sufferings. Nought was heard
in the chamber but the lowered voices of the attend
ants ; the slight clicking of the wood-embers that lay
between the pair of iron dogs upon the hearth ; a few
stifled moans from the bed of pain ; a word or two in
reply, of support and comfort from the aged nurse-
ministrant ; while amidst all these hushed sounds
within, mingled the howlings of the storm from with
out, which still beat, and tore, and raved round the
castle walls.

" It is a wild night, Bethoc, is it not ?" murmured
the sick lady to her faithful nurse.

" It is, my lady," replied old Bethoc. " But you
will think the rays of the blessed sun are shining,
when you behold the light of your child's face. Bear
ye bravely, my lady, and think of the morning that
will dawn upon you then, to console you for the sore
dark night ye're passing through."

In the hall below there is a meal toward. Tables

THE THANE' S DAUGHTER. 1 17

are spreading for a second supper ; for the lord of
the castle cannot retire to rest while his lady lies in
perilous strait ; and as it is many hours since the
evening-meal, he orders another, as much that he may
have some object which may serve to make the time
seem to lag less heavily, as because he feels aught of
hunger or thirst. The seeing his attendants bustle to
and fro in active preparation, is something too, in that
season of suspense ; and the old thane sits half watch
ing them, half gazing into the cheerful fire that roars
upon the huge hearth, as his hand rests upon the neck
of one of a leash of tall deer-hounds that stand at his
knee, while its companions lie at his feet, and regard
their master's face with that sagacious look of sympa
thy with his anxious expression of countenance, which
seems akin to rational intelligence.

But through all the setting of tables, and ranging
of stools and benches, and jingling of cans, and bring
ing in of dishes, and wine-flasks and ale-flagons ; and
through all the hurry of serving-men, and shuffling of
feet, and calling of voices, and opening and shutting
of doors — through all, and above all, is heard the
howling of the storm from without, that still beats,
and tears, and raves round the castle walls.

" Go, one of you, and enquire how my lady doth
now, ' ' said the thane ; ' ' bid Bethoc send me word
how she fares ; and not to fail to let me have good news
as soon as may be — of a boy, if it please Heaven ; —
for her sake !"

There was a parley among the attendants ; a pause,
a consultation, as if hesitating who should fulfil the
bidding of their master, which spoke a tale of neglect
ful and too-easy rule, on his part, with correspondent
carelessness, and tardiness of obedience on theirs.

" Let Ivan go—"

" No, no, let Fergus go — "

" Indeed, I am not going, just as the meat is serv
ing in ; send young Culen ; let Culen go. Here,
Culen, my lad, take a torch, and away with you to my

1 1 8 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

lady's chamber, and bring my lord word how it fares
with her now. If it be your luck to bring back tidings
of an heir, who knows but the news may be worth
promotion to thee ; for my lord's coffers are too ill
provided, I fear, to let him give thee any thing else.
Had there been likelihood of a broad piece, now, I
might have gone myself. ' '

These words were spoken aside, among the serving-
men ; with but half-suppressed chuckling, for the good
old thane's well-known slender means, as well as easy
disposition, caused him to be held in slight respect
by his retainers, whose hireling natures would have
paid more servile deference to affluent tyranny.

Ceaseless wars, with their concomitant evils of ruin
ous exactions, scanty tillage, unproductive harvests,
and the impossibility of domestic improvement, had
entirely drained this formerly- wealthy thane's re
sources ; and he was now an impoverished old man,
with little beside his patrimonial castle and title, to
prevent him from being nominally, as well as actually,
a beggar.

The little page, Culen, left the hall as he was bid ;
bearing with him a torch to guide him through the
long dark galleries and corridors, and winding stairs,
and many chambers, which he had to traverse ere he
could reach the one where his lady-mistress lay. The
lad screened the light he bore, as well as he could,
from the strong draughts of air that came streaming
through the stone passages, and met him at the open
ing of doors, and threatened to extinguish the flame
of his torch. His heart sank as he thought of being
left in darkness all alone in those dreary vaulted
spaces, and the boy muttered a pater-noster, as he
listened to the roaring of the wind, and fixed his eyes
steadily upon the flickering light, scarcely daring to
glance round, lest he might see something terrible in
the gloom.

"Pshaw, what should I be afraid of?" thought
he. "la soldier (as I hope to be some day), and

THE THAN&S DAUGHTER. Up

afraid ! Still, it is well that good Grym taught me
that prayer, which he learned when he used to serve
mass when he was himself a little chap, over there at
the abbey. ' Fiat voluntas lua.' I think it must be
because I'm sent of this errand to the dark lady at
night ; for I ain't at all afraid of her by day-time, any
more than I am of these long galleries, then. It's a
terrible night ! The wind screams like an owlet !
' Dimitte nobis debito nostra. ' It's strange that we
should call my lady ' the dark lady, ' and not by her
name. I'll think to ask Grym about that, bytheby. I
wonder whether the baby is born !"

At this instant, a peal of thunder so loud and so
immediate that it seemed to shake the sturdy walls of
the castle, and cause them to vibrate to their very
foundation, appalled the heart of the page, Culen, and
he sank involuntarily to his knee, with a trembling
" Liberanos a malof" Then, during the silence that
ensued, the childish voice might be heard steadily and
devoutly repeating the beautiful prayer to our
Almighty Father. Strengthened and encouraged, the
boy arose, and once more proceeded on his way to the
chamber of his mistress ; where he knocked at the
door, and delivered his message to one of the attendant
women, who was sent out to him by old Bethoc, the
nurse.

The waiting-woman stepped forth into the ante-room
where the page stood, and drawing the door close be
hind her, she whispered to him that he might tell his
lord that my lady was better, and that a little daughter
was born.

' ' Bethoc has not dared to tell my lady yet, that the
child is a girl, ' ' added the waiting-woman ; "we all
know she will be so grieved with the news. She set
her heart upon a son ; and if what the dark lady sets
her heart upon, come not about, why then "

She paused ; the page nodded as if he understood
what she would say of the violence of their lady's dis
appointment, and the two attendants parted ; the one

120 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

to bear the news back to his master, the other to re
turn to the sick-room.

On her couch lay the dark lady. Her eyes were
closed — but she did not sleep. The lids veiled them,
and the long jet lashes lay upon the marble cheek ;
but beneath the lids the restless eye-balls quivered,
and the fringed lashes were not still ; while the pale
lips trembled and twitched with emotion that was strong
and wakeful.

The new-born babe was on the knee of one of the
attendants, close by the fire, where it lay basking and
burgeoning, and stretching its limbs towards the wel
come glow, like a butterfly fresh-emerged from its
chrysalis enfoldings, sunning its wings in the genial
warmth of noon.

The waiting- women crept quietly to and fro ; ever
and qnon coming to kneel softly down, and bend over
the newly-born little one, to scan its infant features,
and press its fairy feet to their lips, and let it curl its
miniature fingers round one of theirs, in caressing
womanly wont.

Bethoc hovered near her mistress, mutely sympa
thising with the thoughts which she knew agitated her
heart, and caused those sleepless eyes to quiver and
tremble.

The dark eyes open, and meet those of the aged
nurse. They are eager, and fraught with solicitude
and enquiry of somewhat the lips dare not frame into
a question.

The nurse, to evade seeming to comprehend what
she understands but too well, affects to be busied with
the pillows, and to imagine that their better arrange
ment is the object of the lady's wish.

A little cry reaches the bed. The eyes flash open
once again, in still more peremptory interrogation ;
and the dark lady fixing them on Bethoc with a stern
resolution not to be withstood, mutters : — ' ' You know
what I would ask !"

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 121

Bethoc answered : — ' ' I will bring the babe, and lay
her to your breast, my lady. ' '

' ' Dare not to say ' her ! '

" Madam, the bairn's just a lassie ; I'd ha' told ye
of a man-child, if I could."

A groan burst from the lips of the dark lady ; and
the teeth were ground, with what sounded a curse !

The lady Gruoch, descended of one of the noblest
Scottish houses, by orphanhood in her minority, be
came a ward of the crown ; which at that early period
in Scotland, had feudal power over the lands and pos
sessions of all minors thus left, together with the dis
posal of their hand in marriage. Royal expediency
saw fit to bestow her as a wife upon Kenneth, thane
of Moray ; who, old enough to be her father, had jet
not sufficient experience to be able to win the love of
the young beauty who had thus become bound to him
for life. Not only had the lady no inclination for a
man so much her senior, whom she had scarcely ever
seen, ere she became indissolubly united to him ;
but their dispositions, tempers, opinions, tastes, were
so utterly at variance, that it was not to be expected
that the original indifference of the bride would ever
warm into the affection of a wife — all that could be
hoped was, that it might not be converted into repug
nance by a constant association with one so entirely op
posed to her in thought, word, and deed.

But though the thane of Moray was little calculated
to inspire love in her whom he had married, he was
almost as little formed to excite so active a feeling
as dislike, for he was bland, kind, and gentle to a fault
— at least in those times, when hardihood, courage,
fortitude, activity, and the austerer virtues more ad
vantageously adorned a man than such qualities as
distinguished the mild and benevolent Kenneth.

It was the very excess of these amiable qualities in
her lord, which were destructive to the growth of a
warmer liking for him in the heart of the lady Gruoch,

122 THE THANE' S DAUGHTER.

and were so peculiarly opposed to her own character.
His bland manners she thought misplaced in a man
whose station made him the chieftain of a band of men
who should be trained to arms and warlike deeds, and
disciplined to strict obedience. His kindness and
benevolence she thought weakness ; his love of quiet
and peaceful occupations, which led him to submit to
all exactions rather than engage in contention with his
neighbours, or in warfare for his sovereign, unless
peremptorily summoned to the field, she looked upon
as unmanly lack of spirit, and want of honourable am
bition ; his serene temper was a sore trial to hers ;
and his gentleness a perpetual thorn in her peace.

For her own heart beat high and proud, as she
thought of the renown to be won in the tented field,
— of the added glories that might be set beside those
descended to her and her husband from a noble race of
ancestors, — of the honors that might heighten those
already the inheritance of their respective houses.
Her own pride of blood, the daring aspiration of her
nature, caused her to scorn such qualities as she dis
covered in her husband, as so many obstacles in the
way of her ambition. When first she had married,
the high rank of her destined husband, the knowledge
that even royal blood ran in his veins, had gone far to
reconcile her to the difference of years that existed be
tween them ; for she hoped to find consolation in the
grandeur and power of rank and wealth, for the want
of that happiness which she expected not to derive
from love. But she soon discovered that the thane's
rank and descent were .counterbalanced by a tranquil
nature that cared not to purchase dignity and elevation
at the price of happiness and peace ; that his claims
would never be supported, if they could only be main
tained by strife and bloodshed ; that his possessions
were fast dwindling beneath the demands of an exact
ing and despotic monarchy, which extorted fines and
levied contributions from such of its subjects as pre
ferred the sacrifice of their revenues to seditious resist-

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 123

ance, and a settlement of mutual claims in the open
field ; and that, in short, her ambition had as little
prospect of satisfaction from wedlock, as her affections.

After the first disappointment of her hopes, they had
suddenly revived at the prospect of a son. A year after
her marriage, she had given birth to a boy, and in this
son she soon learned to centre all those yearnings of
ambition, those daring aspirations which she had just
taught herself to fear must be for ever crushed.

But scarcely had she permitted herself to indulge
this fond renewal of hope, before it was suddenly with
drawn. The child lived but a few months, and in its
little grave was buried all that remained of cheer to its
mother. It was soon after the death of this child, that
the title by which the lady Gruoch was best known,
became confirmed in use among the retainers of her
husband's household. When the thane had first
brought her a bride to his castle, the raven hue of her
hair, the intense depth of her beautiful eyes, the jet of
those pencilled brows, and the long black silken lashes
that fringed the lids, and rested upon the pale cheek,
altogether formed so strikingly-singular a contrast with
the generality of the fair-haired beauties who are the
dwellers in that Northern land, that she became, by
common consent, known as the dark lady of Moray.
And after the loss of her son, the habitual gloom that
settled upon her brow, the concentrated mood in which
she was wont to nurse her disappointed fancy, the lofty
pride that held her reserved and aloof in bearing, with
the increased pallor of her complexion, which height
ened the effect of her raven tresses, and of those deep,
mysterious, self -communing eyes, combined to render
the title more and more appropriate ; and from that
time forth she was always named " the dark lady."

Years of brooding discontent had lapsed wearily
away, when the unexpected prospect of again becom
ing a mother, had reawakened in the dark lady the
hope of beholding a son. How that hope was once
more blighted, has been seen.

124 THE THANE S DAUGHTER.

The storm had subsided ; and for many hours the
sky had been clear and bright. It was high morning.
The dark lady had been placed by her attendants in a
half-recumbent position, within the influence of the
cheerful rays that streamed in at the chamber-window ;
and thus propped and supported by cushions, with her
back to the light, and leaning one cheek on her hand,
she sat abstracted and silent, waiting the approach of
her husband, who had sent word that he was coming
to thank and bless her for the welcome gift with which
she had presented him.

The old thane came ; and bending over her in a
transport of honest tenderness, he kissed her forehead,
and whispered his joy to see her safe, his proud de
light at the thought of the child she had brought him
— his thanks — his happiness.

The dark lady turned those large full eyes upon him,
with a look of wonder.

" Do you know it is a girl ?" she asked.

" Surely ;" replied her husband. " Dear little crea
ture, she is sent by Heaven to make my age happy,
and to comfort her mother when she has laid her old
Kenneth in the grave. You might perhaps have had a
partner better suited to you than myself, dear wife,"
added the thane, " but you could hardly have had one
who loved you more fondly ; when you lose your old
husband, you will miss him more than you perhaps
think, and I am glad to know you will have this little
one to love you in my stead."

" I shall not survive you," said the dark lady.

" Nay, now you are playing the young wife, indeed ;
and would fain make me believe that you have no
thought of some day or other playing the gay widow, ' '
said the thane merrily.

' ' I shall never be one, ' ' replied the dark lady.

Her husband did not understand her ; and, as was
usual with him, in her cold abstracted moods, made
no attempt to fathom her reserve. Besides, at this
moment, his attention was wholly engrossed with his

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER, 125

baby daughter, who was placed in his arms by Bethoc,
the faithful old nurse.

The thane pressed the little creature to his bosom ;
he looked into the sleeping face, and listened to the soft
even breathings, and a world of emotions filled his heart
at the thought of this new morsel of vitality, this fresh-
comer into existence, this atom on the thresholds of
the past and present, this strange bit of opening life,
this mystery of commencement, this tender blossom,
this human bud awaiting with yet half-closed petals
its future development ; and the father raised his eyes
reverently to the Creator, from whose presence the
newly-born one seemed but recently come, and prayed
that maturity might not sully the pristine whiteness of
its innocence.

The rays of the morning sun fell full upon his silver
hairs, and glistened in his tearful eyes, as the venerable
thane uttered a devout thanksgiving for the child that
had been vouchsafed to his old age.

The dark lady sat coldly gazing on this picture of
patriarchal gratitude ; and when the words of thanks
giving breathed from her husband' slips, the same look
of scornful wonder dwelt in her eyes as before.

" But surely the bairn's a comfort to you, madam ;"
said old Bethoc to her mistress, when the dark lady
was once more alone with her women. ' ' Ye would not
wish the babe unborn, would ye ?"

'' As well unborn, as born a girl ;" she bitterly re
plied. " This is not the child I hoped ! This is not
the son who should have inherited his mother's spirit
— have carried her heart into the field — have enacted
with his brave arm what her soul inspired — have reaped
glory and renown — have contended for, and won back,
the rightful possessions and honors of two noble
houses, lapsed into penury and decay through slothful
ease, and tame submission. 0 where is the son might
have done this !"

" Patience, patience, lady ; who knows but the

126 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

brave boy may still be yours ? Who knows what an
other year may bring ?" said the old nurse.

The dark lady's eyes flashed disdainfully.

" Did you note that snow-white head ? Is that a
man to be again a father, think you ? One child ac
corded to doting age such as that, was a boon past ex
pectance of Heaven's bounty ; but that one child being
a puny girl, Heaven's gift is scarce better than an
affliction. ' '

" Talk not so wildly, madam ;" said the aged
Bethoc. " Ye can hardly have savoured true afflic
tion, to speak of it in the same breath with a new
born innocent like this, ' ' said she, placing the little one
in the arms of its mother, that in and with the act of
bestowing nourishment from her own bosom, gentler
thoughts might flow towards the guiltless offender.
" And as for its being ' a puny girl,' a bonnier babe,
or one more like to thrive, it has never been my for
tune to behold. Ye might have complained, indeed,
had it been your fate, my lady, to have been brought
to bed of some monster, such as I have heard of before
now. I remember once, in the time of the last great
dearth, there was a gentlewoman gave birth to a poor
unfortunate, with neither hands nor feet, and it was
blind, deaf, and dumb ; you might have talked of
affliction, then, indeed ; or have looked upon Heaven's
gift as a grief, had you brought forth the deformity I
heard tell of, that was born to an unhappy woman in
Angus. It was a creature frightful to behold, with a
head like that of a swine, a pigeon-breast, and dis
torted back and shoulders ; it was web-footed like a
goose, and its legs were curved and set with bristles,
so that it looked like an animal, strange and ghastly,
and horribly ill-favored. And then, too, there was
that wretched lady in Galloway, who bore a double-
child, with four arms and two heads ; and which as
it grew up, fought and brawled with its own other
self, in a manner terrible to the beholders. For it
possessed in its double body, two separate sets of wills

THE THANES DAUGHTER, 127

and inclinations, that were ever at variance among
themselves, so that the chiding and quarrelling was
incessant and grievous. As when one body a-hungered,
the other would gladly fast ; and when one longed for
sleep, the other was wakeful and desirous of sport ;
and these warring desires so plagued and tormented
them, that the four arms would be rending and tearing
in piteous fashion with their nails. But the worst
was, when sickness at length attacked one of these
miserable bodies, so that it dwindled and pined, and
gradually languished till it died ; and the other twin
body, unable to support the nausea of its kindred cor
ruption, sickened and died also."

Thus ran on the aged crone with her nurse's tales,
in hope to beguile her lady ; and lead her to think
more well-favoredly of the babe, whose only blemish
was her being a daughter, by these legends of pro
digious birth, monstrosity and marvel.

But the dark lady heeded not her nurse's loquacity.
She was watching the infant at her breast ; and as it
drew its life-sustaining streams thence, she half grudged
to bestow them on this girl, this non-boy, this embodied
disappointment, this mortification, this perplexity, this
child that was no child, — to her.

Her imagination pictured to her the pride and joy with
which she should have beheld a son and heir drawing
from her bosom sustenance and strength to grow into
youth and manhood by her side ; a son into whom she
might infuse her ambitious spirit, into whose mind she
might instil her aspiring hopes, whom she might nur
ture in high enthusiasm, and train to courageous deeds,
and whom she might one day see fulfil and attain in
person all her long-hoarded desires.

The indulgence of her fancy in what might have
been, served to convert the reality before her into a
torture instead of a blessing ; and so the mother looked
almost with aversion upon her own infant. Mother's
regards were well-nigh scowls ; mother's smiles were
all but disdain, not pitiful tenderness ; mother's breast

128 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

heaved repiningly in lieu of yielding its balmy treasures
lavishly and lovingly ; and thus the babe gazed won
dering up into those dark unfathomable eyes with
naught of maternity in their irresponsive depths ; and
thus the babe sucked bitterness, perverted feeling, un
holy regret, and vain aspiration, with every milky
draught imbibed.

But whatever of baneful influence and mysterious
harm to that infant soul might mingle with the sources
of nourishment thus conveyed, the little body waxed
strong and healthful ; its limbs gained firmness and
vigor ; it daily increased in force, activity and intelli
gence ; and as the mother beheld its thriving beauty,
she thought how well that beauty might have become
a boy. As she viewed the healthful frame, and felt
the energy and power which strained every muscle, and
struggled in every movement of the robust little being
that kicked and stretched, and strove, and fought
within her anus, the dark lady sighed to think such a
frame and such powers were wasted on a girl. The
canker of fruitless repining was fast destroying the
parent-blossom, even while watching the promising
growth of her fair opening bud ; and while the babe
increased and strengthened, the mother drooped and
decayed. She had truly felt, that the disappointment
she had sustained was her death-blow ; and, as she had
predicted to her old husband, she was destined not to
survive it, or to outlive him.

She sat day after day, and week after week, never
leaving her chamber , or seeming to take interest in a
single object animate or inanimate. She remained,
for the most part, in one listless attitude ; rarely
speaking, and scarcely looking at anything, or regard
ing any person. She seemed shrouded in discontent,
yet uttering no syllable of complaint. She claimed no
sympathy, and sought no relief to the monotony of
inward despondency, but folded herself within an im
penetrable veil of outward apathy, and heavy dull im-

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 129

mobility. Ever proud and reserved, she seemed now
doubly unapproachable, muffled and shut in with her
mute regrets.

At first, her husband had endeavoured to withdraw
her from her solitude, and to win her from the stupor
of disappointment which held her sitting there day
after day, in the unmoved position which was fast
becoming habitual ; but his efforts were repulsed with
indifference, coldness, and silence. The old thane,
with his wonted passiveness, soon ceased to oppose her
apparent disinclination to leave her chamber ; and it
was not long ere he learned to acquiesce altogether in
her seeming preference for seclusion, by leaving her to
herself.

Her increasing silence and reserve made even her
women refrain from addressing her ; they acquired the
habit of creeping to and fro noiselessly while in her
immediate presence, and receiving their orders exclu
sively from Bethoc, who supplied the place of her mis
tress by thinking for her, speaking for her, superin
tending the welfare of the infant, and giving the nec
essary directions to the female attendants.

And there, week after week, and month after month,
sat the dark lady, like a living statue, mute and im
mutable ; the only perceptible alteration in her attitude
being a gradual sinking and collapsing of the frame,
which brought her low, bent, and drooping, like a
withered plant. Each day, and from day to day, the
change could scarcely be traced ; but when she first
assumed that seat, and that fixed position, her body
was erect, haughty, energetic, and defiant ; — before a
twelvemonth had elapsed, the muscles were flaccid,
the flesh was shrunk and wasted, the cheek was worn
and hollow, the form was feeble, and the whole figure
sat heaped together languidly, as if devoid of vitality.

The eyes alone retained their spirit. These still
were haughty, energetic, defiant as ever. For as she
sat there enwrapt in stony stillness, she would watch
the shifting clouds, now careering in fleecy whiteness

13° THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

across the spring aether, now dappling lightly the sum
mer blue, now hurrying athwart the murky grey, or
driving wildly along upon the storm-blast ; but through
all the countless varieties of form, and hue, and mo
tion, in cloudland, those dark eyes flashed ever toward
the sky proud defiance, accusation, and resentment of
hopes defeated. None the less a rebel to Heaven's
will, for her voiceless inward chafing ; it seemed as if
the unrest of her soul fought all the more fiercely for
the marble quiescence of her body.

One bright noon, even in that Northern region, the
sun shone with powerful rays, and cast their broad
light full into the chamber, where the dark lady sat,
as usual dumb and motionless, surrounded by her
silent women.

Bethoc, the aged nurse, held the child in her arms,
as it struggled, and strained, and held out its hands
towards the sunbeams, that shed their radiance in
such bright alluring streams just within its reach.
The crowing joy and glad shrill tones of the little one
sounded strangely in that silent room, as the babe
shouted its imperfect utterances of delight, at the gay
dancing motes it beheld in the sunbeams ; and still it
leaped and bounded in the nurse's arms, and clutched
at the brilliant atoms it strove to grasp.

The mother's attention was arrested ; and she gazed
upon the infant's eagerness with a look of interest that
her face had not worn for many a month.

Then vexation succeeded to delight, as the phantom
brightness still eluded pursuit. The baby hands
clenched angrily, and struck and buffeted at the gold
en rays they could not seize.

The dark lady noted the rage that sprang from op
position with a keen satisfied glance.

Frowns succeeded to smiles. Tears sparkled in the
childish eyes. Short shrieks, and cries of baffled will,
took the place of former joyful Growings ; until in at
the window flew a small silver-winged moth, that took
its place with the motes in the sunbeams, dancing, and

THE THANE S DAUGHTER. 131

floating, and playing up and down in the flood of
light.

This tangible object of interest and pursuit pacified
the babe ; and all its clutchings and strivings were re
newed and concentrated upon this pretty buoyont spark
of brightness. The old nurse drew back with her charge.
" Let it alone, my darling ; ye'll kill the bonny wee
thing ; ye'll crush the poor little beastie. "

" Let her, so that she gets it !" exclaimed the dark
lady abruptly.

The unwonted sound of her lady's voice made Bethoc
start. The child made one more plunge, and by
chance, caught the silvery moth.

The next instant, the little fingers were unclosed ;
to one of them stuck the mangled insect, crushed even
by so slight a touch. But as the child held up the
victim of her success in baby triumph, and as her eyes
sparkled and glistened now with smiles as well as tears
in token of joyful conquest, the mother exclaimed ex-
ultingly : —

" Resolute in achievement ! Firm of purpose even
unto death ! That should be a masculine spirit !
Bethoc, bring the little Amazon to me !"

But as she uttered the words, a sharp sudden shiver
passed over her frame ; a spasm convulsed the face,
and before the women could reach her, or Bethoc could
place her child within her arms, the dark lady sank
back, — a corpse.

The death of her mother made little difference in
the course of the child's daily existence. The dark
lady's seat was unoccupied now ; but the babe, unac
customed to be fondled, or prattled to, or even no
ticed, by the cold stationary figure that had so long
filled it, seemed scarcely affected by the change.

Once, indeed, when the little one was helping itself
along by the stools and chairs round the room, and
learning to totter from one to the other, by aid of its
arms and hands, it stopped in front of this seat — which

I32 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

was still called " the dark lady's," and never used by
any one since her death ; — and then the child gazed
wistfully upwards, as if half calling to mind some ob
ject that it had been accustomed to behold there.

Who shall say what limits there are to infant mem
ory ? Who may tell what vague impressions of the
pale cold figure that was wont to abide there, and
which was the only shadowy semblance of maternity
that had ever floated before the child's vision, might
not at that moment have wandered into its brain, and
inspired one natural yearning to behold even that faint
shadow once again in its earthly form ?

The attendant women observed the child's pause, and
thoughtful look, and one to another said : — " Poor
bairn, she's minded of her mother !"

" Maybe, she sees the dark lady's wraith ;" was the
rejoinder, whispered in an awe-stricken tone.

The old nurse Bethoc went softly to the side of her
charge, and hung over her, telling her pretty tales to
amuse her, to draw off her attention from the dark
lady's seat, from which she gently led her away, and
began crooning an old nursery rhyme, that she might
lull her to sleep, and so efface the recollection which
she thought might have disturbed the child.

For some time the little Gruoch remained thus almost
entirely in the suite of apartments that had been her
mother's ; tended by her women, and fondled, and
petted, and indulged by them and the faithful old
nurse, Bethoc.

The means of air and exercise were supplied by a
platform, or rampart, of the castle, which closely neigh
boured this suite of rooms, and on which it was the
custom for the women, each in turn, to carry the child
up and down, whenever the weather permitted them to
go forth.

By degrees, as the little limbs gained strength and
skill in walking, Gruoch would run about here herself ;
and at length, it was a triumph with Bethoc to carry
the child down into the hall, or the courtyard, or on

THE THANE S DAUGHTER. 133

the battlements, or wherever the lord of Moray might
be, that the father should have the joy of beholding
how well his little girl throve, and that the child might
have the pleasure of seeing and playing with her gentle
old father.

The thane loved to have her brought to him, and to
look upon the growing beauty of his little daughter :
but he had so long accustomed himself to see that
his presence gave no joy, and to believe that he did
not possess the requisite qualifications to render him
self beloved by womankind, that he seldom detained
her with him above a few minutes, but gave her back
to the nurse 'scare and women's tendance, as to society
more genial than his own could be.

With a doting nurse, and ministering attendants,
the little Gruoch's wishes were of course paramount ;
and it soon befell, that the indulgence of her will, the
right of command, the custom of seeing herself obeyed
in all things, became habitual to her at her earliest age.
She could scarcely speak, ere her voice assumed the
tone of authority ; and long before she could reckon
half a dozen years, she was mistress of the entire
household.

Her father yielded to her, from his native disposi
tion, and from affectionate tenderness towards the child
of his old age. Bethoc indulged her as the darling
nursling of her advanced years, and as all that was left
to her of one to whom she had been attached in youth,
and whom she regretted dead — for Bethoc was one of
the few who had truly and devotedly loved " the dark
lady." The waiting- women, one and all, petted and
spoiled the little girl, as the only object that presented
itself on which to indulge their feminine propensities
for fostering and cherishing all that is young and help
less. The few retainers and men-at-arms that the
thane's impoverished fortunes enabled him to maintain,
all worshipped the little Gruoch as an image of grace
and beauty and infantine loveliness, magnified all the
more by contrast with their own roughness and uncouth-

134 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

ness, and with the bare unpolished plainness of all that
surrounded her.

For in those remote times, in those periods of semi-
barbarism, a thane's castle was no fairy-bower, no
haunt of elegance and refinement ; but scantily-tapes
tried walls, strewed floors, rudely-covered tables,
turret-chambers, and rough-hewn battlements, were
the only environments that the highest Scottish lady
could then boast.

But amid such a scene, the little lady Gruoch was
gay and happy ; for she was sovereign mistress of all
she beheld, — rule and sovereignty being the dominant
desire of her nature. Short-sighted aim ! that sees not
how absolutely such worship enthralls the soul ! making
slaves of these would-be sovereigns ! bidding them for
ever bow before a self-created idol ! and cheating
them with the perpetual mockery of supreme sway,
while enforcing perpetuity of homage from themselves !

As soon as she was able to run about by herself, the
little girl found means of evading the nurse's wish to
retain her constantly within her own supervision ; and
she would stray from the women's range of apart
ments, finding her way all over the castle in the spirit
of inquisitiveness, and childish love of investigation,
and thirst for novelty.

Sometimes she would seek out her father, and take
pleasure in seeing the pleasure that always lighted up
his venerable face at the sight of hers — so beaming, so
bright in its youthful beauty. She would linger near
him, and watch him fondle his dogs, three or four of
which, of the tall Scotch breed, always accompanied
his steps, or surrounded his seat. She would listen to
the quiet tones of his voice as they spoke encourage
ment to his favourites, or uttered kindly praise and
affectionate admiration towards herself ; she would
stand close to him, that he might see how tall she grew,
and expatiate on the strange variation there was be
tween her beauty and that of her mother — the one so
dark, the other so fair — the one with ebon tresses, the

THE THANES DAUGHTER. 135

other with locks like the golden beams of morning —
the one with those full flashing orbs of sombre depth,
the other with eyes the colour of the azure lake when
it reflects the serene expanse of a summer sky.

And yet there was a latent expression, a something
antagonistic, in the clear beauty of that fair child.
Surpassingly handsome she was ; but yet a look there
was in those blue eyes, that marred their loveliness of
shape and colour, and seemed sinisterly to contradict
their attractive power. In the mouth, too, round
those full and rubious lips, and amid those exquisite
dimples, there played certain lines that presented in
dications of a startling contrast of will and unf eminine
inflexibility with so much charm of feature, which
might have produced sensations of repulsive surmise to
one accustomed to seek charm in expression rather
than in linear beauty.

But among those by whom she was surrounded, there
were no such scrutinizers — no such fastidious analyzers.
Her fond father dwelt with rapture, and almost won
der, upon the face of his little girl, and found naught
there but loveliness ; and she, gratified with praise,
Avould often come to him that she might enjoy that
which he so constantly and profusely lavished upon
her. But sated with adulation, and accustomed to in
dulgence, she soon tired of so monotonous an amuse
ment, and she lingered less and less by her old father's
side, and strayed farther and oftener in search of more
congenial entertainment, than his quiet voice, and
approving looks could afford.

She was fond of peering into the armoury, and
watching the man who had the charge of the arms, per
form his duties of cleaning, burnishing, and arranging
them, and keeping them in order, ready for use in
case of need ; as there was no knowing in those turbu
lent times, when a sudden emergency might arise for
the lord of a castle to put his men under arms for de
fence. Here she would loiter, asking a thousand ques
tions about battle-axe, pike, dagger, lance, sword, and

136 THE THANES DAUGHTER.

cross-bow ; and as the armourer polished helmet,
morion, cuirass, corselet, habergeon, and breastplate,
she would enquire the shape and meaning of each sev
eral piece of coat-of-mail, and learn curiously the use
of every separate weapon that she saw.

.She loved too, to watch the men-at-arms in the court
yard, practising their management of these different
weapons, and she would note with unwearied interest
the dexterity and skill of the retainers in these warlike
sports and exercises.

There was a nook behind one of the buttresses,
where the little girl would often ensconce herself,
whence she could see the feats of the men-at-arms
during their hours of exercise on the sward adjoining
the court-yard of the castle. Here she would lurk,
and watch, unseen ; for she had one day found her
way out of the lower apartments of the castle by a
small dismantled window, or narrow outlet, through
which she had crept to see the sword exercise, the
pike-tossing, and the cross-bow shooting.

There was one man she remarked who was peculiarly
skilful in the handling of all sorts of weapons. He
was a tall, stalwart fellow, singularly uncouth and ugly,
with wild shaggy hair, and a ferocious look. His name
was Grym. But he uniformly surpassed all his com
panions in adroitness, bold daring, activity, expertness,
and success in his feats of arms. So to this large,
ungainly, ill-favored, but triumphant giant, did the child
take a strong fancy, and he became a sort of hero,
a personification of conquest and success, a favorite
rallying point for all her wishes and interest in the
scene of contention.

Once, when there arose a dispute as to which arrow
had flown the best, and hit the nearest to the centre
of the target, several voices contending clamorously
for the rival claims of the two most successful bowmen,
— Grym and Ivan, — the little girl suddenly sprang for
ward from her nook, and joined the group of disputants,
loudly and eagerly declaring that Grym was the victor.

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 137

" Don't you see ! Don't you see !" she exclaimed,
pointing up to the mark, which was high above her
head ; " That's his shaft ! Right in the clout !"

" I'll lift you up, my young lady," said one of the
men ; " and you'll then see that Ivan's arrow is just a
point nighest. "

" Let Grym lift me up ! Here Grym ! Take
me up ! Hold me fast ! Here, don't you see, all of
you, ' ' shouted the child in all the excitement of prov
ing her words, and awarding the victory to her hero ;
while with one hand she clung round the neck of the
savage-looking archer, and with the other pointed
triumphantly to the spot where his arrow rested :
" Don't you all see that Grym's is the best shaft ?"

The child's excitement communicated itself to the
men, and they one and all shouted — Ivan and his par
tisans as eagerly as any — ' ' Grym's is the best ! Grym
is conqueror !"

From that day Grym was the avowed favorite and
playmate of the little lady Gruoch ; and his fellows
were prevented from feeling any jealousy at this
preference, in the oddity of the association ; for it was
strange to see the fair child, a thing of smiles, and
beauty, and grace, take a fancy to that grisly man-at-
arms, and cling round his great bull-neck, and nestle
within his huge stalwart arms, and make him carry
her about from place to place to show her all the curios
ities of drawbridge, portcullis, and moat, donjon-keep,
and f ortalice, tower and battlement, platform and ram
part, embrasure and loop-hole, outwork, barbican,
postern-gate, turret, and buttressed wall ; all the curi
ous places, and out-of-the-way nooks and corners about
a strongly defended castle, that possessed so won
drous an interest for an inquisitive and restless
child.

Bethoc would try to win her from this whimsical
preference, and sought to detain her within the women's
apartments by tales and legends that she thought
might amuse her fancy, and prevent her seeking enter-

138 THE THANE S DAUGHTER.

tainment from companionship and pursuits tliat the old
nurse could not but think unseemly for her charge.

She would tell her of her mother ; of her lofty na
ture, of her high birth, of her ambitious hopes ; of her
regret at the passive disposition of her lord ; of her
yearning for a son who might inherit the united honors
of the noble houses from which he sprang, and who
might win renown and added glory by his deeds of
arms. She would tell her many a romantic tradition
of her ancestors, of their heroic achievements, of their
martial feats on the battle-field, of their noble alliances,
of the mingling of even royal blood in their veins, of
the proud assertion of their rights, of their daring ex
ploits in maintenance of their claims, of their keen
sense of honor, and of their deadly resentment of
injury. There was one story that Bethoc especially
loved to tell, for it would always win Gruoch's deep
attention, and enchain her to the old nurse's side
while she related its dark terrors.

It was of how Fanella, the lady of Fettercairn, had
vowed a fatal revenge upon the reigning king, for hav
ing caused the death of her son Cruthlint. Of how
she had been sleepless in devising means for the com
passing of her vengeance. Of how she had caused
a goodly tower, adorned with copper finely engraven
with divers flowers and images, to be built adjoining
her own castle. Withinside, it was hung about with
rich arras cloth, wrought costlywise in gold and silver.
Behind this arras were cross-bows set ready bent with
sharp quarrels in them. In the midst was placed a
fine brazen image, in likeness of the king himself,
holding, in the one hand, a fair golden apple set full
of precious stones, devised with such art and cunning,
that so soon as it should be seized, or removed never
so email a space, the cross-bows would immediately
discharge their quarrels with great force and violence.

Fenella, knowing the king had a taste for comely
buildings, entreated him in seeming loyalty, that he
would honor her poor house by coming to see this

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 139

goodly tower that she had caused to be erected ; and
when he came to her castle of Fettercairn, she enter
tained him in sumptuous manner, and after meat she
led the king to behold the chamber within the tower.
Her royal guest commended much the costly taste of
the hangings and furniture, and marvelled greatly at
the image that stood in the centre, surveying it atten
tively, and asking what it might signify. The lady
Fenella told him that it was made to represent his own
royal person, and that the golden apple crusted so rich
with emeralds, sapphires, topazes, rubies, and tur
quoises, had been provided by herself as a gift for him.
This she besought him to accept in good part, though
not in value worthy to be offered unto his princely
honor and high dignity, and though it in so slight
measure carried with it the sentiments of her heart
towards his kingly person.

' ' It carried hatred and death with it to the murderer
of her son, ' ' Gruoch would mutter, as she kept her
eyes fastened on Bethoc, devouring each word that
fell from the nurse's lips.

Bethoc would shake her aged head, and speak of
leaving vengeance in the hands of Heaven : but the
story went on to say, that the lady Fenella framed
some excuse to withdraw from the king's side, feigning
to search for something in a chest or coffer that stood
in an adjoining closet. Then the king, taking much
delight in viewing the gems and orient stones, and
wishing the nearer to inspect their rare beauty,
stretched forth his hand to remove the apple, which
he had no sooner done, than incontinently the cross
bows discharged their quarrels so directly upon him,
that he fell to the ground, pierced in sundry places,
and there lay stark dead. Meantime, the king's
servants still waited in the outer chamber, awaiting
the coming forth of their royal master, with his fair
hostess. But after long abiding, and they found that
he came not back, they knocked first softly at the door ;
then more loudly ; then rapped hard and clamorously ;

140 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

and lastly, misdoubting that somewhat had happened,
they broke open door after door, until at length they
came into the chamber where the king lay cold dead
upon the floor. Then the cry and alarm was raised
by his attendants, and the lady of Fettercairn was
cursed and sought for everywhere, all men accusing
her of having committed this heinous and wicked deed.

"And Fenella ?" eagerly whispered the young
auditress.

When she beheld the king drop dead, she tarried
not a moment, but fled secretly away by a postern
door into a wood hard by, where she had appointed
horses to wait ready for her, so that she escaped all
danger of pursuit, ere the king's death was discovered.
Fenella was safe, but she was compelled to fly her coun
try ; she took refuge in Ireland, where she was fain
to abide in exile and concealment.

" But she gained her end !" was Gruoch's comment
at the conclusion of the tale.

There was a wood in the vicinity of the castle of
Moray, where the little lady Gruoch loved to wander,
and fancy it like the one which had favored the escape
of Fenella from her castle of Fettercairn. She would
make Grym carry her thither, of a bright spring or
summer morning ; and here she would play about,
attended only by her gaunt favorite, and the young
page, Culen, who, with a boy's sagacity in finding out
what he liked, and in securing it when found out,
always contrived to be of the party, when he saw Grym,
with the little lady in his arms, take the path to the
wood. Culen soon ingratiated himself with his young
lady-mistress by a thousand ingenious devices. Now
he would bring her a rustic crown and sceptre, woven
skilfully of rushes from the margin of the lake ; anon,
heaps of wild flowers to adorn her mossy throne in the
wood ; another time, feathers from the eagle's wing,
or the jay's, which he would deftly form into a sylvan
fan for her ; and sometimes he would thread scarlet

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 141

berries into chains and bracelets to hang around her
neck and arms, and twine amid her bright gold hair.

These boyish offerings were graciously accepted by
the little lady, who received them as a sort of homage
due. She even grew to take pleasure in seeing the
page constantly form one in the association that had
grown between herself and Grym — but she always
treated Culen as a vassal and an inferior, while to Grym
she behaved familiarly and almost fondly, as one in
whom she recognized that which she could admire and
respect.

And truly there was that in the uncouth Grym which
might command both admiration and respect. Not only
was there the power of conquest, and the assurance of
success in his stalwart proportions, which had originally
won the young Gruoch's regard, by appealing forcibly
to her ruling passion for supremacy and sovereignty in
the abstract, and to her unconscious tendency to attach
herself to their external images wherever they might
present themselves, — not only was there this symbol
of power in G-rym, but there was a kind heart, much
right feeling, and good sense, beneath the rough ex
terior of this huge man-at-arms.

He had a gruff voice, and an abrupt mode of speak
ing ; but he had just sentiments, and benevolent feel
ings. He was spare and curt in words ; but his heart
overflowed with honest good-meaning. His bearing
was ungain, his features were harsh, and his counte
nance was forbidding ; but he would not have hurt a
fly, and he was incapable of an ungenerous thought or
mean action.

He was keenly sensible of the fancy the beautiful
child, Gruoch, had taken to him, ugly as he was ; and
his attachment towards his young mistress was pro
found and devoted. It was unexpressed, save in ac
tion, but it was none the less ardent for its smothered
light. It burned steadily though silently, within the
recesses of his own heart.

It was like a potent spell, the hold which the young

142 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

beauty had upon the affections of those around her.
The old thane, her father ; Bethoc, the aged nurse ;
Grym, the brave man-at-arms ; Culen, the young
page ; all doted upon her very footsteps, and yielded
implicitly to the fascination which she exercised over
their feelings. It seemed impossible to behold the fair
brilliant being, and not worship the image of trium
phant beauty she presented. Her very habit of com
mand seemed to heighten her charms, and imperatively
to claim homage, admiration, and regard.

She was one day straying in the wood, attended only
by Grym, — Culen having gone to seek for some water-
lilies, that he had noted on the shores of the lake, and
intended to weave into a garland for her, — when sud
denly, on approaching the rustic seat of moss which
she was accustomed to occupy as her sylvan throne
when she rested in the wood, Gruoch perceived a fig
ure seated there, in a half -reclining attitude. It was
that of a Highlander. He seemed faint and way
worn, and drooped his head forward upon his hands,
so that his face was hidden from them as they ap
proached. At first Gruoch bade Grym go and bid the
man retire from the seat which was hers — her throne ;
but the next moment, noting his weary and dejected
attitude, she added : — " Stay, the man seems tired ;
let him come to the castle for rest and refreshment. ' '

The Highlander raised his head slowly. " There
is death at the castle !" he exclaimed solemnly.

Then steadily regarding the lady Gruoch for a few
seconds, he added : — ' ' What is it I trace on that fair
young brow ! But such weird shall not be read by
me for one that has just proffered rest and refresh
ment." And he sank into his former attitude.

" Go, Grym, and assist him to rise ;" said the little
girl. " What does he mean ? Is he sick ?"

Grym shook his head, and looked round for Culen,
that he might send for aid to the castle ; for he was
resolved not to quit his young lady's side.

The page came up at the moment, and Grym de-

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 143

spatched him for some of his fellows, that they might
come to the stranger's assistance, and support him to
the castle.

" Take me home, Grym," whispered little Gruoch.
" Take me up in your arms, I want to hold by you.
I don't like him ! Take me away !"

Grym felt the child tremble, as he lifted her up in
his arms, and bore her from the spot ; for she had
thought upon what the Highlander had said ; and, as
will sometimes happen with sounds unnoted at the mo
ment of utterance, their sense recurring afterwards, his
words now conveyed an import to her mind that they
had failed in doing at the time.

" What did he mean by ' death in the castle,'
Grym?" whispered she, after they had proceeded
some paces.

Grym only shook his head again.

" Speak, Grym — you must speak — I want to hear
your voice, ' ' said the child, grasping his shaggy hair,
and pulling his face round towards her own. " Look
at me, and tell me, Grym !"

' ' God grant it be not second-sight ! Some of these
Highlanders have the gift, ' ' muttered Grym.

" What do you mean ? ' Second-sight ! ' I don't
know what you mean, now, Grym. Speak, speak !"
And the little lady tugged and pulled at the shaggy
locks, in the vehemence of her eagerness to urge the
taciturn Grym to explain.

" We shall know soon enough, when we reach the
castle ;" said he.

Gruoch said no more, for she had fallen into a fit of
thought. She could not help dreading that something
fatal had happened to her father. Many indistinct
feelings came upon her of kindliness toward that gentle
old man, who had never thwarted her, never spoken
harsh words to her, never crossed or chidden her, but
was all indulgence, and praise, and fond admiration
for her. She had an imperfect sense of having neg
lected him, of having disregarded his wish to have

H4 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

her near him, of having almost despised his partiality
for her, and felt his fondling to be insipid, wearisome,
and distasteful. All these thoughts were vague, and
dimly felt by her ; but still they flitted athwart the
little girl's fancy, and added a sting to the pain and
grief which she began to fear might await her. She
was still a mere child, but she was old enough to feel
what remorse might be, added to the tidings of a father's
death, even though she could not have given a name to
the feeling itself.

She had scarcely crossed the drawbridge and court
yard of the castle, than she threw herself out of
Grym's arms, sprang to the ground, and rushed into
the hall where her father usually sat, surrounded by
his dogs, near the hearth. There, in his wonted place,
she found him ; and with a warmth of gratitude and
love that had never before swelled her heart, she flung
herself into his arms, weeping and sobbing upon his
breast, while she hugged him passionately and re
peatedly.

Surprised and alarmed at the violence of her emo
tion, the old thane enquired what had happened to
grieve and terrify his darling.

Grym stepping forward to relate the encounter in the
wood, and her father dreading that to hear it repeated,
would only increase the agitation of his child, desired
some one to go and fetch Bethoc, that she might
soothe and comfort her young mistress ; then bethink
ing himself, he added : — ' ' No, no, not Bethoc ! Let
some one go and bid Eoda and Lula come for their
young lady. ' '

And thus this kind-meaning, but weak parent missed
the occasion of himself ministering to the mind's
health of his daughter ; and delegated to others the
charge of bestowing sympathy and solace, which
should have been his own care in the hour of grief,
alarm, and awakened conscience.

Soon after Gruoch had been led away by her women,
she learned that the reason Bethoc had not been sum-

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 145

moned to her aid, was, that the poor old nurse had
been seized with sudden paralysis that morning, and
had expired not half an hour before her young mis
tress returned to the castle.

" Then hers was the death predicted !" thought
Gruoch. And in the relief of finding it was not her
father's, that of the aged and faithful Bethoc was
comparatively unf elt.

When those of the household who had been sum
moned by Culen to the assistance of the Highlander,
reached the wood, they found no trace of him. He
had departed, — vanished, from the spot ; and had not
Grym and the page both seen him, the men would
have believed that his having been there at all was a
mere fancy of their young mistress's. As it was, his
sudden appearance and disappearance, joined to the
circumstance of Bethoc 's death taking place precisely
when the stranger's mysterious words had foretold the
event, caused the matter to be adverted to in whispers
only, and there were few among the retainers of the
castle of Moray who did not shudder when the High
lander of the wood was mentioned. But in course of
time, the circumstance faded from their thoughts, and
it was not only no more spoken of among them, but
no more remembered.

A year or two passed away ; and for somewhile
after Bethoc's death, Gruoch's interest and attention
were drawn towards her old father in a degree that
they had never been before. She would hang about
his chair, and watch his face, and speak dutifully to
him, and try to minister to his little daily comforts,
and seek to enjoy his presence, and to give him more
of hers ; but there was something essentially unsym
pathetic in their natures that did not harmonize, or
render their companionship a comfort or a joy to
either of them. Never demonstrative or affectionate
in her manner, she felt awkward and ill at ease in the
presence of one whose gentleness and soft manners

146 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

seemed to call for some corresponding suavity on her
part. There was a perverse interchange in their re
spective positions, as it were. The father, from his
submissive, easy disposition, shrinking from authority,
which he neither exercised himself, nor resisted from
others ; the daughter, wilful, imperious, accustomed
to dictate, — they seemed unfitly associated as parent
and child. Their relations seemed reversed, and pro
duced an untoward assimilation.

She would sit at her father's feet, and gaze up into
his face, and think upon these things ; and wonder how
it should be, that with the sincere and strong attach
ment which she felt for him, — an attachment that had
caused her to start with terror from the possibility of
losing him, — still that there should be withal so little
of happiness or delight in their being together. And
yet that mild face ! That snow-white hair ! Those
bland eyes and mouth ! Surely she felt very fondly,
very pitifully towards so much meekness and softness ?
Yes, she did. But it was that very pity, that very
mingling of something akin to compassion which per
vaded all her feelings towards him, that prevented the
fulness of a daughter's love — the joy that such love
should create.

Not pity and compassion, but respect and reverence,
are the true guiding lights that should direct a child's
gaze to its parent, and that should shed a glory and a
crowning beauty around a parent's brow ; — and it was
the lack of these natural rays that darkened and
abated the joy of love which should have arisen from
Gruoch's affection for her father.

One evening as she sat there, on a low stool at his
feet, gazing as usual into his face, and thinking of
what Bethoc had told her of her mother's regret that
there should have been so little of martial ardour, of
aspiring in his nature, so total an absence of ambilion,
of thirst for preferment or advancement of any kind,
Gruoch thought how ardently she longed to pour some
of her own spirit into that placid nature ; how she

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 147

would willingly infuse some of her own youth and
vitality into his veins, where the blood flowed so
tamely and sluggishly ; how eagerly she would part
with some of her own vigour and strength, to impart
energy and impulse to those aged limbs, those supine
and flaccid muscles.

Her pity for such infirmity almost assumed the
poignancy of contempt. " Where sufferings are so
passive, ' ' thought she, ' ' what wonder that the heel
of the tyrant crushes ? Patience encourages oppres
sion. Submission courts fresh wrong. Contentment
beneath such injuries shows like crime. Would that
the old man possessed my sense of inflicting evil, my
spirit to resist it, my youth and activity to avenge and
redress !" She thought upon the shame of seeing the
wealth of a noble house mulcted to feed the royal ava
rice (for Malcolm II, the then reigning king, had
grown covetous and grasping in his old age, and op
pressed his nobles with incessant severity) ; she
thought upon the wrong and bitter degradation of
claims unmaintained, of extortions tamely submitted
to, of honors unsought, of injustice unresisted and un-
resented, until her eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed
with the burning thoughts that possessed her. Her
father happened to look upon her upturned face at this
moment, and started at the images he beheld of the
brooding wrath and vengeance that rankled at her
heart, and cast their reflex upon her countenance.

There was something so appalling in this antagonis
tic expression, which animated features of such ex
quisite beauty, that even her unobservant father could
not but perceive its effects, and he exclaimed : —
" What's the matter, my darling ? You look as
Fenella of Fettercairn might have looked, child, when
she led my royal ancestor to the fatal tower-chamber.
Don't look in that way, darling. And the old thane
passed his hand over his child's beautiful face, as if to
remove the terrible look that marred its loveliness.

" And who was Fenella ?" asked Gruoch.

148 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

" 0, she was an ancestress of your mother's ; but
don't let us think about Fenella — it's a dark story —
and not fit for my bright beauty — my innocent child. ' '
He patted her fair head, and smoothed down her long
golden locks ; and with the fatal weakness which was
a part of his exceeding gentleness, he evaded present
perplexity, instead of seizing the occasion to adminis
ter wholesome instruction, — to inculcate salutary ad
monition and precept.

Gruoch held down her head, and thought within
herself that Bethoc had already told her the story, so
that she need not care for her father's evasion. She
felt that he had put her off with this slight answer,
and she therefore indulged the triumph of knowing
that his intention was foiled by her previous acquaint
ance with the tale he would have concealed.

' ' He does not care to tell me anything, ' ' thought
she. " He does not care to talk to me. He is con
tented to sit there quietly, hardly looking at me, with
his hand upon my head." She half withdrew it from
beneath his touch, at the moment, with a suppressed
sound of annoyance. ' ' He strokes my hair, and pats
my head, just as he caresses his hounds. I wonder
whether he loves me better than one of those dogs. ' '

After a time, when the train of her reflections had a
little softened, and were somewhat less bitter, she
looked up again towards her father's face. It was
serene and calm as usual, and the eyes were closed.
He had fallen asleep quietly, with his hand upon his
child's fair head ; there was a look of deep repose,
and an almost holy benignity in his aspect, which
touched her, as the thought crossed her mind that it
was mercifully sleep, and not death, which she gazed
upon.

"Kind old father!" she muttered. "He does
love me ; and I love him !"

And Gruoch stepped softly on to the little stool from
which she had risen, and leaned over him, and kissed
the face of her father as he slept.

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 149

But gradually the old restlessness returned ; and
Gruoch found the constant companionship of her par
ent as irksome as ever. She loved him (as has been
said), and felt dutifully towards him ; more affection
ately, perhaps, since the emotion of anxiety she had
experienced for his life ; but after a time, she stayed
with him but a brief portion of the day. She resumed
her old haunts, renewed her association with Grym,
sought her former pursuits, and learned to add new and
other amusements to those she had formerly found in
company with her ungain favorite, and the young page,
Culen.

The latter had now grown a tall stripling ; but his
devotion to his young lady -mistress bore full propor
tion to his growth. It increased with his height ;
which is not always the case with the liking of boys,
at his age. A boy will often feel a strong attachment
to a little girl, while they are both so young, as to
make them mere children together ; but when he starts
up into a tall lad, a youthful man, he is apt to acquire
notions of importance and superiority, that make him
treat the little girl as a child still, while he considers
himself a man.

Not only, however, did the authoritative manner,
and commanding style of beauty, that distinguished
the young lady Gruoch, tend to preserve her influence
over the lad's feelings ; but her superior rank, and
relative position with himself, served to maintain respect
and admiration on his part towards her. Her command
ing mien has been more than once alluded to, but this
arose from no advantage of height. Her figure was
small and slight, her stature diminutive, her com
plexion delicately fair, which gave her the appearance
of being younger than she really was ; but the effect
of her personal charms upon all those within the sphere
of her influence was potent, impressive, and irresist
ible. Many little women have been known to possess
this ascendency over mankind.

But she was still a very young girl, when once, she

150 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

and Grym happened to be practising with bow and
arrows at a mark, that had been set up at one end of
the long platform on the ramparts of the castle, which
has before been alluded to as adjoining the women's
range of apartments. This was a favorite pastime
with her, and she had attained some skill under the
teaching of the veteran man-at-arms. She was just
in the act of fixing a fresh shaft, and preparing to take
aim again, when her eye caught sight of the page,
who approached along the range of platform, tossing
lightly up and down something which he held in his
hand, and which was gay and parti-coloured.

" What is that, Culen ? A ball ! And how light,
and how well made ! Is it for me ?"

" Yes, my lady, it is for you. I made it, hoping
you would like to have it. ' '

" It is very handsome ! Thank you, Culen ; I like
it very much. How well you have made it ! How
bright the colours are ! And how well it flies !"

The young lady tossed the ball high in the air, and
watched it with her upturned face, and sprang forward
to catch it as it fell.

" Throw it straight up, or you'll pitch it over into
the court-yard below, my lady, ' ' said Grym, as he
walked to the other end of the platform, to collect the
arrows from the target, ready for his young mistress
when she might choose to resume the sport, after tiring
of her new plaything.

She continued for some minutes tossing up the ball,
and watching the flying gay colours ; while the page
stood by, to look upon the bright beautiful face, the
graceful form that bounded to and fro in agile pursuit.

When she ceased for a moment, panting, smiling,
and out of breath, Culen said ; — " I have something
else to show you, that I think will please your ladyship ;
I found it out yesterday. There are plenty about the
castle heights ; but this one is so near that you can see
right into it, and watch the birds. ' '

The page stepped upon a stone ledge which formed

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 151

a kind of seat in a recess of the battlemented outer
wall that skirted the platform ; and signed to his young
mistress that she should silently follow his example,
and peep over. She climbed up by his side ; and
looked over the ridge of the wall, in the direction of
his finger. Upon a slight jutting point, — a timeworn
inequality of the wall, a pair of martlets had built their
nest ; and from the spot where the young lady and
the page stood, they could see the callow nestlings
with their gaping mouths ; they could watch the par
ent birds take short wheeling flights, and return to
hover at the opening of the nest, and supply their
young ones with food.

For some time Gruoch continued to watch this pretty
sight with interest ; then she stepped down from the
stone seat, and began to toss her ball again. Suddenly
it swerved in its upward flight, and fell just beyond
the wall.

The page sprang to the spot he had just quitted, and
exclaimed : — ' ' I see it ! It has lodged just below the
nest ! Look ! On that frieze, that range of fretwork
just beneath !"

" I see it ! I see it !" cried Gruoch, who had
stepped up again by his side. ' ' It looks quite near !
What a pity we can't reach it ! 0 my beautiful ball !"

" If I had but a ledge ever so small to set my foot
upon, I could get it ; I know I could !" exclaimed
Culen. " It's quite close, I could be over in a mo
ment !"

" Would you venture ?" said his young mistress,
looking at him approvingly.

" That I would ! I could get it in an instant, if I
had but a spot to step my foot upon — ever such a
point would do ! If the martlet's nest were not there,
now, that would be quite room enough !"

" But we can soon dislodge the nest, if that's all !"
exclaimed Gruoch. " Here's one of Grym's long
shafts — that'll do exactly to poke it off with."

" Oh no !" said the page hastily.

152 THE THANES DAUGHTER.

" Are you afraid ?" said she, looking at him ab
ruptly.

" No, not that ; but I don't like — I can't push the
nest off, ' ' said Culen.

" Then I will ! Give me the arrow !" she ex
claimed.

Gruoch leaned over the edge ; fixed the point of the
arrow into the caked mud and earth which fastened the
nest to the jutting point ; loosened it ; raised it ; and
in another moment, the martlet's home with its un
fledged tenants, spun whirling through the air, and
was scattered to pieces, striking against the buttresses
and rough-hewn walls. She stayed not to note its
career, but turned to the page.

" Now, Culen ! It was a brave offer ! Have you
courage ? I will hold your hand firm ! Give it me."

The page seized the beautiful little hand that was
held out to him, and taking the arrow in the other,
that he might reach and secure the soft ball with it, he
climbed over the edge of the outer wall, which was nar
rower there, on account of the deep recess that was
made in its thickness, and formed the ledge on which
they stood.

But when he set his foot upon the jutting point
which had lately held the nest, and then planted the
other foot on the same spot, and after that, carefully
stooped down, and stretched his arm out, so as to stick
the arrow into the ball, that he might raise it, and
convey it to the top of the wall, — he had no sooner
effected this, than he suddenly felt his head reel, and
his eyes swim at the unaccustomed height over which
he hung suspended, merely sustained by that frail sup
port.

He closed his eyes for an instant, and struggled to
nerve himself boldly against the thought of the small
point on which he stood, and to shut out the view of
the depth beneath him.

Gruoch felt the spasmodic twitch that these sensa
tions communicated to the hand she grasped.

THE THANE' S DAUGHTER 153

" Keep firm, Culen ! Hold fast my hand ! I have
yours tight !" And the small hand never trembled,
or wavered, but clutched close, like a vice.

Her voice did him good ; her tone of resolution in
spired him, her steady grasp encouraged him ; and he
was enabled to recall his dizzied senses.

He looked up, and as he beheld that exquisite face
leaning over towards him, anxiety and interest in each
lineament, and wish for his success beaming in every
feature, he flung up the ball from the point of the
arrow, and strove to regain the top of the wall.

But on raising his arm to the edge, he found he
should not be able to obtain sufficient purchase, — even
when he should gain the assistance of the other hand
which was now held by Gruoch, — to enable him to
draw himself up that height. The point upon which he
stood afforded too little space, the weight of his body was
too great, to allow of his climbing up again unassisted.

The page cast one look of mute dismay towards his
young mistress.

She perceived his peril.

" Keep a brave heart, Culen ! Hold my hand
steadily ! You are safe, fear not !" she exclaimed.
" Here, Grym ! Grym ! Come here ; make haste.
Help, Grym !— help !"

The whole scene has occupied some time to relate ;
but it had in fact passed so rapidly, that by no means
a long time had elapsed since Grym had retreated to
the other end of the platform to fetch the arrows.
While occupied in collecting them, he had not perceived
what had been going on at that distance ; but he now
hastened to the spot, on hearing his young lady's call
for assistance.

He soon perceived the emergency ; and hardly giv
ing utterance to his thought : — " What have these
children been about ?" he leaned over the top of the
wall, and seizing Culen 's hand from Gruoch in his own
herculean grip, he drew him carefully, but readily,
from his perilous position.

154 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

The first impulse of the kind-hearted bow-man, was
to hug the lad in his arms, and to enquire whether he
was hurt ; the next was to shake him by the scuff of
his neck, and to ask him gruffly, " What d'ye mean
by playing such fool's tricks, master page ? Don't
you see how you've frightened my young lady, here ?"

And as they both looked at Gruoch, they saw her
turn pale ; she staggered forward, and would have
fallen to the ground, had not Grym caught her in his
arms.

" Poor lamb !" he muttered, as he bore her gently
to her own apartments, to recover ; " She's as tender
hearted as she's beautiful. "

" And she feels thus for me !" whispered Culen's
heart, as he stood rooted to the spot, his cheek flushed,
and his chest heaving, at the thought.

They were wrong. Neither the page nor the man-
at-arms guessed that her swoon was the effect of mere
physical sympathy ; a sickening sense of danger past ;
a reaction of the nerves, — braced for the moment by
strength of will, with an object in view, — but suddenly
relaxed from their tension, by the native weakness of
a frame less powerful than her spirit.

Years passed on. The handsome girl became a
confirmed beauty ; the wilful child became the deter
mined woman ; for with such a character as hers,
youth early acquires the self-possession and decision
which in softer natures belongs only to a more ad
vanced maturity : and Gruoch, still in her non-age,
and in person singularly delicate, was yet in. spirit, in
bearing, in formed opinion, a woman.

Her affection for her father was the tenderest senti
ment she felt ; but it was the tenderness of pity, of
protection. Her partiality for Grym was the most ac
tive preference she had ; and this displayed itself in
familiar treatment, esteem for his good qualities, con
fidence, companionship, and mutual ease of intercourse.
Her liking for the page partook of kindly tolerance ;

THE THANES DAUGHTER. 155

and she accepted his services, and his devotion to her
every wish, as those of a faithful serf, or of an at
tached and favorite spaniel. She had ever been ac
customed to regard him in the light of entire inferi
ority, so that he scarcely presented himself to her mind
as one of the same race with herself, and she would
as soon have dreamed of one of her father's hounds
conceiving a passion for her, as have entertained the
most remote suspicion of the one which glowed in the
heart of the brave and handsome Culen.

His very personal advantages were unnoted by her
as belonging to manly beauty. He seemed scarce a
man, to her ; he was a page, a retainer, a servant —
no more.

The constant sense of his subordinate state, rendered
her blind to the traces of feeling in him, as to the
traits which exteriorly distinguished him ; she was as
far from guessing the love that lurked in his heart, as
she was from perceiving the graces that adorned his
person ; and she as little noted the evidences of the
passion that burned within, as the eyes themselves,
which shot forth such ardent expression. The altered
voice, the changed colour, the checked respiration, the
agitated frame, at her unexpected approach, or her sud
den address, no more struck her than did the well-
favored countenance, the handsome figure, or the
comely bearing of the young man. Had he possessed
the brilliant advantages of nobility, or even gentle
blood, it might have lent her light to discern his native
merits, — but wanting this grace, the rest were as
naught in her eyes. She was not even aware of their
existence.

One evening she had been pacing the castle platform,
enjoying the purity of the mountain air, and the pleas
ant warmth of the sun, which shed a glowing beauty
upon all around, — valley, lake, and hill lying steeped
in the golden light, ere the setting glory should depart.
She was attended as usual by Grym and Culen, with
the former of whom she was discussing the incidents

156 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

and success of a falcon match that they had flown to
gether the day before. From hawking, they went on
to talk of other sports, and the lady Gruoch took oc
casion to acknowledge the obligations her skill owed
to Grym's tuition. In alluding to archery, she was
reminded of her childish exploits with the bow, and of
the scene which had taken place while they were prac
tising on the very rampart where they now stood.

" I have hardly looked over there, since that time,"
said she, stopping at the recess in the battlemented
wall. " Here's the very spot ! Do you remember,
Culen ? where you climbed over for my ball ; and
where you turned so giddy at the moment, and I so
faint afterwards ? Give me your hand ; I'll look over
now."

" She stepped up, on to the stone ledge, as she
spoke ; Grym supporting her on one side, Culen hold
ing her hand, as she bade him, on the other. But he
was fain to rest his elbow on the ridge of the wall, for
the purpose of steadying the hand which held hers,
that she might not perceive it tremble. She spoke to
Grym on the singular power of height ; of the invol
untary submission of the nerves to its influence ; of
the physical effect it has been known to have upon the
stoutest hearts ; upon the ability to resist this effect ;
of the possibility of subduing it by practice, and by
habituating the frame to such trials. She spoke of
endurance, fortitude, bravery, and of her admiration
and emulation of such virtues. Of strength, and of
courage, and of how she marvelled that any one could
rank softness and sweetness by their side.

" Of what use are these so-called virtues ?" said
she. " Do they gain anything? Do they serve to
win one high object ? One single end worthy of at
tainment ? Softness, sweetness, meekness, gentleness,
and a whole tribe of these washy goodnesses, were
only styled virtues by knaves who sought to take ad
vantage of the easy prey which such a creed would
produce them in its professors."

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 157

" Then you, my lady, would not give your vote for
our new king Duncan, if monarchy went by election, ' '
said Grym.

' ' Not I, in faith, ' ' answered the lady. ' ' He seems
to be too like his predecessor ; who built churches,
when he should have erected fortifications against the
Danish inroads ; gave his people public prayers to say,
when he should have filled their hungry mouths ; sent
forth his book of Regia Majestas under pretence of
wisely establishing laws and ordinances for the govern
ment of his realm, when he might have advanced their
honor and glory by conquest and worthy achievement ;
and so got the name of sanctity, while he outraged all
godliness by his avarice and his selfishness. Out upon
such carpet virtues, which might show well enough in
a clerkly monk, but beseem not a monarch, a Scottish
sovereign ! And when, pray, is this gracious meek
ness, this new-inflicted suavity, this milk-and-water
amiability to be crowned ?"

" This day sennight is appointed for the convocation
of nobles at Scone, my lady ;" replied Grym. "The
coronation is to be celebrated with great magnificence,
they say. ' '

" And how do the people stand affected to the new
sovereign?" asked his mistress. "Does report say
whether he be popular ? Though all new monarchs
are popular, as a matter of course. ' '

" Public opinion hath two voices just now ;" said
Grym. " Though most men are loud in their praises
of the good king Duncan, there are not wanting those
who say his cousin Macbeth would have better filled
the throne. He is a right valiant gentleman, and hath
well-nigh as close claims to the monarchy as the king
himself, being descended in the like right line ; for
Macbeth is the son of the one daughter of our late
Malcolm II, as Duncan is the other."

' ' Then why not have chosen the valiant knight, instead
of the carpet knight ? Why not Macbeth, rather than
Duncan, if they possess equal claims ?" asked Gruoch.

158 THE THANES DAUGHTER.

" Because Duncan's mother was the elder of the
two sisters ;" replied Grym. " Besides, it is whis
pered that the valour of Macbeth partakes of somewhat
more than hardihood and bravery, and that to what his
partizans call courage, his enemies might give the
harsher name of cruelty. ' '

' ' The bold and daring never want for enemies among
the weak and timid, who are legion ;" said lady
Gruoch ; ' ' and who stigmatize that which they cannot
hope to emulate."

While she thus conversed, she had remained half
sitting, half kneeling, in the recess, and had be^n lean
ing upon the ridge of the wall, or rather upon the arm
of the page ; who perceiving that she still rested upon
the stone ledge, and wishing to preserve her shoulder
from its hard contact, had placed his arm so that she
might have its intervention.

She leaned upon it as she would have done upon a
cushion, or upon his cloak, had he folded it into
one for the purpose ; totally unconscious that
the support she used was human in its sense of her
touch, or that there was human sympathy, human
affection, human passion, beating at the heart close
beside her.

Every pulse, every fibre of the arm upon which she
leaned, thrilled with the consciousness of its contact
with the fair body that it upheld ; but it might have
been a mere mat, for aught she knew of the sensations
with which it was instinct.

"If it were not that all the world is sunk into
apathy, and infatuated with seeming virtues and inglo
rious love of ease, ' ' continued the lady, ' ' public opin
ion could have had but one voice, and that voice would
have been for valiant Macbeth, instead of the poor-
spirited Duncan. Were all men of my mind, better
befits a sceptre be wielded with harshness and glory,
than with infructuous mildness. These are no times
for milk-sop kings ! All men should be soldiers — and
kings, most of all men !"

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 159

" All men should be soldiers ?" echoed Culen half
unconsciously.

" Ay, master page. Though I thank you for your
pains to save my shoulder from the hard edge of this
stone wall ; yet methinks I could better like to see
your good right arm strike a firm blow in Scotland's
cause, than benumb itself into a cushion for a lady's
back, though the back be mine own. ' '

" And have I your ladyship's leave to seek service
in the field ?" asked Culen, his eyes sparkling at the
thought of winning favor in hers. ' ' If my lord, your
father, and yourself, sanction my leaving the castle of
Moray, I ask no better fortune than the chance of show
ing my lady that the arm has been nerved to achieve
ment, not 'numbed to inaction, by having had the
honor to serve her for a cushion. ' '

" Well said, Culen ;" said the lady Gruoch, looking
at him with a smile of approval ; "I will myself obtain
my father's consent to your quitting our inglorious
castle of ease : to your exchanging this dull, stagnant,
slothful vegetation, for a life of action, of glory, honor,
and renown. Would my mother's wish had been ac
complished ! Would I were a man to go forth with
you ! You should be my trusty squire, and Grym, my
faithful man-at-arms ; — and so should the knight of
Moray set forth to the field doughtily equipped !
Would I had indeed been born a man !"

The lady Gruoch arose thoughtfully ; and quitted
the ramparts, that she might seek her father, and in
form him of Culen's suit ; which, strengthened by her
own representation, could not fail of success, for she
was never refused a single point she desired to carry
with her fond old parent.

Culen watched the retiring form of his beautiful
lady, and as it receded from his view, a shadow fell
upon him ; for he remembered that his desire to take
arms, would involve his banishment from her presence,
in which, till now, his existence had been spent. But
the thought of her bright smile, when he had proclaimed

160 THE THANES DAUGHTER.

his desire to become a soldier, shed its light once
more upon his spirit, and he eagerly entered into con
sultation with Grym, how best he might carry out his
desire of winning advancement abroad ; with which he
secretly hoped some day to return home, that he might
lay its trophies at the feet of his mistress. A lurking,
half-defined sense there was, that he should thus raise
himself more nearly to her own level ; a successful
soldier of fortune approaching a poor thane's daughter
less hopelessly, than a humble page, — a retainer of
her father's ; at any rate, he knew that to be a
soldier at all, was one step in her regard, and that
sufficed to inspire him with hope and courage for
the present.

At first he thought of seeking service under this very
Macbeth, the " right valiant gentleman" of whom they
had just been speaking ; but Grym told him, that he
thought he could obtain (through means of one of the
monks whom he had formerly known, when a lad, at
the nearest abbey) a recommendation to Banquo, the
thane of Lochaber, a worthy leader, and a renewed
warrior ; who, if he would let Culen fight beneath his
banners, his training as a soldier, and his subsequent
success in arms was secured. And thus it was con
cluded upon. And in a few days, Culen, no longer a
page, left the castle«of Moray, to seek his fortune as a
soldier. In parting with him, the gentle old Kenneth
had bestowed a kindly benison on him ; Grym had
growled him some rough but sensible advice ; and the
lady Gruoch had given him her hand to kiss ; which
favor he had knelt to receive, and which had done
much to console him for the sacrifice he made in leav
ing her. No thought reached her of the emotion that
filled his heart, as he knelt before her, and vowed to
win all his honors in the name of her who had sent
him forth, and to ascribe to her inspiration all the
glory he trusted to achieve. She was proud to behold
the champion whom her ardour had animated, but no
surmise that his own passion, no less than her words,

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 161

had been the animating cause of his championship,
crossed her mind for an instant.

For sometime after Culen's departure, the castle of
Moray seemed to sink into more than the usual state
of dullness and stagnation, of which its young mistress
had complained.

But one day its inhabitants were thrown into a state
of unwonted excitement and interest, by the arrival of
two strangers at the gates, who entreated to speak
with Kenneth, thane of Moray, and his fair daughter,
the lady Gruoch.

One of these strangers was a Highlander, habited of
course in the costume of his mountain home ; the
other, a young damsel, who was closely shrouded in
her tartan plaid, which she wore over her head and
shoulders ; but who, from the glimpse the attendants
caught of her countenance, as they ushered the stran
gers into the presence of their lord and lady, they pro
nounced to be " bonnie beyond ordinar. ' '

But no sooner had the lady Gruoch looked upon the
strangers, than she recognized in the man, the High
lander she had some years before encountered in the
wood. She was about to utter some exclamation of
surprise, but she checked hefself, and listened to
what he was saying in reply to a question her father
had asked, as to what had brought them to- the castle.

The Highlander said that he was travelling in search
of employment for his only child, his daughter Doada ;
that she played the harp passing well ; that the monks
at the neighbouring abbey had told him that she would
most likely find entertainment and favor at the castle
of Moray with the lady Gruoch, who probably loved
music. That he would fain have kept his child at
home in his mountain hut, but that the nipping of hard
times had left no other alternative than that of employ
ing her talent, or starving together. That he hoped
that the lord of Moray and his fair daughter would give
Doada leave to let them hear her skill on the instru
ment she bore beneath her plaid ; then signing to the

1 62 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

damsel, she threw back her tartan screen, and disclos
ing a face of great loveliness, amid a profusion of gold
en hair, she began to play.

The sounds she drew from the instrument were
sweet and full ; but when she accompanied them with
her voice, pouring forth strains of purity, and beauty,
and chanting songs f ull of variety, now of pathos, now
of animation, the venerable Kenneth listened en
tranced, and sat rapt by the delicious music, with
which the young damsel's harp and voice filled the
hall.

The lady Gruoch listened too, but it was musingly ;
and as if her thoughts were not entirely engrossed by
the strains she heard. She looked upon the beautiful
face of the damsel, but now and then her glance was
directed towards the Highlander, who leaned upon his
staff, and watched his daughter with eyes of affection
ate admiration.

He raised them with gratitude towards the old thane,
when he declared that he had never heard anything
like the charm of the damsel's harping and singing,
and that her music and her beauty were those of an
angel.

While her father was occupied with the Highlander
and his daughter, the lady Gruoch had noted Grym
enter the hall, who, with his fellows, had crept in, to
hear the stranger's music.

She beckoned the man-at-arms to her side, and by
a glance indicating the Highlander, she whispered : —
" Is it not he ?"

" It is the same, sure enough," replied Grym. " I
knew him again the moment I cast my eyes on him,
and I wondered, would your ladyship do so too. Shall
I bid him begone, my lady ? Do you dislike his pres
ence ?" added he.

" No, no ; I do not fear him now. I was a child
then, and dreaded every shadow, I suppose. I will
speak to him ; I only wished to be sure that my recol
lection served me aright. ' '

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 163

The lady Gruoch moved to rejoin her father ; who
was still intent upon Doada and her music. He had
promised that she should remain as a companion to his
daughter at the castle of Moray, and delight them with
her marvellous skill, saying that he should be well
pleased to add to his retainers a damsel of such merit.

Her Highland father seemed gladdened by the
promise, and by the prospect of such a home was
secured for his child. He only entreated that she
might be permitted to come and see her old mountain
home every few months or so, and rejoice the heart of
her fond father with the sight of her bonny face, and
with the assurance that she was well and happy.
" That thought will keep me company, and serve to
make the solitary hut, over beyond the hills, blithe and
cheery, ' ' said the Highlander in conclusion ; ' ' and I
can now return there with a light heart, though alone.
Bless thee, my child, bless thee, my Doada !"

His daughter clung to him, and he embraced her
fervently. Then repeating his thanks to Kenneth for
the protection he afforded, and bowing lowly to the
thane's daughter, the Highlander was turning to de
part, when the lady Gruoch looked him steadily in the
face, and arrested his steps by that look, as well as by
saying :—

" The death you foretold, befell ; and now I would
fain hear the other weird you were about to read that
morning. Speak !"

The Highlander passed his hand across his brow,
muttering, as he gazed at the lady Gruoch : —

" I remember now ! The castle of Moray ! Ay,
there was death there, then ! Somewhat else there
was, I dimly saw, but cared not to read, to one who
had offered help. My hour was then upon me. My
hour of darkness and of light. Darkness to the soul,
light to the vision. When my hour is upon me, I see
more than is given to ordinary human ken. ' '

" And is not your hour upon you now ? Speak,
old man ! Read my weird now !" said lady Gruoch.

164 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

The Highlander still gazed upon her ; but he shook
his head, and laid his finger upon his lip.

' ' How came it you were no longer in the wood, when
assistance was sent to you ? Who are you ? What
are you ?" asked she hurriedly.

' ' I am a poor Highlander, my lady. I had wandered
across the hills to these parts, on an errand to the ab
bey near here, where I knew I should find help. I
saw your ladyship, that morning, — I now recollect,
— in the wood, where I had set me down to rest. In
the kindly .impulse of youth, you offered me aid, but
when you withdrew, I knew not that you had gone to
seek it, and send it me. When you left the spot, I
arose and resumed my path to the abbey, where I
found that I sought, and returned forthwith to my
mountain home, whence I have never since strayed,
till compelled to do so for my child's sake. I could
have borne want myself, but cannot look upon her
starvation."

' ' She shall find a home here, ' ' said lady Gruoch
graciously ; ' ' the pleasure her melody gives to my
father, would alone make her a welcome inmate to his
daughter. She shall dwell with us."

" And you will let her father's eyes behold her oc
casionally ?" asked the Highlander, after renewing his
thanks.

' ' I will myself send her to see you, safely escorted ;"
said Gruoch. " Meantime, among my maidens, she
shall be nearest to my person, in token of the favor in
which her skill is held. ' '

She turned to speak some words of encouragement
to the timid Doada ; and the Highlander, blessing
heaven for the auspicious prospects of his child, once
more embraced her, bowed lowly, and withdrew.

The presence of the fair young damsel, and her
passing excellence in song, served well to enliven the
monotony of existence in the castle of Moray ; and she
soon became a universal favorite. Even with the

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 165

waiting- women, who shared her attendance upon the
lady Gruoch, she was looked upon with no envy or
suspicion, when it was found that she made no attempt
to supersede them in the good graces of their mistress.
She was modest, retiring, and unassuming even to
timidity ; and devoted herself almost wholly to enter
taining the old thane's solitary hours with her music.
She seemed never to weary of singing and playing to
him, while the venerable Kenneth was equally un
wearied ia deriving pleasure from the exercise of her
gift.

Gruoch seemed well-pleased that there should be
this source of gratification added to the few that ex
isted for her quiet old father, and treated the Highland
girl with consideration for his sake ; else there was lit
tle intercourse between the lady of the castle and her
timid handmaiden, Doada. To the lady Gruoch her
self, the still-life of the castle seemed as unbroken,
dull, and irksome as ever.

However, soon there came tidings of an event that
promised to supply food for curiosity and interest to
all within the walls of the castle.

A horseman rode up to the gates, bringing a missive
to the lord of Moray from a former companion-in-arms,
Sinel, thane of Glamis ; who informed his old friend,
that his son, Macbeth, was abroad on a martial expe
dition, which would take him through that part of the
country ; that his son, therefore, craved leave to call
upon the venerable friend of his father, and pay his
respects to the lord of Moray, and to his fair daughter,
the lady Gruoch, of whose charms, fame had spread
report, even so far as to his castle of Inverness.

' ' Gladly indeed, shall I welcome the brave son of
my brave old comrade. And how far hence is thy
lord, good fellow ?" said Kenneth to the messenger.
" When may we expect the approach of valiant Mac
beth ?"

" My lord will be here to-night ;" replied the man.
" I outrode his company but a few hours. He sent

1 66 THE THANE S DAUGHTER.

me on to bring your lordship intelligence of his arrival,
with his father's letter."

The news spread of the expected approach of the
renowned visitor ; and all was anticipation among the
inhabitants of the castle. Every one desired to behold
the illustrious chieftain, one of the first soldiers of the
age, a military hero, a noble of blood-royal, a cousin
of the king himself. Hasty preparations were made
to receive the honored guest with due hospitality ; and
all that could be done in the small space of time that
intervened, was done, that a well-spread board and
fitting apartments might be prepared for the feasting
and accommodation of Macbeth and his company.

In those rude times, the bare necessaries of life —
mere beef and bread, were to be had in abundance, at
a small cost, when no season of dearth occurred ; and
though they were but scantly cooked, and roughly set
forth, yet the appetites of men inured to hardships of
the battlefield, were not likely to be fastidious, any
more than their limbs were disdainful of repose found
in ill-furnished chambers ; and thus, food and a roof,
such only as the old thane's resources could command,
would be no unwelcome hospitality to a warrior and
his company of soldiers after a day's march.

Macbeth arrives. The old thane receives him
warmly, as a worthy representative of Sinel, his father,
whom Kenneth remembers a prodigy of valour, when
his own less daring spirit yet generously bade him take
pride in the deeds of his friend. The handsome war
rior receives courteously the commendations of his
father's friend, and adds farther greetings to those
contained in the letter. The lady Gruoch joins her
welcome to that of her parent ; and while the gracious
words flow from her lips, Macbeth looks upon her sur
passing beauty, and his heart owns he has never be
held charms of equal potency with those of the thane's
daughter. There is something in those azure eyes that
compels and enthrals his gaze ; their fascination is only
rivalled by the brilliancy of her complexion, by the

THE THANHS DAUGHTER. 167

lustre of her golden hair, and above all, by the magic
of a commanding presence, which asserts the claim of
such a combination of beauty to homage and admira
tion. Nothing unwilling, the chieftain yields himself
more and more to the spell ; he cannot withdraw his
gaze, nor does he desire so to do. He is content to
submit his senses to this new and intoxicating influ
ence ; content also to find that his gaze nowise seems
to distress or oppress the object of his fixed regard.
She is animated, self-possessed, radiant in conscious
charms, performing the duties of hostess, and presid
ing at the festal supper-table with ease and grace.
Her retired life has induced no bashful embarrassment,
no rustic awkwardness ; she seems born a queen, and
her seclusion from society appears only to have allowed
free field for the growth of her natural refinement and
elevation of demeanour. She converses with freedom,
discovering intelligence and decision of opinion. Her
bearing is majestic, yet affable ; lofty, yet courteous ;
dignified, yet attractive. Her eyes beam with spirit
and fire, yet possess alluring beauty in their blue
depths ; the rich carnation of the lips has voluptuous
softness in its pouting fullness ; and though there
lurks cruelty and unrelenting in those deeply indented
corners, yet dimples, and seductive smiles play around,
and help to conceal the sinister inflexibility.

By degrees, he discovers yet a new charm amidst so
much beauty. He sees a something of answering
admiration in the manner in which the bright flashes
of those azure eyes met his. The handsome person of
the chieftain, the ardour of his manner, the spirit of
his converse, all coming to confirm the impression
which his previous reputation had created upon her
imagination, leads her to regard him with scarcely less
admiration than he does her ; and their mutual looks
and discourse grow more and more animated, and re
veal more and more how each is struck and enchanted
with the other. The gentle remarks and kindly
speeches of the old thane fall almost totally disregard-

1 68 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

ed, while the attention of the young people becomes
every instant more exclusively devoted to each other.

Suddenly the sound of music is heard. At a signal
from the lord of Moray, the Highland maiden has been
sent for into the supper-hall, and now strikes a few
chords on her harp by way of a prelude to the song he
has requested.

" Doada will sing to us, my lord ;" said Kenneth
to his guest. " Her music is worthy your ear, I can
assure you."

" What name did you say ? How called you the
maiden ?" said Macbeth, abruptly regarding her.

The damsel blushed, at the sudden gaze of one so
illustrious, till the blood flew over neck and brow, and
her fair skin showed the suffusion so apparently, that
a lily seemed suddenly transformed to a rose.

Gruoch's face flashed scarlet too.

Kenneth repeated Doada' s name to his guest ; and
then bade her play and sing one of his favorite airs.

The damsel obeyed. But though the strain was
plaintively sweet, the guest soon forgot to give it his
attention, in resuming his conversation with the lady
Gruoch. They talked in a half -whisper out of defer
ence to the old thane's love of music, but they did not
share his enthusiasm, scarcely affecting to note the song
or the singer. Indeed, it was evident that the fair host
ess preferred engrossing his attention herself, and he ap
peared to pursue her inclination with no unwillingness.

But when the music came to a close, Kenneth can
vassed applause for his favorite Doada ; and he drew
his guest's attention to her again by asking if they did
not possess minstrelsy in their poor castle of Moray
worthy even of royal hearing.

" Ay, by my faith ;" replied Macbeth. " And the
darisel is as fair as she is gifted. I scarce ever be
held hair so beautiful. Golden locks such as are found
in the castle of Moray, are rather of heaven than of
earth. They are what we fancy beaming around
angelic heads."

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 169

The chieftain's look rested again upon the lady
Gruoch as he spoke ; and the scarlet flush which had
once more sprung up in her cheek, had scarcely faded
away, when he thus resumed his gaze, and found her
in heightened colour looking more bright, more beauti
ful, than ever.

Before the company retired for the night, Macbeth
bade his aged host farewell, saying that he and his
retinue would in all probability have left the castle be
fore the old thane would be stirring. He asked his
leave to depart thus abruptly, as it behoved him to be
at some miles' distance from the castle of Moray be
fore noon on the following day. When his host ex
pressed regret at parting with him so soon, the chieftain
told him that he had hopes of being able to return in
a day or two, — it might be on the very morrow of his
departure ; and, therefore, if he would let him do so,
he should return to the castle of Moray, and lengthen
his visit to his father's friend, and improve his own
acquaintance with the venerable thane and his daughter.
This prospect was eagerly greeted both by Kenneth and
the lady Gruoch, whose sanction had been included by
a beseeching glance in the leave which Macbeth had
asked of her father for this renewal of his visit. With
mutual interest and liking on all sides, they parted ; and
in a short time, all within the castle seemed slumber ajid
repose.

Yet within the chamber of the lady Gruoch there
was neither. Her heart knew no peace, her frame no
rest. Agitated as she had never been before, she
paced her room for many a long hour through the
night. It seemed as if in action alone she could meet
and contend with the busy tide of thoughts and emo
tions that pressed, and heaved, and whelmed around
her.

Paramount above all, was the image of Macbeth.
His martial bearing, his handsome person, his ardour
of admiration for herself, all claimed her woman's pref
erence, and won him her regard, her individual liking.

170 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

His illustrious birth, his military renown, his dis
tinguished position, were so many accumulated appeals
to her ambitious nature, and fulfilled the highest
requisitions of her aspiring fancy as to what that man
should be with whom she would desire to link her fate.

In every respect he embodied the ideal she had con
ceived of a hero whom she could love, whom she could
seek to win ; and this very hero she dared to believe
she already saw won, at her feet, at her disposal, to
accept, or to reject.

Was it indeed so ? Might she believe that he was as
much enthralled as his eyes had declared ? Might she
believe that her beauty had sufficed to secure so im
portant a conquest ? Was he indeed so surely won,
so entirely hers ?

And then came the thought that had flashed into scar
let witness upon her cheek, when it had first crossed her
mind, as she beheld the glance he gave towards Doada,
when he heard her name. Again she felt the pang
that darted athwart her heart, as she heard him praise
the Highland maiden's golden hair ; and though the
praise was followed closely by words that directed the
compliment as much to herself — yet the mere thought
of sharing his admiration with another was not to be
endured, and she muttered with clenched teeth and
hands : —

" She shall go. She shall be here no longer to
meet his eye when he returns. On the morrow of the
day which is now dawning, he said his return might
be. Before this day's sun sets, she shall be far on her
way to her mountain home. No minstrel girl, — be her
name never so soft, her hair never so bright, — shall
come between me and my hope ! She goes !"

No sooner had Macbeth and his train departed, after
an early morning meal, than the lady Gruoch told the
Highland maiden, Doada, that she intended to allow
her to go and pay the visit to her father which had
been promised when he left her at the castle ; and
that as well-nigh three months had elapsed since his

THE THANES DAUGHTER. 171

departure, they would doubtless be happy to meet and
spend some time together. She gave her leave to re
main for a stated period, adding many gracious words
as to the loss that the want of her music would prove
to the lord of Moray and herself, and bestowing upon
her several useful and handsome presents to her father,
together with some gifts and tokens of approbation
for herself.

The damsel blushed her gratitude and thanks ; but
when the lady Gruoch spoke of her immediate depart
ure, Doada ventured timidly to say that she feared
nightfall would set in, ere she could reach the hut
among the mountains ; as, when her father and she
had come hither, they had quitted their home by day
break, and that it was late now to set forth.

" But I have provided that you shall have safe es
cort ;" said her mistress. " Grym is to accompany
you, maiden ; and he will protect you from all harm,
be it by day or by night, and place you safely within
the arms of your father, with whom I wish you all
happiness. Farewell !"

The lady Gruoch paced the castle platform, watch
ing the departure of the Highland maid with the faith
ful man-at-arms, as their retreating figures threaded the
path which led by the shores of the lake, and branched
off upwards among the hills. As they diminished
gradually, and faded away in the blue distance, Gruoch
felt her heart lighten of the load which had pressed
upon it, so long as the maiden remained in the castle.
Now she could give herself up to unmingled satisfac
tion in looking forward to the return of Macbeth.
Now no anxiety need she feel, lest his eye, his atten
tion should be withdrawn an instant from herself ; and
she could indulge her fancy with picturing how exclu
sively she might hope to enjoy his society, how best seek
to win his regard, how most happily secure his love,
and give him assurance of her own. At the thought,
her heart swelled with a sense of triumph, and her eye

172 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

dilated, as she raised it in proud exultation sky
wards.

The sky was suddenly overcast. It had been a
bright forenoon. The opening year had somewhat
advanced, and some symptoms of early spring had
smiled upon the landscape. But the breath of winter
still prevailed, and occasionally returned to resume its
empire in all tyrannous severity.

The lady Gruoch had lingered on the ramparts to
enjoy the clear morning air, and to indulge the sense
of relief that possessed her while watching the depart
ure of Doada ; but now, as she gazed into the sky,
she beheld the sullen veil that was drawn athwart the
blue heavens, and obscured all trace of that brightness
which till then had irradiated the face of nature.

She was sensible, too, of the increasing bitterness
of the cold, now that the sun had withdrawn his rays ;
and with a shudder, partly of chill, partly of misgiving,
she drew her mantle more closely about her, and pre
pared to quit the platform.

One more glance she threw northwards, in the
direction of the hills. A shrewd blast of wind swept
from that quarter, and a moment or two after, a few
flakes of snow fluttered through the keen air ; — white,
feathery, pure, subtle, light, insidious snow.

During the long hours of afternoon and eventide, the
lady Gruoch heard the murmurs of regret which her
old father could not repress, for the loss of Doada and
her sweet music.

" Why was she sent away ?" he asked at first.

" My lady sent her to see her father ;" was the
reply of his attendants.

The old thane did not answer ; but sighed, and
caressed the head of his favorite hound in silence.

When his daughter joined him, after quitting the
ramparts, he repeated his question to her.

Her reply was nearly the same as the one he had
received before.

" I sent her to visit her father in their mountain

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 173

home ; you know it was so promised, when he left her
with us. ' '

' ' But why should she have gone to-day ? Besides,
it is foul weather. Is not that snow, I see yonder,
through the oriel window ? She will starve with cold,
poor thing !"

" It was fine when they set forth. I sent Grym
with her."

"But why send her to-day?" reiterated the old
thane, whom vexation at the loss of his wonted recre
ation, and uneasiness for the safety of the minstrel
maiden, rendered unusually querulous.

" It was needful she should go ;" replied Gruoch
in the peremptory tone she knew was always sufficient
to decide a question with her father. " It is well-nigh
three months since she has been with us, and her
Highland father will be wearying to see his child. ' '

Kenneth submitted to the tone which he knew so
well, and which generally closed all points at issue
between them. He merely sighed, and resigned him
self to his accustomed patting of the dogs' heads,
seeming to take refuge in their mute tokens of sympa
thy and attachment, and to find solace in their looks
of dumb affection.

The lady Gruoch roused herself to attempt the en
tertainment of her old parent, that she might supply to
him as well as she could, the loss of the music he so
much missed ; and she began to speak to him of the
expected return of their guest, to extol his various ac
complishments, to dwell upon the manner in which
his personal merits kept pace with the reputation and
renown he had acquired, and took pains to discover
whether her father's sentiments of Macbeth's excel
lence agreed with her own.

She soon found, by the interest he took in the
theme, how entirely the chieftain had won her father's
regard, not only as the son of his old companion-in
arms, but in his own individual capacity ; and so well
pleased did he seem with the subject, that while it was

174 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

being discussed with animation by them both, the old
thane forgot to repeat his regrets for the loss of his
favorite Doada and her music.

With so facile, so gentle-spirited a father, what might
not an affectionate daughter have done to make his life
one of happiness, instead of one of monotony, neglect,
and almost solitude, — save for the society of his dumb
favorites, the hounds.

While with her father, in the hall, striving to amuse
him, and at the same time indulging her own train of
thought by speaking upon the theme which most en
grossed it, the lady Gruoch had felt her animation re
turn, her exultation revive, her spirits restored to the
proud and hopeful tone which they had assumed that
morning as she watched the departure of Doada.

But when she bade her father good night, on quit
ting the hall, and retired to her own apartment, the
same sense of shuddering chill and foreboding crept
over her, and she made excuses to detain her attend
ant women about her person somewhat later than
usual.

" Make up the fire well upon the hearth, Eoda ;
draw the logs together, that the blaze may last ;" said
she. " Have you made fast the door which leads on
to the platform, Lula ? The chamber seems unusually
cold. Draw the hangings close before the window.
So ; you may leave me. But let the door of the ante
room remain only slightly closed, that I may call you,
if need be."

When the women had withdrawn, the lady seated
herself beside the blaze, and strove to derive cheer
from its influence. She sought to reassemble those
bright thoughts of hope, of love, of ambition, which
had danced before her eyes, while dwelling upon the
image of Macbeth. She tried to recall his looks, his
words, his ardent manner, with the happy conviction
they had engendered, and the joyful feelings they had
awakened. But nothing of joy or of happiness could

THE THANE' S DAUGHTER. 175

she summon to bear a part in her musings, to shed a
glow on her spirits, and lighten the gloom which made
her feel the solitude of her chamber insupportable.

After a time, she stole lightly to the door of com
munication between her own room and that where the
attendant women slept. She pushed the half -closed
door ; it yielded, and she could perceive that they
were already at rest, and all asleep. She revoked her
thought of summoning one of them, and drawing the
door to again, she remained a moment or two, fixed
in thought, in the centre of her apartment. The tap
estry that hung around the walls, shook and heaved
with the bleak gusts that made their way into the
chamber. The hangings round the mullion window,
though they were of heavy woollen arras, waved, rose,
and sank with the night-wind that forced itself through
the crevices and rough stone-work of the deep em
brasure. By a sudden and seemingly irresistible
impulse, the lady Gruoch moved hastily across the
room, and drawing aside the curtain, gazed forth into
the night.

The snow had continued falling fast and thick ever
since she had noted those few first flakes ; and now
it lay in one wide sheet of white, bespreading castle,
hill, and valley. The glare of its surface distinctly in
dicated the objects it shrouded, displaying and tracing
that which it covered. The ridges and ledges of the
castle walls were clearly defined, around and beneath,
on all sides within view of the window ; and from the
foot of the building stretched away the valley, with
the neighboring wood and lake, towards the hills, alike
sheeted with white. The window overlooked the plat
form, which has been so often alluded to, and to which
there was access from this range of apartments through
a small door, opening from the lady Gruoch's own
chamber. For awhile she gazed forth upon the blank
desolation.

" If he should not come to-morrow," muttered she,
" it will have been needless. But he will come ; I

1 7 6 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

know he will ; and whatever befall, she must not be
here. I would have her away ; why then should I re
pent that she is away ? The fact crowns my desire,
and all is as it should be. ' '

She closed the curtain, and flung herself but half
undressed on the bed. The red embers of the dying
fire cast a lurid and a fitful light through the apartment.
The 4ady Gruoch closed her eyes and slept ; but her
sleep brought no peace, her slumber no repose, her
dormant thoughts no rest. Her frame was for a time
extended on the couch, her limbs lay stretched in in
action, but the mind was still tossing to and fro in a
sea of agitation. The soul was wakefully fighting,
while the body lay drowsed and prostrate ; but pres
ently the struggle of the soul communicated itself to
the body, and compelled that to act in concert with
the strong contention maintained within. The waking
soul roused the sleeping body and constrained it, still
sleeping as it was, to perform the deeds of waking.
The volition of the spirit made the passive body invol
untarily fulfil its promptings, and move mechanically
obedient to interior impulse. Consciousness and un
consciousness had equal possession of her frame, and
dictated alike its motion. Asleep in body, yet awake
in spirit, the form of the lady Gruoch arose from the
bed, and, traversing the apartment, halted near the
door, which led from her room on to the castle plat
form. Some idea of recalling Doada, of concealing
her within the castle from the sight of Macbeth, in
stead of sending her forth into the snow-storm, had
taken possession of her soul, and in the strength of its
impress, this thought now led her into the open air in
the dead of the night, with her thinly-clad slumbering
body, and her fighting spirit. The door was unbarred,
unclosed, and the lady stepped forth.

' ' You are cold, Doada — come back. You shall not
perish ;" she muttered. " Abide in this retired
chamber — it is but for awhile — till he is gone. Do as
I bid you, maiden, I will have it so ! How cold you

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 177

are ! Come in, I tell you ! The snow will starve you
— and my father will be grieved ! Cold — white —
dead !"

The lady Gruoch had crossed the platform ; and as
she concluded her muttered words, she laid her hand
on the stone wall that skirted the rampart. The sharp
cold of its touch had startled her senses into conscious
ness, and she awoke to find herself wandering alone in
the inclement air at dead of night, half clothed, half
asleep, and shivering with cold and awe. She shrank
back to her chamber, hastily refastened the door, cow
ered beneath the bed-clothes, and summoned the at
tendants to renew the fire, and watch beside her couch
till morning.

With the light of day her courage returned. Her
spirits revived, and she could teach herself to look back
upon the tumult of the past night unmoved. She per
suaded herself that Doada was safe, and that she had
permitted an exaggerated idea to alarm her, that any
danger could exist for the maiden while under the protec
tion of Grym. She remembered that Macbeth was pos
sibly to return that day to the castle, and that it behoved
her to meet him with smiles and a serene brow, un
ruffled by traces of the emotions of the past night.
She struggled to recover her tranquillity, to smooth her
haggard looks, and to resume the charm and majesty
of her native mien.

The thought of his near approach, and of the prob
able result of his return, helped to wreathe her lip
with smiles, give a glow to her cheek, and light her eyes
with a glance of fire ; and by the hour when the chief
and his retinue reached the castle of Moray, its mistress
shone forth with all her accustomed radiance of beauty.

After an interchange of courtesy with the old thane,
her father, Macbeth soon contrived to lead the lady
Gruoch apart, and renew the animated strain of conver
sation in which they had both found so much pleasure
the first evening they had met.

1 78 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

They leaned, talking together, in the recess of the
oriel window of the hall ; and while the old thane noted
them as they stood a little apart thus, he thought how
handsome they both looked, how happy they seemed,
how accordant their beauty and bearing, and how well
fitted for each other they were , and then the thought
ensued, of how goodly-assorted a couple his daughter
and the son of his friend would make in marriage.

As the father mused thus, Macbeth allowed the ardour
of his manner to assume less and less reserve, and the
warmth of his admiration to be less and less concealed ;
and at length his words and looks were so unequivocal,
that the lady Gruoch could entertain no doubt of the
conquest she had gained.

Something he had said in allusion to the lustre of
her charms, and in avowal of the power they had ex
ercised over his hitherto untouched heart, entreating
her permission to speak of his passion to her father ;
to which she had gaily replied that she would hear
him plead farther herself, before she sanctioned his
carrying his suit to any other umpire of his fate.

" But I own no eloquence in speech, lady," said
he. "I am a rough soldier ; my arguments have
hitherto been deeds not words, and I have learned no
arts of peace in the battle-field. I can wield a clay
more, but have no skill in poesy or song, or in aught
of such things that may help a knight to win fair lady.
The belief that I behold that in you which disdains
such silken accomplishments, it is, which gives me
courage to sue in behalf of the rough soldier ; at the
same time that it ought perhaps to bid me despair of
ever calling such superiority in mind and beauty mine
own."

" I care little for poesy and song, it is true ;" said
Gruoch.

" By the way, where is the minstrel maiden, that
sang to us the other evening, I do not see her to-day ?"

" Do you desire to see her ?" asked the lady ab
ruptly, with a sudden flash of her deep blue eyes.

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 179

" Not I ;" replied the chieftain ; " I only felt an
interest in her for the sake of my mother, whose name
she bears ; and for the sake of one, ' ' he added, lower
ing his voice to a tone of passionate admiration,
11 whose golden hair is even brighter than hers, which
attracted my regard for an instant as I compared it in
thought, though unjustly, as I now find by closer inspec
tion, to these lustrous tresses that transcend all others. ' '

As the handsome chieftain hung over her, raising
one of the golden curls gallantly to his lips as he spoke,
and thus, by a few simple words, explained the origin
of the passing interest he had evinced for the Highland
maid, the lady Gruoch looked forth from the oriel
window amid the snow-tracks and frozen distance of
the drear wintry landscape, and a shadow of regret
clouded her brow, for having so hastily sent the dam
sel forth. But the cloud was transient ; the shade
passed from her thought, as she turned beaming and
gracious to the suitor at her side.

And soon, no doubt of mutual preference remained
to mar the joy of either Macbeth or the lady Gruoch.
She found that the chieftain thought but of her ; he
discovered that he had succeeded in winning her regard.
Their attachment was avowed to her father ; and it
was agreed that Macbeth should but return to Inverness
to impart to his own father his successful suit ; and
that as soon as preparation could be made to receive
his bride, he should return to the castle of Moray to
claim her, and to celebrate his nuptials, that he might
carry her to her new home.

The lady Gruoch had scarcely bidden farewell to •
her new-trothed lord, when Grym returned. He en
tered the court-yard of the castle, as she was retiring
from it, on her way to her own apartment. There
was that in the face of the man-at-arms, beside its
usual ugliness, — more ghastly than its wonted look,
that arrested her steps, and made her pause to hear
what he might have to say.

l8o THE THANE S DAUGHTER.

" I performed your bidding, Madam ;" said he.
' ' I took her to her home. ' '

" Well done, good Grym ; faithful to thy trust ;"
replied his lady. " You placed the maid within her
father's arms. "Tis well."

"I did, Madam; but "

The man-at-arms faltered ; there was that in his eye
and voice that belied his rough exterior.

The lady cast a searching look upon his face. She
read a terrible meaning there ; but she said with her
firm steady voice: — "You did? 'Tis enough;
thanks, good Grym. ' ' Then staying to hear no more,
she resumed her way to her own apartments.

But not so summary was the inquiry of the old thane
with regard to the disappearance of his favorite Doada.
He questioned Grym closely concerning the incidents
of their journey ; and from the sparing curt speech of
the man-at-arms he at length gathered the particulars
of her fate.

On the afternoon of their departure from the castle
of Moray, they had not reached far among the uplands
that stretched away from the shores of the lake, when
they were overtaken with the snow, which at first fell
lightly and scantily, then thicker and faster, and at
length profusely and incessantly.

At first, Grym would have persuaded the maiden to
return, and defer her journey to the hills until a fairer
season. But by this time the thought of shortly be
holding her father, joined to that of having to en
counter the stern cold looks of the lady Gruoch, should
she return when bidden forth by her, gained sufficient
empire over the Highland girl to urge her to proceed.
Soon, it became as difficult to make their way back,
as to continue on ; and Doada, her spirits rising with
the prospect of approaching each step they took, more
nearly to her home, cheerily toiled upwards and on
wards with the elastic happy step of hope, and chatted
with the light heart of youth and anticipation.

" It will be such a gay surprise for my dear father !"

THE THANE' S DAUGHTER. 181

said she. " He little thinks every moment is bringing
his child closer to his arms. And he loves me so
dearly, good Grym. You don't know what a kind
father he is. He never would have parted with his
Doada, but that he could not bear to see Hunger and
Death each day approach nearer and more near to our
threshold to snatch his child from him. And now she
returns, to carry him joy, and comfort, and wealth.
See, good Grym, what my lady has given me for him.
My lady may seem cold and grand, and awful to look
at, or to speak to ; — nay, when I am in her presence,
I scarce like to raise my eyes to hers, and tremble like
a leaf, simpleton that I am, when I have to carry any
message to her, — yet she is as kind as she is handsome.
She must be, to think of sending these to my father. ' '

" You are sure you know your way ?" said Grym
abruptly.

" Of course I do. Straight on ; we can't miss it.
This is the path we are in, — skirting these rocks,"
answered the maiden.

" Yes, but the snow sets deeper and deeper ; the
track of the path shows less and less," said Grym.

" And it is getting dark ;" said Doada, looking
up ; " the night is coming on. But I know my way
— oh yes, I know my way surely. There is the stunted
thorn ; farther on we come to the black cavern ; then
the deep pool in the hollow ; and after that the clump
of firs on the hill-side — beyond that, the eagle's glen ;
and then it is but a little way up farther to our hut by the
burn-side. The bonny burn springs up close at hand,
near to our door — and it's merry to watch its leap, and.
dance, and frolic, and bound away over rock and fell,
in a bright spring day. If it's not frozen over by to
morrow morn, you shall have a cup of its sparkling
waters, Grym, and maybe something stronger, to tem
per it into warmth and comfort after this cold night.
How bitter it is ! and how keen the wind whistles !
Sharp from the North ! But no matter, Northward
lies home — and home warms the heart full well !'

182 THE THANHS DAUGHTER.

Long after this, the girl strove to maintain her cheery
tone, and her hopeful step. But the darkness crept
on and on ; the snow fell thicker and thicker ; the
night-wind blew, piercing them through and through ;
the path was obscured, and the white glare on all
around served but ill to trace even well-known objects
to eyes that began to droop and drowze beneath the
influence of the intense cold and growing fatigue.

Yet still she struggled onwards, now wavering and
uncertain in her course, now more assured, when some
familiar object was recognized as marking the path they
ought to take ; now she would lag dispirited and
doubtful, now again endeavour to resume her hopeful
tone and her assured step. Several times they wan
dered from the track, which with much difficulty was
regained, and still the night hours crept on, and still
the girl staggered blindly forwards. By this time,
Grym had assumed the task of guide, trying to trace the
objects Doada had named as marking the course they
were to pursue ; and by this time, it was he who main
tained the cheerful tone of comforter, endeavouring to
inspirit and encourage the weary girl. But her limbs
dragged more and more heavily along ; her slight
frame clung even more helplessly against the side of
the huge man-at-arms ; her head flagged, as a flower
snapped in its stem ; and her senses yielded to the
lethargy that pressed its sullen weight upon body
and spirit alike. ' ' Let me rest, good Grym ; let me
rest here for a few minutes ;" she murmured, " I shall
be able to go on better afterwards, if you let me rest a
little."

Grym attempted to rouse her, telling her that the
dawn would soon break, — that they could not now
be far from the hut, — that if she could but hold on
for a short time yet, they would soon reach home where
she might fully rest. But the imperative summons
was not to be withstood : — " I cannot, good Grym ;
let me rest here, — I shall rise refreshed, — and then
we will go to my father. ' ' And with this, the maiden

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 183

sank down, totally overpowered, in a stupor of frozen
slumber.

Her rough-seeming companion screened her as well
as he could, in the craggy nook where she had
dropped ; drawing her tartan plaid closely round her
and adding his own, which he took off for the purpose,
to shelter her as well as might be from the falling snow,
and cutting wind. Then, carefully marking the spot,
he left her thus couched, while he endeavoured to find
his way on to the hut, to fetch help.

But in darkness, and ignorance of the track, he only
wandered farther and farther from the right direction ;
and he was compelled to return to the nook in the glen,
after a fruitless search, determining to await here the
dawn of day, which he thought could not be far
distant.

With the first glimmer of light, he renewed his
attempt to discover their way ; and found that they
were, in fact, within sight, — not hearing (for the frost
had arrested its flow, and smitten it into silence) of
the burn or brook which Doada had described as hav
ing its source near to the mountain hut of her father.
Cheered by this token that they were closer to their
journey's end than he had dared to hope, Grym en
deavoured gently to arouse the Highland maiden.
But no efforts of his could awaken her. The man-at-
arms was startled, as he raised the tartan screen from
the white still face, and the stricken form that lay
there, but he would not allow to himself that what he
looked upon was death. He would not listen for her
breathing, but held his head erect, apart, as if de
termined not to ascertain what he would not allow him
self to doubt. " The father will know best what will
restore the lassie," he muttered, as he raised her ten
derly in his arms ; "let me but find him."

And he strode on with his burthen, which was scarce
ly such to his brawny strength, until he came to the door
of the shieling, or hut.

The door was barely fastened ; with one stroke of

184 THE THANES DAUGHTER.

his foot, the man-at-arms made it yield, and he en
tered, bearing Doada into her native mountain home.

On the hearth stood the Highlander. Grym went
up to him, and placed the daughter within the father's
arms. In a few words the events of the past day and
night were explained ; the departure from the castle ;
the snow-storm ; the sleep ; the home-return ; the hope
that a father's embrace would restore warmth and life.

But one glance of the father's eye sufficed. It
revealed to him the fatal truth. It told him that his
child, whom he had left but a few short months since
blooming, well, and happy, was returned to him, in
animate, cold, dead ! He received within his arms, in
lieu of his living daughter a frozen corse !

The lady Gruoch reached her own chamber.
Thence, she stepped out upon the platform ; the free
dom of the open air braced and confirmed her mood of
thought. She paced to and fro for awhile, and reso
lutely shunned the remembrance of Grym's face, which
seemed to suggest more than she cared to know. And
thus she mused.

" The girl is gone. She is out of my path. If she
cross it no more — the better. Ten such minions re
moved whence they might breed mischief — what mat
ters it how they be removed ? I am not one to abide
the ire of an irritated imagination. It is but brainsick-
ness to consider too deeply of things that are past and
done ; a disease of thought to ponder on the means
which have already helped us to our wish. I have
mine in her removal ; the sum of her image shall
henceforth be that to me."

As the lady Gruoch turned in her walk, at one end
of the platform, she beheld at a few paces from her,
the Highlander, standing immediately in her path.

" How earnest thou hither, good man ?" she asked ;
surprised to see one so suddenly and so near, whom
she had thought at a distance. " How found you
this part of the castle ? What has brought you to me ?"

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 185

" I am come to read thee thy weird at last !" said
the Highlander. " When first I looked upon thee, I
beheld a crown spanning the fair young brow — but I
beheld it through a red mist, and would not reveal the
fearful secret to one who proffered aid. ' '

" A crown ? — a crown, said'stthou ?" exclaimed the
lady.

' ' Ay, a crown, a royal crown — the golden badge of
sovereignty ! I would not then foretell so dread, so
fatal a vision. But thou hast sent me my child through
the snow-storm, and I read thee thy weird through the
red mist. A crown is thy weird ; the red mist is
blood !"

" What matters, so that the weird be a crown !"
cried the lady Gruoch. " Methinks to gain that, I
could stem torrents of blood ; scarcely heeding though
some of my own were shed to mingle with the stream. ' '

" Thine own ?" echoed the Highlander, with a
scoffing laugh ; " That were too gentle a sentence."

' ' What mean'st thou ? Speak farther !" The lady
advanced, as she spoke, towards the spot where the
figure of the Highlander stood with folded arms and
derisive lips. " Speak, man !" she continued. "Tell
me thy knowledge. I will have it !"

In her eagerness, she still advanced, and would have
laid her hand upon the folded arms. She touched no
substance. She saw the mocking features, and beheld
distinctly the chequered colors of the tartan plaid in
which his figure was enveloped, — but she felt nothing.
No tangible matter met her grasp, and with horro^and
awe unspeakable she recoiled ; — then plunging des
perately forward, she passed through the vivid shadow
as if it had been a rainbow !

An instant — and the whole thing had vanished ;
and when, some time after, her women sought their
mistress, they found her extended on the ground, sense
less.

Messengers bring tidings of Macbeth. They bear a

1 86 THE THANE S DAUGHTER.

letter to the lady Gruocli, in which the chieftain tells
her that the country is infested with a scum of Gal-
lowglasses, disaffected rebels, and turbulent marauding
Kernes ; against whom he is employed, seeking to
quoll and exterminate them from the land. That this
duty calls him to the field, and detains him from the
hope with which he left her, of preparing all things at
the castle of Inverness for the reception of his bride
He adds, that this active service in which he is en
gaged, not only interferes thus with the fulfilment of
his own wishes, but it likewise employs all his available
men, so that he fears he shall scarce be able to send
messengers to her so frequently as he desires ; but he
concludes by beseeching her to believe him, through
all lets to their continued intercourse, to be her true
and faithful knight, devoted to her beauty solely, in
the hope of speedily calling it his own for ever.

Upon this letter, and the attachment it breathes, the
lady Gruocli lives for awhile. But soon her thirst for
farther tidings of her betrothed lord rises to a feverish
longing, which must be satisfied.

She resolves to send Grym to the camp of Macbeth ;
though she knows the remainder of the men-at-arms
who will then be left at the castle of Moray will afford
but insufficient protection for her old father and
herself, in case of any hostile attempt to invade their
quiet from the insurgent marauders. For the faithful
and experienced soldier, Grym, is a host in himself ;
and now, for the first time since his departure, Culen
is thought of with esteem and regret. But the anxiety
to obtain news of Macbeth is paramount, and the lady
Gruoch dispatches Grym.

During his absence, the inhabitants of the castle hear
frequent rumours of parties of wandering Kernes, who
demolish crops, spoil husbandry, oppress the neighbour
ing poor, and commit other depredations in the vicin
ity ; but no actual hostility threatens the thane of
Moray's own possessions.

Grym has been gone long enough to warrant expec-

THE THANHS DAUGHTER. 187

tation of his return. The lady Gruoch begins to look
impatiently for it, and to tax him, in thought, with
strange lack of zeal in her service, when suddenly there
is an unwonted stir in the court-yard of the castle.
The portcullis has been raised ; an armed horseman
has been admitted across the drawbridge, who leads
his steed by the bridle through the gates ; the charger
bears a wounded man upon his back, who is supported
in the saddle by the armed knight that walks by his
side, leading the horse.

In the armed knight, who wears his visor raised, the
men-at-arms of the castle of Moray have recognized
their former companion, Culen ; in the wounded man,
they have beheld their fellow-retainer, Grym.

The lifting their comrade from the horse's back, the
placing him upon a heap of plaids hastily spread upon
the ground for his reception, the murmured expressions
of wonder, sympathy, and inquiry from the other men-
at-arms, all crowding around Grym, and endeavouring
to assist and relieve him, caused the unusual stir in the
court-yard which attracted the attention of the lady
Gruoch, as she sat in the hall, and which brought her
forth to see who the wounded man might be.

" It's Grym, our Grym, madam," whispered the
men, as they made way for their lady to come near.
' ' He is wounded ; and it seems mortally. For he stirs
not ; and speaks not."

11 Grym ! my faithful Grym !" exclaimed the lady
Gruoch, as she approached, and bent towards the
bleeding soldier. ' ' What, rouse thee, man ; art thou
indeed so sorely hurt?" The dying man raised his
eyes by an effort. " That's well ; cheerly, good
Grym. And what news, my trusty Grym ? Hast
thou the packet ? Hast thou no letter for me ?" she
added.

There was a visible struggle. The faithful man-
at-arms strove to speak ; the blood gushed from his
lips instead of words ; and he could only faintly attempt
to lift his hand toward the breast of his buff doublet.

1 88 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

The lady at a glance understood the movement, and
eagerly withdrew the desired packet from the place he
had indicated, to bring which to her in safety he had
forfeited his life-blood. Some of this same life-blood
soiled the fair hands that were searching the bosom of
the dying servitor for that which he had died to pre
serve for her.

" Faithful unto death !" she cried, as she trans
ferred the precious packet from his bosom to her own.
" But must thou indeed die, my faithful Grym \ Can
no leech save thee ? Half my possessions I would
gladly give to him who might restore thee to life, to
thy mistress. Who may I ever hope to attach to me,
as thou hast been devoted to me ? Devoted unto
death ; my faithful Grym !"

The dying man's eyes looked fondly at her as she
uttered these expressions of regret at his loss. To
him they conveyed no particle of the self-consideration
that was betrayed in every word. To his partial
affection they were all he could have desired in requital
of the life devoted to her service, — of the death in
curred in her behalf. His face wore the satisfied look
that an indulgent parent might have cast upon a favor
ite child, in whom he can perceive no fault, and who
satisfies all that his yearning love could wish.

He expired with the belief that his mistress held
him as dearly-valued, as sufficed to reward him to the
utmost for all he had done, — and he died contented,
proud, happy in the conviction of her regard.

The lady Gruoch looked upon the uncouth visage of
the dead man with sincere (because selfish) regret.
Then she withdrew from his side, that the attendants
might remove the body of their comrade ; and she
heaved one deep sigh, while a voice near her said : —
" I could find it in my heart to envy Grym, to be so
mourned !"

The lady turned to look upon him who spoke ; and
she then perceived, for the first time, that the armed
figure beside her was Culen. But Culen so changed

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 189

in bulk and stature — so altered in look and bearing ;
no wonder she failed to recognize him, while she
scarcely noted his presence, during the absorbing scene
that had just occurred.

The slight figure of the youth she once knew had
now acquired - both breadth and height. His wide
chest and shoulders displayed stalwart proportions be
neath his cuirass and breast-plate of burnished steel.
His handsome features showed manlier, and bore a
more confirmed expression beneath the visor and head
piece of his helm. The light flaxen curls which had
formerly been allowed to revel in luxuriance around
the page's countenance, and had given it an effeminate
beauty, were now close-trimmed and shorn, and showed
little or none beside the beard and moustache that
gave additional vigour to the knightly face.

"It is to your prowess I owe the rescue of my
faithful Grym, I doubt not, sir knight, ' ' said the lady
Gruoch. ' ' It is to you I owe the sad pleasure of wit
nessing his last moments, and mourning the loss of
his trusty worth, while I received the last pledge of
his devotion, and acknowledged it with thanks and
approval that consoled him in death. Tell me how it
was that you came to his aid. ' '

" I was on my way to the castle through yonder
wood;" replied Culen, "when hearing the noise of
an affray, I pricked my horse forward, and found
Grym hard pressed by numbers. He was surrounded
by a party of Kernes, with whom he was fighting des
perately, spite of their superior force. I rushed to his
aid ; but it was too late. The villains fled at my ap
proach, but they had wounded Grym so severely, that
he could but reach the castle in time to render his
breath at the feet of his lady. Happy at least in that
one circumstance of his fate."

" Fulfilment of purpose is the great end of life ;"
said the lady thoughtfully, placing her crimson-
smirched hand upon the letter within her bosom.
" And Grym fulfilled his ; worthily, faithfully !"

1 90 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

' ' And you have fulfilled yours, sir Culen ;" resumed
she after a pause. " I see you have won your spurs ;
you have achieved knighthood ; you have gained
prowess in arms. Let me see the device you have
adopted for your shield ;" said she, raising the buckler
to inspect the emblazonment and motto which it bore.
They were, a silken cushion turning back the point of
an arrow aimed against it, with the words " ex otio
repugnantia."

The allusion was too pointed to be forgotten. The
smile of the lady Gruoch showed that she remembered
the incident, and that she appreciated the homage to
her will indicated in the device he had chosen.

" The arm that you redeemed from a service of
luxurious ease," said Culen, elated by her smile, " has
learned strength, and the power of resistance ; only
too proud if it may return to devote its allegiance in
the same behalf. Use the power, as you formerly
deigned to avail yourself of the ease, afforded by the
arm. Let me still serve my lady, but as her knight
now, — not as her page."

" A trusty squire of dames sir Culen will ever be, I
doubt not, ' ' replied Gruoch. ' ' But let him not think
I esteem his companionship lightly, when I enlist it
henceforth in behalf of my father rather than myself.
I trust to you, good Culen, to comfort him, and be to
him as a son, when his daughter leaves him. Mean
while receive my earnest thanks for your valorous as
sistance to my lost Grym."

The lady turned to quit the court-yard as she spoke ;
and in the act of retiring, her hand was once more
raised to her bosom, to clutch the secured letter.

" When his daughter leaves him !" unconsciously
repeated Culen half aloud, in echo of those words of
hers which had so perplexed him.

' ' Ay, master Culen, ' ' replied one of the retainers,
who, returning to the spot, happened to overhear him.
" Have you been abroad in the world, and have not
heard that our young lady is to wed the valiant Mac-

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 191

beth ? Why, that was the letter of her betrothed hus
band, that she seized so eagerly from Grym's bloody
doublet. A lady's impatience regards not bedabbling
its dainty fingers, when a lover's letter is in view, I
warrant me ; and yet I doubt if the omen be canny. ' '
Culen remained an instant in mute despair at what
he had heard, confirmed by that which he had seen.
Then, exclaiming : — " Farewell ambition, fame, hope,
life itself !" he flung himself into the saddle, turned
his steed's head from the court-yard, urged the horse
across the drawbridge, and galloped full speed away
from the castle of Moray for ever.

The letter from Macbeth brought welcome tidings
indeed. His active measures against the insurgents
had been effectual in dispersing them, and he was
actually about to quit the field for Inverness when he
wrote. Very shortly after, he looked to set forth for
the castle of Moray ; and by the time that the letter
reached the hands of the lady Gruoch, she might daily
expect his approach.

The chieftain and his retinue arrive. The venerable
thane greets the betrothed husband of his daughter
with affectionate welcome. That which the lady
Gruoch extends to her expected lord is no less warm.
Proudly, exultingly, she prepares to unite herself with
this noble warrior, this king-descended hero. A new
existence is opening for her ; a life of hope, of glory,
of ambition — of ambition satisfied, in the martial suc
cesses he has already achieved ; of ambition expect
ant, in the rank and royal favour he may still attain.
A life of hope, glory, and ambition, to be shared in
acquirement and fulfilment with the man of her prefer
ence. One with whom she may feel alike in ardour,
activity of spirit, and daring aspiration ; one with
whom she may happily reap the fruition of their joint
exertion and hope.

In her, Macbeth beholds imperial beauty. In her
there is that which at once captivates his senses, and

192 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

commands his admiration and esteem. There is a
plenitude of feminine charm in the delicate features
and figure that satisfies his inclination for that which
is in contrast with his own manhood of strength and
vigorous proportion ; while in the marked decision,
self-possessed manner, and confirmed opinion, that
distinguish her character, there is that which he feels
supplies well the defects in his own nature of which
he is perhaps half conscious. He sees in her that
which will spur his ambition, invigorate his will, give
constancy and energy to his purposes, steadiness to his
aims, firmness, solidity, and consistency to all his
views, enabling him to pursue them to a successful issue.
He sees precisely the qualities in her which will best
give stability to those points in his own character
which most need fortifying. His faith in her excel
lence is entire ; his subjugation to her charms is com
plete ; but it is with no unwillingness that he yields
to the empire she exercises over his fancy. He is
proud to call such beauty his own ; proud to submit
himself to its influence ; proud to share with her his
hopes, his life, — to make her the partner of his great
ness. Proud were they of and in each other ; and
joyfully did they link their lives in one, accepting a
joint fate from that time forth.

The nuptial ceremony was performed. The bridal
train left the castle-chapel. The horses ready capar
isoned for the journey, trampled and champed their
bits in the court-yard ; and the cavalcade awaited but
the bride and bridegroom, who were to join them to
proceed at once to the castle of Inverness.

The bridegroom led his bride to the hall, where they
had left her father, that she might receive his blessing
as a new-made wife, ere she quitted the paternal roof.
There sat the old thane, Kenneth, in his accustomed
seat by the hearth. He was leaning back ; his eyes
were shut ; while the tears crept from beneath the
closed lids, and coursed down the aged cheeks ; his
hand rested on the head of one of his favorite hounds,

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 193

that had laid its muzzle on the arm of the chair, and
kept snuffing and whining uneasily, as it fixed its eyes
upon its master's sorrowing face.

His daughter knelt at her father's feet, and spoke
some words of comfort in her own calm and self-pos
sessed way.

Her husband joined his expressions of kindliness to
hers. The gentle old man roused himself feebly,
blessed them both, and bade them believe that his
sadness at parting with them was outweighed by his
happiness in having thus assured that of his daughter.
Once again he blessed them ; and struggled to utter
the word " farewell !"

Lady Macbeth arose — reverently smoothed the snow-
white hairs on either side of the furrowed cheeks —
kissed the venerable forehead — exclaimed : — " Fare
well, my father !" Then, turning to her husband, she
said firmly : — " I am ready, my lord ! Lead me
forth. I am yours now. ' '

The existence of the newly -married chieftain and his
lady, in their castle of Inverness, fulfilled the antici
pations which the prospect of their union had excited
in each. They found their mutual satisfaction as
ample and complete as they had hoped. In all her
husband's pursuits, schemes, and views, lady Macbeth
demonstrated an eager and intelligent participation.

In his wife's dominant beauty, Macbeth's passion
ate admiration found full content ; whilst in her high-
reaching undaunted spirit his own felt support, en-
couragement, incitement, strength. His natural valour
seemed to gain fresh impetus ; his bravery new vigour ;
his deeds additional daring, with such an incentive by
his side to urge him to exertion, and with so lustrous
an object to gratify by his triumphs.

Achievement followed achievement ; promotion en
sued to promotion ; fresh honors and renewed in
stances of royal favor were heaped upon the chieftain,
near to his sovereign, both by blood and by ties of

194 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

affection. For the meek-spirited Duncan loved to rely
upon the sterner counsels and more active measures
suggested by his kinsman, for escape from public cen
sure, which not unfrequently accused him of feebleness
and slothftilness in the administration of justice.

Negligence in the due punishment of offenders ;
connivance at misrule among the civic rulers, and at
contumacy among the ruled ; a general want of strict
ness, and a perilous lenity ; all combined to make king
Duncan's mild sway regarded rather as weakness, than
as paternal indulgence. It encouraged faction and
insubordination, and offended those who sought pro
tection from order and judicious government. To
preserve peace for the peaceful, and to secure safety
from the turbulent, the services of Macbeth were put
in constant requisition by his royal master.

To his kinsman, the favorite general, the king looked
for aid and support in every emergency of sedition and
insurrection ; Macbeth 's tactics and rigour of disci
pline rendering him no less valuable as a statesman, in
the cabinet, than his military skill and personal cour
age made him all-powerful in the field.

To the extended influence which accrued to him
from his large share of royal favor, was added increase
of rank ; for, not long after his marriage, Macbeth,
by the death of his father, Sinel, became thane of
Glamis.

These rapid and accumulated circumstances in the
rise of Macbeth' s fortunes and position, made the
long-hoarded secret hope of his own and wife's ambi
tion assume a palpable form ; it presented itself no
longer as a distant improbability — only just barely
possible. Macbeth could not but remember that his
own mother was no less nearly descended from the late
king, than she through whom the reigning monarch de
rived his royal seat. They had been sisters ; and
though the son of the elder now ruled in Scotland, yet
should he cease to live, his cousin Macbeth, from kin
dred, as well as from popular favor, stood nearest in

THE THANES DAUGHTER. 195

probable succession to the throne. It is true that
Duncan had sons — but they were quite young ; and
until the elder should have been created Prince of
Cumberland, he was not the royal heir-apparent.
Meanwhile, each fresh step in Macbeth' s rank and
power, raised him still more securely within grasp of
the secret object of his wishes ; and as each grade be
came his, he and his wife to themselves exulted. She
could not but sometimes allow her fancy to muse on
that predicted circumstance in her fate, which afford
ed confirmation of all that now seemed ripening to a
fulfilment — a reality.

To inherit their present growing dignities, — and that
crowning one which might be in store for them, a son
was born to them ; and Macbeth beheld the beauty of
his mother, while she beheld the representative of his
father's honors, in the infant Connac, who thus en
hanced the joy of both parents.

A secret faction arose. A party of the insurgents
had the hardihood to plan an attack upon the castle of
Macbeth, thinking the thane himself to be absent on
state affairs. But he had returned suddenly to Inver
ness from Fores, and he was unexpectedly on the spot
to sally forth and repel the invaders.

The encounter raged fiercely for some time on the
plain before the castle walls, for the besiegers had
assembled in great numbers, and fought with despera
tion, knowing they had nought to expect from Mac-
beth's rigour should they fall prisoners into his hands.

Lady Macbeth, anxious for her husband's safety,
ascended to the battlements with her infant son in her
arms, that she might watch the fight. She endeavoured
to distinguish her lord's figure among the combatants,
to mark his bravery in the strife, to follow his prog
ress, to note the issue of his death-dealing strokes,
and to be the first to hail his success.

Her solicitude for his safety, soon yielded to admira
tion at his valour ; she quenched all inquietude as to
the result of the encounter, in the certainty of conquest

196 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

which euch valour seemed to ensure. She felt that
this assault was already quelled ; she saw these rebels
already defeated.

She smiled as she surveyed the scene of contest,
with a sense of prospective victory. She heeded not
the danger of her own position, in the satisfaction of
observing the bravery of her husband ; she saw not
the peril that surrounded both himself and her, in the
thought of their approaching triumph.

For the portion of the battlements where she stood,
was not entirely sheltered from the flying arrows of
the besiegers ; and at any moment one of these mis
siles might reach her, as she stood there with the child
in her arms, marking the progress of the skirmish.

But close beside her — watching her, as intently as
she was watching the field, — crouched a queer, sham
bling, rough, bent figure, that kept its eyes undeviat-
ingly fixed upon her, as she stood there, near the outer
wall. It was that of a poor dumb creature, a strange,
distorted, stooping, half -wild being, who had sought
service among the underling retainers of the house
hold, and who had shown a singular hankering after
the presence of the lady of the castle, and an especial
fondness for her baby son, Cormac.

He would haunt the passages and galleries where the
women attendants were accustomed to pass with their
infant charge. He would crouch and hang about the
portions of the castle which lady Macbeth was in the
habit of frequenting. He was shy, and shrank from
notice, particularly from that of the lord of the castle,
who knew not of his being there at all, — and was in
cognizant of the very existence of so insignificant a
member of his household. But even when the dumb
slouching Indulph sought the vicinity of his idols, he
never courted their regard, but slunk about their foot
steps, contented, as it seemed, to behold them dis
tantly, and hover in their neighbourhood.

As for the lady herself, after the first inquiry with
regard to who he was, and how he came to be about

THE THANHS DAUGHTER. 1 97

the castle, she had never thought more of him, but
became accustomed to see him creeping and slinking
here and there, without bestowing farther heed to his
presence. She only knew that he was a dumb, harm
less, kind of savage, who appeared to take a peculiar
pleasure in looking through his fell of thick red hair,
at her beautiful babe and herself.

And there, at that time, he lay, stooped and crouch
ing, close to the ground, a yard or two from the por
tion of the battlemented wall where she stood. Upon
her and the child he keeps his eyes fixed, gleaming
from amidst the shaggy elf-locks of ochrey red that
hung about his face, and left but little of his features
to be distinguished, save those eager wild eyes that
never strayed from the objects of their regard.

Still the lady looks from the battlements, watching
the scene in which her lord is engaged ; and still the
crouching Indulph stares upward, watching her and
the babe in her arms.

The little Cormac is restless, and cares not to be
kept so long in one position. The dumb attendant
creeps nearer and more near, until at length he is so
close, that the lady in her eagerness of noting the fight,
unconsciously lets her child's feet rest upon the shoul
der of the crouching savage, who stoops there mutely,
and steadily supporting the little creature, though he
maintains the same earnest watch upon its mother and
itself.

The child plays with the red fell of hair, and pats
and clutches among the thick locks, and sees no repul
sive ugliness in the being who has always looked fondly
upon him.

The mother's gaze is for a moment withdrawn from
the object of her attention, to look towards her child,
who strains more and more from her arms, as he be
comes more and more occupied with his new plaything.

She sees him dallying and tugging with the ochre
hair, — she sees him sporting with kindly hideousness,
and there is something in the sight that brings Grym

198 THE THANE' 3 DAUGHTER.

and her own infancy to her thought ; she finds that
his feet are resting upon the ready patient shoulder,
and the image of Culen and his cushion-arm comes
into her mind for one instant.

For one instant — but for one passing instant, does
the recollection of these by-gone things flit across her
memory ; the next moment she is again absorbed in
noting the scene that is acting beneath the castle walls.

The child climbs back into its mother's arms ; the
battle rages on, more fiercely and more near, and in
her increased interest in the contest, lady Macbeth re
ceives her little son half unconsciously, clasping him
to her bosom, without withdrawing her eyes from the
fight.

The combatants press more closely. The besiegers
rally ; they rush forwards, and make a desperate at
tempt to force a breach through a portion of the de
fending party that seems less strong than elsewhere.
A shower of arrows is discharged, and a few of them
flying higher than the rest, reach the battlements over
which the lady is leaning.

Indulph springs from his lair. He makes wild and
vehement gesticulations to his lady that she should
retire from the dangerous station she is occupying.
But she is intent upon the affray, and heeds him not.

An arrow alights near the spot. Then another. In
despair at her peril, Indulph exclaims : —

" For your boy's sake, if not your own, stand back,
madam !"

The lady starts, and looks round in amazement.

" Indulph ! Can the dumb speak ! And with that
voice, too ! I surely know that voice !"

She fixes her eyes upon the stooping, crouching,
dumb savage, now erect, alert, energetic, eager, im
ploring her to withdraw from her perilous situation.

In another instant, he darts forward, covers her son
and herself with his interposed body, while the threat
ening arrow pierces his own throat, and he falls at her
feet.

THE THANHS DAUGHTER. 199

The locks of red hair are scattered back from the
dying face, and lady Macbeth recognizes without a
doubt, the features of Culen.

She bends over him, and utters his name with won
der and pity.

" I no longer envy Grym ;" he murmurs.

' ' But how came you hither ? What means this
disguise ?" she said, after a pause.

" I could not live without beholding you. I had
lost all hope — I relinquished fame as worthless. I
crept hither, hiding stature, features, voice, beneath
the stoop, the stained hair, and the eternal silence of
the dumb crouching Indulph, in the single thought of
again living in your presence — and it might be, of
dying in your service. I am blest that it is thus. ' '

The secret lay revealed before her. Love for her —
a passionate devotion to herself, had then inspired this
heart, that was fast ebbing forth its last tide at her
feet. But the thought of how this would appear to
Macbeth, were he to come to a knowledge of this pas
sion, beset her with a sense of annoyance and vexation.
She felt mortified rather than exalted by the discovery
of this fervent attachment ; and a stern look settled
upon her face, as she watched the blood that oozed
from the death-wound.

Footsteps approach. Macbeth is seeking her, and
hurries towards the spot where she stands, that he
may tell her all is well over — that their enemies are
defeated — that the day is their own.

" But how comes this wounded man here ?" said
her lord, when he had received her proud congratula
tions. "A stranger! Perhaps a traitor!" added
he. " Do you know who or what he is, dearest
chuck?"

The dying eyes mutely entreat her, that he may
have the bliss of hearing her acknowledge his lifelong
faithful attachment. But hers are averted — she will
not meet his look — she will not see his last request.

"It is Indulph, the dumb helper, my lord," said

200 THE THANES DAUGHTER.

one of the by-standing attendants. " He is wounded
in the throat — mortally, I think. ' '

" He saved our boy's life, by the loyal intervention
of his person, my lord, ' ' said lady Macbeth ; ' ' thank
him for us both. ' '

"It is too late ; the brave fellow's dead ;" said
Macbeth, looking at the expiring throe with a soldier's
experienced eye, and with the indifference to death
proper to one bred amid scenes of slaughter. ' ' Come,
my dearest love, let you and I, in to the castle ; and
rejoice at our success. A feast shall be held in honor
of our victory ; and this young hero's escape shall be
celebrated in flowing wine-cups. You breed our boy
well, sweet wife, in teaching him thus to look upon a
battle-field betimes. Thou art truly fit to be mother
to a race of heroes !"

Not long after Macbeth thus felicitated his wife and
himself on the salvation of their son, the child's life
was threatened by sickness. His mother nursed him
like a mother ; while her anxiety was shared by her
husband, who passionately loved them both.

But fate has decreed that the boy shall not live ; the
little Connac yields to the disease, and is carried off
in his infancy.

In the midst of her fierce pang for the loss of her
offspring, lady Macbeth receives tidings of her old
father's death ; but she bears both strokes with her
stern composure, that she may stimulate her more im
pressible husband, whose duty calls him from Inver
ness.

She firmly urges him to obey the mandate which
summons him to Fores ; where his presence is required
by his sovereign, king Duncan, that he may aid in
repelling a threatened invasion from Norway ; and in
quelling an insurrection that has arisen in the Western
Isles.

This latter is headed by Macdonwald, one of the
chief among those traitors most disaffected to the pres-

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. 2oi

ent dynasty. He has been heard to utter railing
taunts against king Duncan, declaring him to be a
' chicken-heart, more fit to preside over a brotherhood
of idle monks in a cloister, than to have the govern
ment of such valiant and hardy men of war as the
Scots.'

Lady Macbeth fails not to remind her lord of how
closely his own interest is concerned in preserving the
throne from assailants ; its present occupant being of
his own line, and scarcely retaining tenure by a nearer
claim of blood than that which he himself possesses.
Between the husband and wife, the question of this
equally near claim, and its possible results, has been
discussed ; but with scarce-uttered, scarce-conceived
intentions ; neither season nor opportunity offering for
the removal of the one obstacle to their wishes. Their
imaginations are fired with the same thought ; but
they hardly permit its burning image to be visible to
each other. Dimly, luridly, it lurks latent, fed with
foul vapours of unhallowed desire ; only vaguely, dare
they permit themselves to shape its existence in words ;
— but they know and feel, that a crown, — even though
it be gemmed with bloody drops, — is, in fact, that
one glowing thought.

The thane departs.

Lady Macbeth receives tidings of her husband's prog
ress from time to time ; for he has no dearer thought
than that of sharing his successes with her.

He sends messengers with letters to her ; informing
her of his gracious reception by the king, of the con
fidence expressed in the succour he can afford to the
state, of the entire reliance upon his counsels and
prowess. He tells her that he has responded to the
monarch's wishes, by undertaking the whole direction
of the royal forces ; upon condition that no misplaced
leniency shall interfere with his proceedings, and that
the unreserved controul and appointment of the war
shall be placed in the hands of himself, and of Banquo,
thane of Lochaber, to conduct as they list, and as best

202 THE THANES DAUGHTER.

shall seem to them. Under their combined general
ship, thus unrestricted, he has undertaken, that the
rebels shall be shortly vanquished and put down.

Exultingly expectant, lady Macbeth abides in the
castle of Inverness ; and each fresh letter that she re
ceives, confirms by its prosperous intelligence, the
fulfilment of her aspiring hopes.

News reaches her of the successful issue of the com
bat between her lord and the rebel Macdonwald, whose
traitor head is fixed upon the royalist battlements.

Close upon the heels of that messenger arrives an
other, who brings word of the encounter at Fife,
wherein the invading army of Sweno, the Norway
king, is put to the rout and defeated, and the victory
secured, by Macbeth, who is to be invested imme
diately with the forfeited title and estates of the thane
of Cawdor ; he having disloyally fought beneath the
Norwegian banner.

Scarcely has lady Macbeth welcomed these tidings,
when a letter is placed in her hands by a trusty envoy
from her lord, wherein she reads words of wondrous
import, that kindle into flame the smouldering fire of
her thought.

Her self-communing upon this perusal, begins in
these words of apostrophe to her lord : —

' ' Glamis thou art, and Cawdor ; and shalt be
What thou art promised."

But that ' our will become the servant to defect, '
the above should be ' prologue to the swelling act of
the imperial theme. '

HELENA; THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN.

TALE IK.

HELENA; THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN.

" She derives her honesty, and achieves her goodness."

All's well that ends well.

" WELL met !" said the chevalier de Vaumond, to
his friend, Gautier Gerard, as the two young men
encountered each other in one of the principal streets
of Perpignan, on a certain fine summer morning.
" And pray whither may you be bound, my good
fellow ? On some scheme of pleasure, I trust. Do,
for once in a way, consent to omit attendance upon
that very worthy, but unquestionably prosy Professor
of yours, and leave him to lecture to the few steady
stolidities, your brother-students, who may be absurd
enough to hold it their duty not to play truant, when
such a morning as this bids them keep outside of Col
lege walls."

Gerard answered with a smile.

" You will not call it a scheme of pleasure, perhaps,
de Vaumond. Your taste has no relish for rural en
joyment. For my part, I long for a pure breeze, a
stout walk, the broad expanse of sky, and the open,
honest face of Nature. I have been studying hard ;
and had determined to give myself a holiday this morn
ing ; and so took my way forth early, resolved not to
set foot again within the gates of Perpignan, for many
a pleasant hour of freedom, fresh air, and exercise."

' ' And what says Papa Gerard to such a spell of lib-

206 HELENA ;

erty as that ?" asked his friend. " Can he let you
absent yourself so long from the Temple of Mammon,
the cavern of golden ingots, the precious storehouse of
wealth, the beloved Banking-house ? But I forget,
good Papa Gerard wills that his son and heir shall
redeem the bourgeois stain, erase the roturier stigma
from the family name, and raise the dignity of his
house, by eschewing the clerkly stool and mercantile
desk for the higher honors of the medical chair.
Well, did the young doctor obtain the paternal sanc
tion for this long holiday ?"

The chevalier glanced somewhat maliciously into his
friend's face, as he made this broad allusion to the
merchant-banker's well-known strict maintenance of
patriarchal authority. But young Gerard, though he
colored slightly, only said with a good-humoured laugh,
" Oh yes, I have leave of absence ; so let us be off !
That is, if you care to go. ' '

" If I do, you must promise not to keep up such a
striding pace, my good fellow !" said the chevalier in
a languid tone, and suddenly coming to a halt.
" Recollect, the breezes won't float away, or the sky
fade beyond your ken, or the fields run from you. So
you needn't pursue them at that Atlantean rate. And
besides abjuring this foot-race speed, ' ' continued he,
when they had resumed their walk at a more moderate
pace, " you must promise not to let your proposed
long walk detain me beyond a reasonable hour of re
turn this evening. I have an appointment in the Rue
Grenoble, after sunset, that I would not miss for all
the rural landscapes that ever were beheld. ' '

" I wish you would give up those meetings in the
Rue Grenoble, my dear Etienne, " said Gerard earnest
ly. " You waste your health, your fortune, and your
best energies, by devoting them to so worthless a pur
suit as gambling. Shutting yourself up night after
night, as you do, in that stifling saloon, breathing only
its impure air, scorched by wax-lights, reeking with
fevered breath, poisonous with unwholesome murmurs

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 267

and imprecations ; and this you prefer to the balm of
evening air, the glow of sunset, and the tranquillity of
a country scene !"

" I never could see the vaunted charm of rural de
lights, for my part," said Etienne de Vaumond
peevishly. " They seem to me to consist in dusty
roads, vicious cows, wallowing hogs, stupid-faced
baaing sheep, ill-victualled larders, infamously-cooked
dinners, milk-pans for wine-flasks — or vinegar, by
courtesy called wine, — louts of men, and thick-ankled,
red-handed, sun-burned women."

" Do you find no charm in such a spot as this ?"
asked Gerard, as the two young men turned at this
moment out of the high road, along which they had
been proceeding hitherto, and entered a small wicket-
gate which opened into a broad-spreading meadow.
" Do you see nothing pleasant in this green-sward be
neath our feet — those waving corn-fields yonder, those
stretching uplands — that wooded descent on the left,
combining the bright green of chestnuts, the sombre
silveriness of olives, the walnut, and tufted mulberry
— that clear mill-stream below — those trailing vines on
the right, flaunting and twining in profuse festoons
from tree to tree — these shadowing oaks above our
heads, with their rugged branches, and clusters of
leaves so richly defined against the blue sky beyond —
the smell of the earth, of the fresh air, mingled with
the wafted fragrance of blossoms, of weeds, and odor
ous breath of kine ? Is there nothing in these shapes
and scents of Nature that stirs a sense of enjoyment
within you, and rouses an emotion of gladness and
gratitude ?"

The chevalier looked at his friend with a sort of
wonder, and a light laugh, as his only reply to an en
thusiasm which he could not understand. Gerard felt,
at the first moment, that kind of bashfulness common
to ingenuous youth when it finds itself suddenly be
trayed into the expression of a deep feeling, which has
been long allowed to dwell secretly within. The sur-

208 HELENA ;

prise mirrored in a commonplace countenance checks
the sentiment's utterance as something misplaced and
absurd ; but an honest heart will recover soon from
this first misgiving, and, with faith in its own true
feeling, will only cherish it more deeply than ever,
though learning to guard it henceforth more sacredly
from unsympathetic observation.

The two young men walked on a few paces in
silence : then fell into a lively talk about some of their
mutual friends and companions ; of a fencing-match
that was in prospect ; of the chevalier's determination
to enjoy to the utmost the independence which had
lately fallen to him by the death of his father ; hints
of the commiseration he felt for his friend, less favored
by fortune in this respect than himself, seeing that
Gerard was still subject to parental domination.

' ' My father loves to see me yield with a good grace
to his will, it is true ;" said Gerard with his former
half -blush and smile ; and sometimes he seems to for
get that I have trebled six years, for he still talks to
me as if I were a child of that age, and questions me
of college studies as he used then to do of my baby
lessons and good behaviour. But it is only the partial
fondness of a father for his only son, that makes him
unwilling to give up this tone, and I should be churl
ish indeed if I resented as interference, what is only
affectionate anxiety for my good. ' '

' ' As long as his notions of what may be your good,
and your notions of your own good, chance to accord,
this may be all well and good, my good fellow, and so
far so good ;" retorted de Vaumond ; " but depend
on't, when difference of opinion shall arise between
you upon this point, — as it must and will, some day
or other — you may find Papa Gerard's solicitude for
your welfare a little troublesome, mon cher. ' '

" Well, till that day arrives, I am contented to re
member only that his paternal ordering of my affairs
has hitherto been productive of nothing but benefit to
me ;" said Gerard. " He has given me a liberal

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 209

education, a liberal allowance, and destines me for a
liberal profession — for all which I am heartily grateful,
and think the least return I can make for so much
liberality on his part, is generosity in construing his
kindness, and a dutiful observance of his wishes on
mine."

" AVhich observance includes entire submission of
your will to his ;" muttered the chevalier ; " appro
priation of your time according to his disposal ; shap
ing your goings and comings solely by his good leave ;
taking your meals at his appointed hours ; responsible
to him in all things ; your thoughts, opinions, feel
ings, scarce your own ; — for depend on it, such
tyranny grows by indulgence, and your penalty will
be slavery complete. You have had your profession
chosen for you with a view to helping the family honor
a step up in the world — from the rotourier wealth of
the banker, to the hoped-for renown of the physician ;
and next, you will have your wife chosen for you, as
a means of obtaining another grade in society. I
should not wonder if some demoiselle of gentle blood
is even now in Papa Gerard's eyes, who shall link his
name with nobility."

Gerard laughed out. " You have indeed drawn a
formidable picture, de Vaumond ; and I must add, an
exaggerated one. But however that may be, as there
is no chance of so serious a controul being exercised
over my inclinations as marrying me against my will,
yet, let us enjoy the holiday vouchsafed to me at pres
ent. Hark, what music is that ? There seems to be
a village festival going on here. ' '

As Gerard finished speaking, he and his companion
emerged from the wood through which they had taken
their way after crossing the meadow, and they sud
denly came upon a scene animated and gay, that
formed a striking contrast with the solitude and quiet
amid which they had previously wandered.

There was a large assembly of peasants, who had
gathered from several neighbouring villages to celebrate

210 HELENA;

the festival of the patron saint of the vicinity. All
were in their holiday array ; all was sport, feasting,
and sylvan revelry.

The spot was a village green. Several cottages were
sprinkled around, forming a not very considerable
hamlet ; and farther on, might be seen the tower of
the rustic church, with its few grassy tombs beneath,
surmounted by their sparkling gilt crosses, hung with
garlands, and bespread with scattered flowers. But
Mowers and garlands prevailed everywhere in the scene
that presented itself to the eyes of the two young men.
Heaps of flowers decorated every window ; festoons
of flowers hung from door to door, looped and fastened
with gay-colored ribands ; long chains of flowers were
suspended in all directions from the spreading tree
that stood in the centre of the green sward ; nosegays
of flowers were in all hands ; coronals of flowers
decked all heads ; bunches of flowers were set out
upon all the tables ; and some favorite flower adorned
the vest of each of the lads, and the bodice of each
of the lasses.

In one corner sat the group that furnished the music
for the occasion. Homely were the pipes that blew,
and slightly skilled might be the bow, which scraped
those sounds of mirth, but well they sufficed for tim
ing the gay footing of the dancers, who with native
vivacity and grace were bounding away in joyous light
some measure, while some brandished tambourines
high above their heads, and thrummed and jingled to
aid the music, and swell the merry uproar.

Cordially rang the laughing voices, sprightly were
the glances, cheerful the hearts, swift the steps, whisk
ing the petticoats, rapid the heads, sudden the arms,
pliant the waists, twinkling the feet, bright the colors
of the holiday garbs, as the peasant youths and maidens
darted to and fro in their mad-cap sport, and hand-in-
hand dance.

The turf seemed alive with bright coloured beings,
on the spot where the dancing was at its height. But

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 211

spreading in all directions, were animated groups of
gaily-clothed peasants ; some two and two, with bent
heads and low earnest tones, engaged in rural court
ship. Others lolling on the grass, toying, and chat
ting, and frolicking, in games where some half dozen
were occupied together ; a gaping crowd farther on,
collected round the wonder-rife table of an escamoteur ;
another grinning at the humours of a charlatan, hold
ing forth in extolment of his wares ; another staring
wide-mouthed and nez-en-1'air at the marvellous leaps
and bounds of a voltigeur ; at the tables sat a knot of
village-politicians, listening to some favorite orator, or
a set of jolly fellows drinking, or another set deep in
the interest of dominoes ; and on benches around, sat
groups of elders, proud mothers, gray-headed fathers,
discreet aunts, indulgent uncles, gossip lovers, talkers,
and lookers-on of all sorts.

" I suppose you feel no inclination to sue for one of
those red hands, as partner in the dance, de Vau-
mond ;" said Gerard, smiling. " Those damsels are
all too thick-ankled or too sun-burned for your wor
ship's fastidious town-taste, of course ? And yet, do
you know, they look so gay and good-humoured, and I
can, methinks, even at this distance, discern many a
trim foot and slender waist among them, that would
be quite comely enough for my turn, if one of their
pretty owners would indulge me with her hand, for a
dance or two. I am still quite boy enough to feel my
blood tingle to make one in such a merry dance as
that yonder. Come, what say you to one dance
among them ? Let's be worthy Frenchmen, and find
a dance irresistible, when a pleasant one offers !
Come !"

' ' I care little for dancing, ' ' answered the chevalier ;
" but a tumbler of cool wine, now, after our long
walk, will not be amiss. Perhaps some of the swains
may be willing to bestow one, in good fellowship with
a gentleman. We'll see."

" What if you can get a draught of milk only ; or

212 HELENA;

a vinegar potation ?" said Gerard, as the two young
men approached the busy scene ; ' ' you know, dairies
are the only cellars in the country, — and milk-pans the
only wine-flasks ; unless you consent to drink vinegar
under the name of vin du pays."

The chevalier made his way to one of the tables,
where he soon made himself at home with its occu
pants ; gravely bantering the politicians, by engaging
them in mock disputes, telling them marvellous news,
and inventing strange rumours ; winking humourously
at the by-standers, making them parties to his jokes
upon the sages, winning their personal liking by easy
chat, familiar convivial manner, and sociable enjoy
ment of the wine-cup that was passing freely round.

Meanwhile, Gerard lingered near the dancers, watch
ing their movements, and looking upon the many
pretty faces and comely shapes ; trying to make up
his mind which of them he should ask to be his part
ner, when the dance should break up and another
should be formed.

While he was thus engaged, a remarkably sweet-
speaking voice struck his ear. He turned, but could
see no one near, to whom the voice seemed to belong.

It is singular to notice how rapidly the mind decides,
under such circumstances, in appropriating particular
voices to particular casts of countenance ; a glance
suffices, at a strange face, to ascertain whether the
sound just heard by chance, has proceeded from that
person or not.

Again the soft feminine tone reached Gerard's ear,
and though he could not distinguish the words it
uttered, he felt irresistibly attracted to discover and
look upon the speaker. He was leaning against the
fine large tree that formed the centre of the village-
green, and he fancied that the sound proceeded from
the other side of the aged trunk, which was so large
in the circumference of its bole, that it might well
screen several persons from his view. He moved
round the tree, and saw a group of persons who were

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 2 13

seated beneath its shade on the opposite side. A
grey-headed man, whose garb at once proclaimed him
to be the venerable Cure of the village, sat on a
wooden chair with his back toward Gerard, whilst op
posite to him was seated a white-capped, gold-ear-
ringed, smooth-aproned, wrinkle-cheeked, but quick-
eyed old dame, who seemed to be his Bonne. She
was knitting diligently, but her keen eyes were not
required for her work ; her practised hands plied the
needles with twinkling rapidity, and allowed her sharp
glances to be wholly absorbed by another object.

Over the back of the Cure's chair leaned the figure
of a young peasant girl. She had drooped over the
shoulder of the old man, so that her face rested nearly
on his bosom, whence it looked up at the Bonne, and
was indeed the object upon which her keen eyes rested.

By the young girl's position, her face was entirely
hidden from Gerard's sight, but as soon as that bend
ing figure met his eye, Gerard felt no hesitation in at
once ascribing the voice he heard, to herself. There
was something harmonious in the flexible grace of the
outline that seemed to claim affinity with the gentle
tones ; something of beauty, purity, and attractive
charm that rendered both naturally akin.

" But your father should not have allowed you to
come alone !" retorted the Bonne with a tone as sharp
as her eyes, to something the sweet voice had just said.

" I did not come alone ;" it replied. " My father
sent Petit Pierre with me."

" Bah ! Petit Pierre, indeed !" was the tart ex
clamation of the Bonne, with a cutting flash of her
eyes, and a smart snap of her knitting-needles —
" Petit Pierre, forsooth ! A pretty person to take
care of you ! A cow-boy ! An urchin of ten years
old ! A scape-grace that can't take care of himself,
much less of any body else ! What could your father
be thinking of ?"

" My father was thinking of indulging me, as
usual ;" replied the soft voice. " You know every-

214

body says he spoils his Gabrielle ; and as he found she
was intent upon going, and as nobody could be spared
from the farm so well as Petit Pierre, my father sent
him with me."

' ' I can't think why you were so intent upon coming,
for my part," said the old lady, darting another pierc
ing glance, and sticking one of her needles with a sud
den stab into her apron-string ; "I don't mind your
coming over quietly, as you do at other times, to read,
and write, and study, and to talk, and confess, to
Monsieur le Cure. That is all very right and proper,
and what he approves, I approve, of course ; but why
you should take it into your foolish little head to come
to the fete is what I can't fathom, and can't approve ;
it's not at all the thing for you, Mademoiselle Gabri
elle, to come here, with only a cow-urchin to take care
of you, among a parcel of strangers, and a crowd of
nobody -knows- who from the other villages. ' '

Here the old lady snatched out the knitting-needle
again, and darted it into her work with a poignant
thrust, and began another row, without so much as
suffering her eyes for an instant to withdraw from the
succession of pointed interrogatories they were aiming
with such relentless acuteness into the face that looked
up into hers. Be it remarked, by the bye, that this
excellent old Bonne only whetted the edge of her vigil
ance upon the young girl from excess of affection
towards her, and from a sense of her own duty towards
one she loved so well. There are many worthy Bonnes
like this old lady, whose feelings are more kindly than
their manner ; and whom to judge by their sharp eyes
and tones, you would guess to be possessed of hearts
made of steel or stone, and not of such soft stuff as
they really are.

" I believe we mustn't quarrel with anything that
brings her to us, my good Jeanneton," said the old
Cure, patting the head that rested upon his breast,
and pressing it against him ; " we are too glad to have
Gabrielle with us upon any terms, are we not ?"

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 215

Madame Jeanneton only shook her head sharply,
and muttered something about ' ' spoiled on all hands ;
spoiled by her own father, and spoiled by her reverend
father, who ought to know better. ' '

' ' It is our fault if she be spoiled, certainly, Madame
Jeanneton, you are right enough there ;" said Mon
sieur le Cure ; ' ' for who can help indulging Gabrielle ?
Besides, I don't find that she is spoiled, for my part ;
I think she's very pleasant and good. ' Gentille-et-
sage ' I call her, don't I, Gabrielle ? And Gentille-et-
sage you'll continue to be spite of the indulgence of
your two old fathers, won't you, my child ? After
all, there's a great difference between spoiling and in
dulgence, you know," added the old Cure, as if to
disarm his Bonne by placing his weakness on the high
ground of principle ; "I think that indulgence does
people good, makes them better-behaved, and more
pleasant — at least, sensible people ; and our Gabrielle
is very sensible, is she not ?"

" And I wished so very, very much to see the fete
you cannot think ;" said the girl, with that sweet voice
of hers, so childlike in its simple earnestness, so girlish
in its innocent gaiety, so womanly in its deep tender
ness. " I had never seen the famous feast of SS. Pierre
et Paul, though I have heard of it ever since I can re
member ; so I could not help coming over this time."

" But as you are come to the fete you would like to
dance, would you not, my child ?" asked Monsieur.
" Your young feet would fain be skipping about, I
dare say ; wouldn't they ?"

" No, mon pere ;" replied the girl ; "I did not
come to dance, I came to see the fete ; to look on with
you."

Gerard had for some little time past, been determin
ing that this was the partner he should best like to
obtain for the dance he had proposed to enjoy ; and
had determined to step forward and ask her hand,
when there should be a pause in the conversation.
But these few last words discouraged him.

21 6 HELENA;

As lie stood irresolute, the girl slightly changed her
position ; and in raising her head to look again toward
the dancers, Gerard caught a full view of her face. It
was not strikingly handsome, but it beamed with
good-humour, good-sense, candour, and a bewitching
look of sweetness that was almost better than absolute
beauty.

At least, so thought Gerard, as he felt how entirely
the face harmonised with the figure and the voice he
had already found so attractive.

His hesitation in addressing her, grew in proportion
with his increased desire to obtain her for a partner in
the dance ; he wished for some incident which might
offer a medium for what seemed an abruptness, and
almost a presumption in one so wholly a stranger to her.

He had scarcely formed the wish, ere it was grati
fied. Monsieur le Cure happened to drop his stick,
which had rested against his knee ; and Gerard, alertly
stepping forward, and restoring it to the old gentleman
with a respectful look and a few pleasant words, at
once gained the means of introduction he had desired.

His frank, pleasant bearing soon ingratiated him
with the little party. He told Monsieur le Cure his
name, and of his having left Perpignan that morning,
with a companion, in the hope of enjoying a walk and
a country holiday ; he said how pleasantly fulfilled his
hope had been by coming unexpectedly upon their vil
lage festival ; he spoke of his desire to partake in the
sports and dancing ; and when he reached this point,
he found courage to conclude, by expressing a hope
that Mademoiselle would indulge him with her hand
for the next dance.

" Mademoiselle Gabrielle did not come with the in
tention of dancing ;" said the Bonne. It was not that
the good lady disapproved of the young stranger ; on
the contrary, she thought he was a very eligible part
ner for their favorite Gabrielle ; but it was simply
from her habit of officiously settling the affairs of
others, that led her to say this.

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 217

But Gabrielle, accustomed by indulgence to decide
for herself, said simply : — ' ' I did not intend to dance ;
but I think I should like to dance now, if you do not
o eject, mon pere ?"

"I object? Certainly not, my dear. Go, and
have a dance, my child ; I am glad you have changed
your mind. Go, Gentille-et-sage, and dance with
monsieur ; what can be more natural than for young
people to enjoy dancing ?"

Gerard and Gabrielle amply confirmed the truth of
the old gentleman's concluding proposition ; for they
joined with untiring spirit in all the successive dances
that took place on the green-sward that day. It
seemed to be the mode here that there should be no
restriction in the matter of changing or retaining part
ners ; each couple seemed to be at full liberty to form
new selections, or to remain constant to their original
choice. Gerard availed himself of this license, by
keeping exclusive possession of the hand of ' Gentille-
et-sage ; ' nor did she seem averse from the arrange
ment. Hour after hour passed gaily away, unheeded
by either.

In the afternoon, Monsieur le Cure asked Gerard to
bring his partner to his house hard by, where he said
a humble entertainment awaited them. The old man
politely included in the invitation the gentleman whom
he understood had accompanied Gerard from town.
But the chevalier de Vaumond was deeply engaged in
a game of dominoes ; and protesting he had already
dined sumptuously with his excellent new acquaintance
(the clown with whom he was now playing), bade
Gerard not trouble himself farther about him, but
hasten to attend his fair partner, as they had both evi
dently discovered congenial friends and pursuits.
Gerard did not altogether like the tone in which this
was said ; but the thought was soon banished from
his mind, when he rejoined the Cure, Gabrielle, and
the Bonne.

A cheerful apartment opening into a garden, where

2l8 HELENA;

roses, pinks, pot-herbs, gilliflowers, myrtles, cabbages,
oleanders, tig-trees, geraniums, orange-trees, honey
suckle, cherries, sweet-briar, apples, lettuces, lilies,
mulberry-trees, vines, and carnations flourished in
amicable confusion together, mingling their blended
scents in one delicious combination of fragrance to
greet the senses of the diners ; a neatly-spread table, a
kindly host, a sweet-voiced woman, happy spirits, gay
looks, mirthful conversation, all contributed to render
the repast one of the most exquisite Gerard had ever
tasted.

A vision of some of the grand banquets given by his
father to divers of his wealthy connections, — banquets
where every species of costly delicacy, and rare wine,
and massive plate had laden the board, which was sur
rounded only by corpulent Millionaires and rubicund
Rentiers and dull Douairieres, — came over Gerard with
a sense of suffocation, as the contrast forced itself
upon him passingly ; the contrast which such gorgeous
feasts formed with the simple meal before him.

Another merit presented by the simple lightness of
the meal of which they had just partaken, was, that it
offered no impediment to the resumption of dancing as
soon as they pleased.

The old Cure accordingly proposed their adjourn
ment forthwith to the village-green ; leaving the Bonne
to superintend those household matters which might
require rearrangement after the important meal of the
day. Nor was it perceptible that her secession caused
any diminution of comfort to the party.

More dances were enjoyed together ; more hours
sped unheeded away. But when the sloping rays of
the sun slanted so low and so level with the earth, that
Gentille-et-sage could no longer disregard their warn
ing of passing time, she said, " I must return. It is
evening ; and I must go home. ' '

There was just enough of regret, in the sweet
cadence of her voice, as Gabrielle uttered these few
words, to console Gerard for their import. He yielded

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 2ig

to the motion with which she turned in the direction
where they had left the old man seated, that she might
bid the Cure farewell, but he availed himself of the
usage, which permitted him, as her partner, to keep
her hand in his.

' ' You are going, my child, ' ' said the Cure, as they
approached, and she took her leave of him. " Well,
you are right ; your father will be expecting you. I
must not detain you. But how wrong this is of Petit
Pierre, not to be here ready to go back with you !"

" I am not afraid to go home alone, mon pere, you
know I do it often, when I come over to see you, ' '
said she.

" I hope -Mademoiselle Gabrielle will allow me the
pleasure of being her companion, as Monsieur Petit
Pierre has not thought fit to make his appearance ;"
said Gerard.

" Well, if you are not unwilling to go so far out of
your way, mon bon Monsieur Gerard, ' ' said the old
Cure, ' ' that will be a very good plan. The farm does
certainly lie a little round about ; somewhat off the
straight road to Perpignan, but to young legs like
yours I dare say that won't much matter, even after a
day's dancing. Besides, perhaps you may meet Petit
Pierre on the road, you know, and then he can save
Monsieur the trouble, can't he, Gentille-et-sage ? If
he should make his appearance soon, I will be sure
and hasten him after you, my dear. ' '

The old Cure said all this with so much simplicity
and unconscious good faith, that it seemed a pity to
offer any new view of the affair ; and Gerard forbore
to explain that he regarded the circumstance of Mon
sieur Petit Pierre's defection as peculiarly fortunate.
Contenting himself, therefore, with taking a cordial
leave of the good old man, thanking him for the share
he had had in making his holiday one of the most de
lightful he had ever spent, and expressing a hope that
he would permit him to come and renew his acquaint
ance ere long, they parted ; the venerable Cure return-

22o HELENA;

ing to his own house, Gerard and Gabrielle taking the
direction of the wood, through which the young man
had passed just before coming upon the scene of the
village festival that morning.

" I do not repeat what I said about not being afraid
of going home alone, because it will be as if I asked
you to assure me that you think it a pleasure, and no
trouble, to go out of your way ;" said Gentille-et-
sage ; " so I will only thank you for your good com
pany."

" If you wish to be very generous in your thanks,
tell me that you prefer it to your own ;" he replied.

" I prefer it even to Petit Pierre's ;" said she
archly.

" And pray how came this Monsieur Petit Pierre to
indulge us with his absence, by leaving you so uncere
moniously to find a substitute for his doughty escort ?"
asked Gerard.

' ' I lost sight of him almost directly after we arrived
here, this morning ;" answered Gabrielle ; " he seemed
to think he had fulfilled my father's wish when he had
seen me to Monsieur le Cure's side, and that he was
thenceforth at liberty to follow his own devices for the
rest of the day. As indeed he was, for no compact
had been made that he should abide by me, or return
for me ; and he well knows that I am in the constant
habit of going backwards and forwards by myself be
tween our farm and the village. ' '

" Well, whatever may have been the seductive Mat
de cocagne, or other entertainment which may have
proved the irresistible cause of Monsieur Petit Pierre's
truancy, I confess myself beholden to it;" said Gerard.
" But," added he, "I suppose it is the society of
that kind and pleasant old man which brings you over
so frequently to the village. Monsieur le Cure seems
to be worthy of all esteem and affection."

" He is indeed !" said Gabrielle warmly. " You
should see him as I have done, praying by the side of
the sick and dying, cheering, comforting, sustaining

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 221

them. You should hear his holy words, and witness
his own virtuous life which brings example as well as
precept to the couch of the sufferer. You should know
how he quits his snug hearth, his cherished study, his
own bed, at all hours, and at all seasons, not only
unrepiningly but with kindly eagerness. You should
know how he lives scantily, and denies himself the
luxury of books — a far harder frugality to him — that
he may the better spare the assistance which is never
withheld when needed by his poor neighbours. His
charity is of the purest kind — for he is generous of his
gifts, of his time, of his help, bestowed ungrudgingly
from his own store. And his mind is as large as his
heart ; for though he is singularly simple-mannered
and modest, he is very sensible, has read much, and
has a fine memory."

" And he has doubtless afforded you some of the
advantages of this love of study of his ;" said Gerard.
" It is as his pupil, and to read with him, I suppose, that
you so frequently come over here from your own home. ' '

' ' Yes, he is most kind to me ; I love him dearly ;
we are very happy together ; and my father, whose
happiness it is to see his Gabrielle happy, lets me be
with Monsieur le Cure as often as we both please. So
I have spent much of my time in that pleasant little
parlour of his, at his side, reading to him, and hearing
him talk. For when we come to any passage that re
minds Monsieur le Cure of something that he has read
in some other book, he tells me about it, or even
repeats it to me. He has an excellent memory, as I
told you, which is very fortunate ; since his charitable
heart prevents his buying as many books as he could
wish, he has luckily, in this way, a sort of extra shelf
of them in his head. ' '

Gentille-et-sage continued to chat on thus, so gaily
and so easily, that Gerard, who was at home accounted
a somewhat shy and reserved youth, became, with
this young girl, whom he had known only a few hours,
equally communicative with herself.

222 HELENA;

He found himself telling her freely, with the happy
egoism induced by cordial companionship, of his
mother, whose partiality knew no bounds ; of his
father, whose affection showed itself in a stricter exer
cise of authority, which perhaps only by contrast with
her maternal fondness seemed like controul ; of his
enthusiasm for his profession, and of his hopes of one
day attaining skill and eminence in its pursuit.

A more exquisite flattery can hardly be administered
to self-love, or one that better excuses the weakness it
appeals to and elicits, than the sympathy of such a
companion as Gabrielle ; it at once calls forth, and
rewards the candour of revelation. Under such influ
ence, a sensitive heart yields its hoarded treasures of
feeling, and is at once happy in its new freedom, and
grateful toward its liberator.

Gerard felt this gratitude toward Gabrielle. The
encouragement afforded by the intelligence, interest,
and response he read in every look of hers ; the sim
ple ease of her manners which set him at equal ease ;
the friendly tone thus at once assumed between them ;
all made him feel more at home, more familiar, more
allied, as it were, with this recent acquaintance, than
he had ever felt with any human being.

An incident occurred that tended to heighten this
sense of familiarity. The day had been sultry ; the
sky now became suddenly overcast ; the gloom was
more than the mere closing in of evening ; clouds
gathered, a few large drops fell, then more, and faster,
and soon a heavy shower pelted down with such vio
lence, that the thick leaves above were insufficient to
protect Gabrielle from the rain. Gerard perceived at
a little distance an oak-tree, the trunk of which was so
time-worn and hollow, as to admit of Gabrielle's en
sconcing herself within. They hastened toward the
spot, and as she crept into the rugged bole, he laugh
ingly admired her Dryad's nook, and congratulated
her on the perfect shelter it afforded from the wet.

"It Is dry certainly," said she, " and yet I can't

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 223

allow it to be a perfect shelter, since it is not large
enough to hold us both. Dryads, I believe, were re
puted beneficent, and the least the sylvan goddess
could do, would be to share with an unhappy mortal
the protection her tree affords ; whereas I am snugly
and selfishly screened, and you are getting wet
through. ' '

They chatted on about Dryads, woodland deities,
sylvan haunts, poets and their poetical fancies, and a
thousand pleasant subjects, which served to show that
this peasant, girl had profited by her reading with the
old Cure, in laying up a store of beautiful and gra
cious ideas, and in obtaining a glimpse of something
beyond the usual education of a farmer's daughter.

It was an odd combination — this fact of birth, and
this accident of instruction — but it was a pleasant
one ; for the country maiden was so natural, so uncon
scious, so merely valuing the acquirement for its own
sake, for the pleasure it afforded her, and the oppor
tunity it gave her of being with her old friend the
Cure, that it did not injure her character. Gabrielle
was a being, inartificial and graceful, as she was sin
gular.

The shower was persevering. Half an hour, an
hour, two hours elapsed, almost unconsciously ;
although Gabrielle proposed several times, issuing
from her nook, and facing the wet, saying that it was
not very far now from the farm, and that it would be
better to hurry thither at once, as the rain might last
for some time. But Gerard was so urgent in protest
ing that now it was going to give over very shortly,
and now it was much lighter in the wind, and now he
was sure that if they waited ten minutes longer, they
might go in perfect security, that Gabrielle gave way,
and remained within the hollow tree.

The shower ceased as suddenly as it had come on ;
but when at length she was able to emerge from shel
ter, Gabrielle found that a much longer time had
elapsed than she had been at all aware of, while chat-

224 HELENA;

ting away, screened within the recesses of the oak.
Slie hastened on, and expressed some anxiety lest her
father might be uneasy at her late return. As long as
they remained within the wood, Gabrielle flattered
herself that it was the shadow of the trees that made
it seem so dark ; but when they reached the open
fields beyond, she could no longer help seeing that
evening had quite closed in.

" I hope my father will have fancied that I am stay
ing all night at Monsieur le Cure's ;" she said, half to
pacify her own thought, half aloud to Gerard. ' ' Then
he will have no anxiety about my safety. ' '

Half a mile more brought them to a lane, close, and
bowery, and shut in by thick hedgerows on each side.
Some trees grew overarchingly above, so that little of
the sky could be seen ; but here and there a star twin
kled through the branches, and Gabrielle, perceiving
that Gerard's pace was less assured, as he followed
this darkened and unknown track, withdrew her arm
from his, and taking him by the hand, led him on
wards. He could hear her laughing melodious voice,
as she paced quickly along this accustomed path, and
spoke in gay, assured, home-returning tones.

Presently she stopped at a little door, which seemed
to be made in a garden-wall. Gerard could hear her
unlock it ; and then she turned again to him, and
said : — " Give me your hand again ; you will not be
able to find your way here, unless I lead you. Now
stoop your head ; you are tall, and the doorway is
low."

Gerard could hear the rustle of the branches, and
indistinctly see them laden with fruit, as Gabrielle held
back the dripping boughs of some cherry and summer-
apple trees, that overhung the narrow path, and be
sprinkled them profusely as they passed beneath.

" This is almost as bad as the shower in the wood ;
but you are already wet through, and a few additional
drops won't signify. I shall soon be able to have your
coat properly dried ;" said the pleasant voice. " O,

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 225

take care of that walnut bough — and these rosvbushes
— round this way ; now stoop again, under this honey
suckle arch ; there, now up a few steps, and here are
we !"

Another door was pushed open ; they entered, and
Gerard found himself beneath a roof of some sort, but
he could see nothing ; until presently, his conductress
quitting hold of his hand, he heard a little gentle
bustling to and fro, — a light foot, — a closet opened,
and then came the sound of a flint and steel struck
smartly ; a spark fell upon the tinder, a flickering
vision emerged from the gloom, of a face, irradiated
by smiles no less than by the nascent glow, as the lips
closed in a rosy circle, puffing gently and coaxingly
upon the spreading light ; a match was kindled, and
held toward the taper, the flame sprang up, and a
pleasant voice exclaimed gleefully as a child might
have done : — " That's it !" and then gradually, the
eyes of Gerard accustoming themselves to the light,
after the recent obscurity, informed him that he was
in a moderate-sized apartment, strewed with different
articles that bespoke womanly occupation. A few
books, some pencils, a work-basket, pens and ink, an
embroidery frame, a garden-rake, a knitting-box, a
portfolio, and some half-finished needle-work lay in
that sort of neat negligence, graceful litter, that is
found only in a young girl's own sitting-room.

Before he had time to do more than glance round
at the place in which he found himself, Gabrielle had
laid her hand upon the sleeve of his soaked doublet ;
and begging him to take it off, she stepped into an
inner room, unhooked from a peg a thick cloak which
hung there, and brought it him, to put on, while she
took his wet garment to be dried.

' ' Give it me, ' ' she said in her easy manner, ' ' that
I may take it to the kitchen -lire of the farm. The
embers are still hot, I dare say. I will not be gone
long, but I must just step over, for I am longing to
see my father, and tell him I am come back. You

226 HELENA;

will forgive me, I know. I will be back in five min
utes." So saying, she glided out of the door by
which she had entered ; and Gerard remained alone.

He had now leisure to examine the spot where he
was. It seemed to be a sort of summer-house, or
pavilion, such as is frequently found, built out in the
garden, away from the house, in many parts of
France. It comprised two apartments ; for, beyond
the one where Gerard was, he could see another room.
They opened from one to the other by a small door,
which had been left ajar by Gabrielle, when she had
gone in to fetch the cloak. The glimpse afforded
through this half-open door showed, by the white
hangings which neatly draped an alcove opposite, that
this inner one formed a bed-chamber ; while the single
snowy pillow and general air of tasteful simplicity that
reigned around, proclaimed it to be Gabrielle's own
sleeping-room, as incontestably as the scattered work,
and other feminine confusion, bespoke the one in
which he sat to be her sitting-room.

He could scarcely forbear laughing at his whimsical
situation, and at the still more whimsical figure he cut,
as he caught a glimpse of himself in a looking-glass
which hung near. His youthful head, with its thick
hair and coming moustache, peered above the folds of
a woman's cloak. It was the dark woollen one,
fastened with a silver clasp, worn by Gabrielle, in
common with Frenchwomen of her class, in winter ;
and seemed as if only a snowy cap, or other feminine
head-gear could crown it appropriately. He thought,
too, of the unexpected train of circumstances which
had grown out of his walk that morning. Here he
was in a strange place, awaiting one, who, until that
day, had been a stranger to him, but who, henceforth,
was to be intimately blended with his every thought.
He instinctively felt this, though it did not present
itself in so palpable a form to his mind.

Gerard's nature, unconsciously to himself, now for
the first time in his life met its kindred spirit. Hith-

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 227

erto he had dwelt only with dispositions uncongenial
with his own ; for although his filial reverence taught
him to construe his mother's weak passiveness into
gentleness, and his father's domineering selfishness
into paternal guidance, yet the real temperament of
his parents, had, till now, been the unfavorable social
atmosphere in which the glow of his own feelings had
been repressed and subdued. He had been accus
tomed to check and stifle warmth of expression as
something unsuited to the chilling damp that pervaded
the home circle ; but now he had met with one, who
at once made him feel unconstrained, unreserved, elate,
happy.

Gabrielle's manner was so peculiarly unreserved, so
full of that frank yet modest ease which sometimes
belongs to youth brought up with indulgence, that it in
spired ease in him ; the young girl's simple unembar
rassed demeanour placed him at once on terms of in
timacy ; her tone of sympathy and intelligence won
his regard and confidence, and the whole impression pro
duced upon his feelings, was that one of repose, of
content, of comfort, of serene joy which belongs to a
tried and valued friendship. In this playful ease, this
modest yet assured manner of the young country girl,
which awakened such welcome novelty of happy feel
ing in Gerard's heart, lay the secret of her charm for
him ; but as yet he knew it not ; he was content to
yield himself implicitly to the unanalysed pleasure he
felt ; to the joy of having discovered such a being ;
to the happiness of her presence, her intercourse, her
self.

He sat there, indulging this kind of waking-dream
— for it was rather with the shadows and voluptuous
impresses of thought, than with the thoughts them
selves that his fancy was luxuriating, — until the light
footsteps of Gabrielle announced her return.

" It was as I hoped ;" she exclaimed as she en
tered. " My father had not been uneasy, conclud
ing I staid at Monsieur le Cure's, all night, on account

228 HELENA;

of the shower. So I found him snug in bed ; where I
would have had him remain quietly ; but when he
heard that Monsieur had been so good as to see his
child safe home, he would needs get up and thank
him. So I am come to fetch you to the farm, to my
father. It is only at the other end of the garden.
This is the old pavilion, which my father has had fitted
up, and lets me have for my own little homestead.
O, he is very indulgent to his Gabrielle — my kind old
father ! Everybody says he spoils her. He lets her
have her own whims and fancies — her own way in
everything — and that's so pleasant !"

The moon had risen now ; and as they once more
crossed the garden, her broad mild light shone clear
upon flower, shrub, and fruit-tree, rendering needless
the friendly guiding hand which had before led Gerard
along the path.

He was in thought half regretting it, when Gabrielle
said : — " You need no leading now, which is fortu
nate, or you might have had some difficulty in finding
your way back to Perpignan ; but you can scarcely
miss it, in this clear moonshine, and the way is not
intricate ; if you follow the lane that bends a little to
the right, leaving the wood on your left hand, when
you have passed the field or two beyond, the road is
nearly straight to the town."

In the kitchen of the farm, they found the old
farmer, hospitably intent on spreading a table-cloth,
and preparing some homely refreshment, to which he
invited his guest in unceremonious but hearty terms.
He thanked him for bringing home his child in safety,
in the same manner ; and all his speech betokened the
rough honest farmer. He spoke a broad country dia
lect, a strong patois, but his words were kindly, though
homely. He was as utterly devoid of polish or refine
ment, as his daughter was singularly graceful and
superior in air and knowledge to her station ; though
the one was no less natural than the other. But she
was simple, he was plain ; she was innocent, he was ig-

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 22g

norant ; she was candid, he was blunt ; she was intelli
gent, and had learned the happiness of reading, he was
unlettered, and cared for no knowledge beyond the cul
ture of his fields, and the superintendence of his farm.
He was the mere rustic, she was the modest country-
maid. The contrast was almost as great between this
farmer and this farmer's daughter, as if the one had
been a duchess and the other a cobbler ; but there
were some points in common between these two. Both
father and child were perfectly free from assumption
of all sorts ; equally artless, equally unaffected, equally
sincere, and equally steady in affection for each other.

By the time the hasty supper had been discussed,
Gerard's doublet was thoroughly dry ; as he resumed
it, and prepared to depart, resigning Gabrielle's cloak
which had wrapped him so comfortably in his need,
many smiling words were exchanged between them
all, of the help, and the shelter, and the kindness that
had been mutually interchanged that day.

Gabrielle's father thanked the " bon jeune homme"
for his care of his daughter ; she thanked Gerard
again for his " good company ;" and he thanked
them both for their care, their good company, and
their hospitable kindness ; but in his heart were myriads
of thanks that could find no utterance toward her who
had that day shed so sudden a flood of light upon his
existence. Often thus, lies profound gratitude, con
cealed beneath light laughing words of courtesy — the
bashful subterfuge of a generous hypocrisy, that feigns
less than it feels.

These unexpressed emotions served to bear him joy
ful company back to Perpignan that night ; the way
imperceptibly melted before him, as he indulged the
thought of how soon he hoped to retrace it ; no idea
of the lateness of the hour occurred to him, till he be
held the indignant, drowsy face of the cross old por-
teress, who let him in when he reached his father's
porte-cochere.

" These young people !" he heard her mutter ;

230 HELENA ;

" little they think of us old ones at home ! Fine
times ! Fine hours ! Fine goings-on !"

He whispered some playful words, deprecatory of
the ancient Cerberia's wrath ; but the next morning
he had to encounter the far more important displeas
ure of his father.

He met him for a few moments, just as Monsieur
Gerard was issuing forth, ready hatted and gloved, to
proceed to the Banking-house, which was at a short
distance from his residence.

" You are late down to breakfast this morning,
Gerard ; no wonder, if you keep such late hours over
night. I hear it was much past midnight before you
returned home. This does not encourage me to give
you a holiday again, in a hurry. De Vaumond is a
young man of high birth and connections, therefore I
approve of your intimacy with him ; but you must not
allow his love of the gaming-table to make you forget
your proper hours for returning home at night. It is
not the few paltry ecus you might lose, that I mind, —
a lad of spirit, with a rich father, can afford to spend
his money as freely as a young nobleman, but I do not
choose to have my family hours altered."

" I met de Vaumond, it is true, sir," answered the
son, "but "

" There, let us have no more words about it, my
boy," interrupted Monsieur Gerard. " I choose you
to be home before midnight, do you hear ? That's
my will. Let it be observed. No more words, if you
please."

The banker stalked away ; and Gerard went to his
College ; but that day, his study was, for the most
part, how he might best contrive time for another visit
to the farm.

And another and another visit did he contrive.
Monsieur Gerard had no more occasion to complain of
late hours, either over-night, or at the breakfast-table.
Punctually at nine o'clock, the established hour for
the family to assemble at the morning meal, Gerard

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 231

made his appearance, looking animated, happy, and
with a glow in his cheeks, that bespoke early air and
exercise. His parents remarked upon it with pleasure,
each after their peculiar fashion. His mother ob
served, ' ' she was glad to find he had minded what his
father said about late hours. Getting up early, and
taking a walk, always made the cheeks blooming ; and
Gerard's were absolutely like a rose."

His father, who was fond of taking his own views
of the matter, and assuming them as established facts,
believed that his son was eager in the pursuit of herbal
botany, and had chosen these early hours for his ram
bles, that he might not interfere with time devoted to
other branches of medical study.

Besides, he had signified his desire that early hours
should be observed ; and Monsieur Gerard was one of
those authoritative persons who consider the announce
ment of their will as tantamount to its execution.

" The boy is quite right, Helena ;" said Monsieur
Gerard in reply to his wife's observation touching their
son's improved looks. " He acts in conformity with
the advice of those who know what's best for him ;
and he finds his account in it, don't you, Gerard, my
boy?"

' ' I certainly find my delight in these early walks, ' '
answered he ; " for I have found "

" O spare us the description of every weed and
every blade of grass you may have discovered, my
good fellow ;" interrupted Monsieur Gerard. "They
are all rare specimens, I dare say, and may possess
the most inestimable virtues of the combined Pharma
copeia, for aught I know ; but I'm content to take
your word for it. Helena, my dear, pass me that
pigeon-pie ; I find more entertainment in exploring its
contents, monsieur le docteur, than in all your wild
flowers that ever were distilled to cure or poison man
kind !" And Monsieur Gerard accordingly began to
dig into the bowels of the pasty, selecting the choicest
morsels for his own plate, in his own important style.

232 HELENA ;

For the banker always helped himself, as if fully con
scious what was due to the rich merchant, goldsmith,
and banker of Perpignan, the father of a family, and
the master of his own house. He helped himself as if
the chief anxiety of all present, were bound up, with
his own, in the fact of his securing those morsels best
suited to his palate ; and as if what he might reject
was sure to be good enough for others. Monsieur
Gerard, in helping himself from a dish, always gave
you the idea that those portions which he left, became
scraps — orts — mere refuse — unworthy of his notice —
though they might serve for those who came after him.
When he partook of an omelet he would cut the
browned edges off with so choice a hand, and deposit
them on his plate with so nice an egoism of discrimina
tion and care, that the middle piece which remained
lay there on the dish, a mere unpleasant block of
insipidity, for any one who chose to take up with it ;
but had he preferred the less done section, it would
have been just the same ; for then the solicitude with
which he would have lifted out the centre spoonful,
and conveyed it with a steady hand, a watchful eye,
and suspended breath, to its destination for his own
peculiar discussion, would have converted the crisper
edges into cindry chips, parings, despised remnants,
pushed aside, rejected and abandoned, for any one
that chose to collect them.

The confident unmisgiving air with which all this
epicurean purveyancing was carried on, imparted a
solemnity and dignity to Monsieur Gerard's eating,
and Monsieur Gerard's taste, and Monsieur Gerard's
selection, which deprived it of any appearance of
selfishness — at least, neither his wife nor son was ever
struck with it in that light ; for they had been so
accustomed to see him sniff at, and closely inspect,
and pish-and-shaw at the dishes, and to hear him
say : — " I'll try a bit of this, I think" — or, " Let me
see if I can manage one of these" — or, " Perhaps I
may fancy some of your dish, Helena, my dear, send

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 233

it round to me ;" that they had come to consider him
as rather an ill-used gentleman on the score of appe
tite, and one whom it was providential if anything
could be found to tempt and coax into eating at all.

In small matters, as well as in great ones, Monsieur
Gerard was emphatically ' master in his own house ; '
and he liked to have his family think, as well as act,
according to his sovereign will and pleasure. If he
pitied and patronised his own appetite, as a poor one,
and one that required pampering and indulgence, it
was the duty of those around him to adopt his view of
the matter — which they implicitly did. Monsieur
Gerard had hitherto enjoyed supreme and unquestioned
domestic sway.

His son, Gerard, had no intention of concealing the
real object of his morning excursions from his parents ;
on the contrary, his naturally frank temper would have
led him to confide to them the new source of joy he
possessed in the discovery of Gabrielle ; he would
have described to them her graces of simplicity, can
dour, and intelligence ; he would have dwelt with de
light upon the charm her character possessed for him,
upon the feeling of amity and affectionate interest with
which she inspired him ; but the manner in which
everything had been taken for granted, and the total
absence of all expressed sympathy, in leading him to
expatiate upon his new-found source of happiness,
chilled and discouraged him into silence. This had
ever been the social existence of Gerard ; till of an
open disposition, it had well-nigh created a reserved
one.

But now, whatever might be the lack of sympathy
in his home-circle, none was wanting to make his
hours spent at the farm those of unalloyed happiness.
There, he was always received with the same cor
diality, the same frank ease, the same friendly in
timacy as that which had marked the epoch of his first
acquaintance with Gabrielle and her father.

Calm and delicious were those pure summer morn-

234 HELENA ;

ings ! Secure that however early might be the hour
at which he could reach the farm, its inhabitants
would surely be stirring, he would rise from his bed
with the dawn, glide through the silent streets of the
town, emerge into the open country, traverse the dewy
fields, behold the rising sun in his glory, hail the face
of gracious Nature in her fair beaming freshness,
whilst his heart, cheerful and devout, offered silent
homage to the Creator of all.

Then came the arrival ; the welcome ; the good-
humoured hearty farmer ; the honest labourers, ex
changing a grinning bon-jour, for the young man's touch
of the hat, or slap on the shoulder ; the lowing kine,
with their fragrant breath steaming forth into the
morning air, standing patiently to be milked, before
going to pasture ; the busy clamour of poultry, hurry
ing to be fed ; the hum of bees ; the scent of hay ;
the clattering of milk-pans ; the rustle of straw in the
yard, amongst which routed and grunted, in swinish
luxury, some pigs, with their upturned twinkling eyes ;
the creaking and flapping of huge barn-doors, disclosing
glimpses of scattered straw, piled logs, trusses of hay,
grain, and high cross-rafters, among which sparrows
flew in and out, perching and twittering ; the neigh
ing of sleek plough-horses ; the cheerful barking of
dogs ; the swinging-to of gates ; the many sights, and
smells, and sounds that make a farm so pleasant a
spot to the townsman, all greeted Gerard's senses with
an impression of delight and enjoyment.

Then, above all, came the meeting her. She would
come hurrying out from the porch, all smiles, and
welcome, and beaming cordiality, looking by far the
most fresh, and bright, and sunny object in those
fresh, bright, sunny mornings. And then they would
loiter about the farm-yard together, watching the
farmer give his instructions to the men, congratulating
him upon the flourishing condition of his farm, listen
ing to his proposed improvements, giving their occa
sional opinion, and interesting themselves in all that

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 235

was going forward without doors. Then they would
stroll through the garden, and linger near the bee
hives, and debate the probability of an approaching
swarm, or stay and peep at some sitting mother-bird
who had built her nest in the close hedge near the har
bour ; or note the growth of some newly-set favorite
of Gabrielle's planting ; or watch the cool green
shadows play and ripple on the surface of the small
pond, while they idled on the brink side-by-side, and
Gerard saw mirrored in the cheeks of his companion
the dimples on the water, in her eyes its liquid bright
ness, in her soul its transparency, its clearness, and its
purity. Then came half an hour in the pleasant sit
ting-room of the pavilion. Gerard would here give
Gabrielle the book or print he generally brought for
her ; he would hear of the pleasure she had had in
reading the last ; or of something Monsieur le Cure
had told her, when reading it to him ; or he would
look at the progress she had made, since the morning
before, in her drawing, and would perhaps add a touch
or two, and suggest a few more.

But however pleasantly the time might speed, Gerard
never permitted himself to forget its lapse, so as to
trench upon the appointed hour for his return. He
told Gabrielle that he trusted to her for turning him
out of doors when the sun should have reached the
warning height ; and so, when its rays had travelled
round a certain space in the chamber, and, resting in
a certain angle, proclaimed that it was time to depart,
the pleasant voice said : — ' ' See ! the sun beckons you
to be going — or you will not reach home in time to
welcome your mother down-stairs, and lead her to the
breakfast-table. ' '

Morning after morning thus passed away, in scenes
so peaceful, in thoughts so tranquil, in intercourse so
calm, that Gerard had no suspicion of the change
which had been wrought within himself ; he surmised
not that this blissful sense of awakened existence, this
powerful impression of happiness which he hugged

236 HELENA;

close to his heart as a deeply-treasured possession, a
newly-acquired gift, was the result of a complete
revolution which had taken place in his own moral
being. He knew not that love had taken possession
of his soul ; he knew not that love it was which played
in every breeze, which lured him forth to find fresh
beauties in Nature herself, which filled his heart with
joy, his spirits with exultation, and which lent a new
zest to every thought and every act. He knew not
that it was love which shed its radiance upon the
image of Gabrielle, and which fraught every idea of
her with beauty and delight. He believed that joys so
pure and placid as those he savoured during the hours
of morning, could originate with no emotion so powerful
as love ; he could not imagine that the contentment
and serenity of mutual understanding which subsisted
between himself and that young country maiden, owed
its existence to so imperious a feeling as love. He had
heard love described as turbulent, restless, exacting ;
could he therefore suspect that uneasy passion to have
aught to do with the deep and plenary satisfaction of
her presence ?

But though unconscious of his own secret, it was
soon to be discovered to him in all its force, by means
less pleasant, though no less potent than the prompt
ings of his happy heart. A word of slight towards
her he loved, revealed to him the whole strength and
truth of that love.

One morning on his return from the farm he found
his mother in tears, and his father in a towering pas
sion.

His entrance was the signal for a torrent of re
proaches.

" O Gerard, how could you ?" — sobbed his mother.

" Listen to me, sirrah ;" said his father, almost
inarticulate with rage. ' ' I find you have been deceiv
ing me, — deceiving me, you young mauvais sujet !
Know, that I happen to have seen the chevalier de
Vaumond ; that I have learned from him your idle

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 237

low haunts, and your trumpery companions. Not
content with a vagabondizing walk, and loitering about
with boors and clowns, but you must needs fall to
dancing and romping with the peasant wenches. ' '

"Fie, Gerard! How could you?" again sobbed
his mother.

u I never deceived you, sir ;" said Gerard, his eyes
flashing at the accusation of duplicity, and still more
at the opprobrious terms in which allusion had been
made to his acquaintance with Gabrielle. " I never
sought to mislead you as to the manner in which I
spent that day. You yourself assumed that I had
passed it wholly with de Vaumond ; and stopped me
when I would have explained the truth. ' '

" The truth, boy, the truth ! Don't tell me of the
truth ! I say you have not told me the truth all
along ; for I'll be bound that's not the only time you
have been to this low village. De Vaumond told me
you seemed mightily taken with one of these wenches,
some curate's niece, or something of the kind — and I
shouldn't wonder if you have been to take a peep at
her again ! Your morning walks, sirrah, your morn
ing walks ! Confess that they were to this same vil
lage, and that your botanizing was all a pretence, all a
sham !"

" I never pretended that botany was my motive for
early rising ;" replied Gerard. " Had you cared to
know, sir, I should have told you that my morning
walks were to the farm, to see Gabrielle."

Gerard had spoken firmly though respectfully ; but
his voice faltered a little, as he concluded, with the
reluctance natural to the utterance of a beloved name
in the presence of those we know to be prejudiced
against its possessor ; besides, he was just beginning
to discover how dear that possessor was to his own
heart.

There was something in the young man's manner
which made the father pause, and consider him atten
tively. There was an air of manly resolution taking

238 HELENA ;

the place of old boyish submission, which Monsieur
Gerard had never before observed ; there was no filial
deference wanting in the tone, but it was mingled with
an earnestness of meaning, a decision of purpose that
bespoke the existence of a strong internal motive.
The father felt instinctively that will was there to meet
his own, and that it was a man's will and not a child's
will. Had his son grown from boyhood to manhood
at a single hour's growth, Monsieur Gerard could
scarcely more palpably have seen the alteration, than
he read the one which had taken place in his son's
mind from ductile youth to maturity. He recognized
the origin of the change and the evil, for such he felt
it to be, and resolved to deal with it at once. In the
first place, he assumed a tone of more condescending
equality with his son, than he had ever permitted him
self to use before.

" And so Gabrielle is the name of this rustic
charmer of yours, is it ?" said Monsieur Gerard,
drawing a long breath at the conclusion of his scrutiny.
' ' And it was to see her that you could get out of bed
so early, and walk abroad a-mornings ! Upon my
word ! I don't know, though, that we ought to be
angry with her, if she's the cause of such a reforma
tion in our young mauvais su jet's habits."

' ' Be assured, all her influences upon me are good —
like herself ;" said Gerard, eagerly.

" But the better she is, my dear Gerard," inter
rupted his mother, " the more considerate you ought
to be for her ; the, acquaintance of a young man like
yourself cannot but compromise her. You cannot
marry her, you know, and "

" Madame Gerard !" thundered her husband,
" what folly is this ? Leave the room, if you cannot
talk more to the purpose. When we are by ourselves,
Gerard and I shall soon come to an understanding
about this matter. ' '

She prepared to obey, with a fresh burst of tears ;
but as she passed her son, she repeated her sobbing : —

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 239

' ' O Gerard ! How could you ? Tell your father you
are very sorry — and are prepared to give up any ac
quaintance he dislikes."

" Mother, I cannot say I am sorry for what makes
the happiness of my life."

" Did you hear me speak, Madame Gerard ?" again
stormed the banker. " Leave us !"

" Now boy," resumed he, when his wife had closed
the door behind her ; "let us hear all about this
peasant girl. What sort of looking wench is she ?
But of course, a paragon of beauty — all young men's
first flames are Venuses !"

" She is no flame of mine ;" said Gerard hastily.

" No ? Morbleu, I'm glad to hear that ! By your
manner, I feared that you were entangled past all hope
— shot through and through the heart — over head and
ears in love. Too absurd in a boy like you !
Allons, ' ' continued Monsieur Gerard, ' ' this is some
comfort, however, to find that you have only had a
passing fancy for picking up low acquaintances : — but
mind, it's a bad habit, and one that grows upon you,
aii:* I want you to rise in the world, Gerard, my boy,
and you won't do that by associating with poor coun
try curates and their hoyden nieces."

" I forgive your speaking in injurious terms of one
you do not know, sir ;" said Gerard. " But from
what I said just now in hasty refutation of your light
manner of speaking of Gabrielle, you may be misled
into the belief that I do not love her. I would not
have you deceived for an instant, father ; I do love
her, but I did not know until to-day how entirely she
possesses my love. Now that I know my own heart,
I open it to you. I do not ask you to sanction my
affection until you know its object — but, once you have
seen my Gabrielle, you will help your son to obtain
her, as the best blessing life can afford. ' '

" Ay, ay, we'll see this pretty rustic, and try what
we can do to induce her to be kind ;" said the French
banker. " But mind, Gerard, if I indulge you, in

240 HELENA ;

permitting you to choose your own acquaintances for
passing your idle toying hours, I expect you to con
form to my wishes in material points. The chevalier
de Vaumond is a man whom I approve of as your
friend ; and I hope shortly to introduce you to a
young lady, the daughter of a very old friend of
mine, the Baron de Montigny, who has been resid
ing many years in Italy ; — and this young lady I
should wish you to make your best friend — your wife,
Gerard."

" My wife, sir !" exclaimed Gerard. " I have
been telling you myself, of the only woman whom I
can ever make my wife. ' '

" Pooh, pooh, my dear fellow ; peasant wenches
are not women to make wives of ;" said Monsieur
Gerard. " Understand me ; I insist upon it, that if
I comply with your whim of keeping up the acquaint
ance of these villagers, you shall comply with my de
sire of seeing you married to Mademoiselle de Mon
tigny. It is a match upon which I have determined,
from your birth ; and I will be obeyed. ' '

' ' Then I have plainly to declare, that this is a point
in which I cannot obey you, sir ;" said Gerard. " I
never will marry any woman who has not my whole
heart ; and it is already given to Gabrielle."

His father again read, in the firm calm tone, and in
the look which met his own with unflinching regard,
that his son was no longer a boy.

"I'll tell you what, Gerard;" said he. "You
know that I am a man accustomed to declare my will,
and to see it accomplished. You know, too, that I
am a man of my word. Now, I give you my word of
honor, that if you don't marry according to my will,
I'll strip you of every farthing of allowance, withdraw
you from college, ruin your prospects in life, and re
duce you to beggary, in short. So mark me, young
man, I give you four-and-twenty hours to decide be
tween marriage to please me, and your father's favor ;
or marriage to please yourself, and beggary, — with

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 241

outlawry from home for ever, for I'll have no disobedi
ence in my house !"

And with this, the banker stalked out, leaving his
son to consider his words ; who, however, did not
remain long in reflection^ for he snatched up his hat,
and went out also.

" The decision must rest with her ;" thought
Gerard, as he took his way to the farm. " If she
does not fear beggary, why should I ? Besides, beg
gary need not of necessity be our portion. Disinherit
ance does not deprive us of our limbs, our faculties ; I
can work, I can earn bread, I can pursue my profes
sion. With her — for her — what toil would be pain
ful 1 Cheered by her presence, secure of her posses
sion, as a motive and a reward for exertion, how
glorious then will be the pursuit of an art so noble, —
a profession so worthy ?"

" What was it he said ?" he continued to muse,
while a crimson spot burned upon his cheek, as he re
called his father's words — " ' peasant girls are not
women to make wives of ! ' Monsieur Gerard did not
display his usual amount of worldly prudence in calcu
lating the advantages of bargaining for such a woman
as Gabrielle on fair terms. In the clear mind of such
a wife, a man secures aid in forming his own judg
ments ; in the natural good sense of such a woman, a
man finds support and encouragement in taking en
larged views of life ; he rises superior to petty evils ;
he gains strength of mind, and moral courage ; he
learns to eschew prejudice, to avoid enmities, to con
quer difficulties, to achieve fame, to win honor and
consideration, to earn independence ; she at once in
duces and graces his advancement. In such a bosom-
friend — such a wife, — a man obtains the crown of his
existence ; and it is such a friend as this that a selfish
ness, as mistaken as it is sordid, would degrade into a
plaything for idle moments, a toy to be cast aside
when sullied and destroyed. It is the life-long amity
and attachment of such a woman as this, that a liber-

242 HELENA ;

tine would exchange for the mere caresses of a pass
ing hour. ' A sensualist cheats himself, as well as his
victim. He robs himself of a treasure, in seeking to
filch a sparkling trinket. In seeking to make such a
woman as Gabrielle a wife instead of a mistress, a
man consults his own interest (which methinks might
weigh with the Perpignan banker) as well as his glory,
his honor, and his happiness. ' '

" But I picture her to myself as a wife, and do I
even know that she loves me ? When I parted from
her this morning, I knew not what was passing in my
own heart, and I perceived nothing in her manner that
should give me hope aught existed within hers, akin
to my own feeling. We were both happy friends —
nothing more ; she brought me my hat, and helped
me to look for my gloves, and bade me hasten on my
way home, with the easy smiling air with which a sis
ter might send a brother forth, secure of seeing him
again in a few hours. And so she thought to see me,
to-morrow ; but in still fewer hours I am returning.
She will not expect me. Shall I find her at the farm ?
She may be gone over to see Monsieur le Cure. ' '

He hastened on, impatient at the thought of her
possible absence ; and as if he would have detained her
on the spot where he hoped to find her. He thought
he could tell her all he felt and all he hoped, best in
that quiet pleasant sitting-room of hers, in the pavilion ;
as he thought of all he had to speak, to entreat, he
wished he might find her there, in that retired spot,
secure from interruption, till he had poured forth all
his heart to her.

In such fancies did the young lover indulge, as he
sped along the well-known path ; when just as he
reached an angle, where it turned off abruptly into the
wood, he saw, sitting under the trees, at a little dis
tance, Gabrielle herself.

The sight of her, thus unexpectedly, and with the
thought of all that he had discovered of his own feel
ings toward her, since he had last parted, in the calm-

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 243

ness of friendship, held him for a second, endeavouring
to check the tumult of his heart, which now beat high
with its newly-conscious emotion.

From the spot where he first perceived her, he could
see her without being seen ; and, in the pause of a
second that he made, he witnessed that which held
him breathless for some seconds longer. He saw
Gabrielle put softly to her lips some object that she
held in her hand, fondle it to her cheek, press it be
tween her palms, and then kiss it again and again ten
derly — nay, passionately. He was burning to ascer
tain what this object of her caresses could be, when in
smoothing it out upon her knee, and drawing it on to
her own little hand, he discerned it to be one of his
gloves, which had been mislaid that morning, and
which was nowhere to be found when he was about to
return home.

He was just springing forward, when his steps were
arrested by hearing others approach hurriedly through
the trees, in the direction of the farm.

In another moment, Petit Pierre came brushing and
rustling through the underwood, bawling Gabrielle 's
name, panting and out of breath. But before the lad
came up, Gerard had beheld the glove hastily, though
securely, concealed in Gabrielle's bosom.

" O I'm so glad you hadn't got far, Mademoiselle,"
said the cowboy. " Your father guessed you had set
out upon your way to Monsieur le Cure's, and bade
me run after you, and see if I couldn't overtake you
and bring you back ; he wants to speak to you about
those rose-bushes that he is going to have removed
from before the dairy-window ; he says they're in the
way there, and he wishes to know where you'd best
like to have them transplanted. ' '

" I'll come back with you directly, Pierre ;" said
Gabrielle, rising from her grassy seat. As she did so,
she perceived Gerard, who advanced to meet her.
With her usual frank grace she congratulated herself
and him upon his having been able so soon to return,

244 HELENA ;

imagining that some college holiday permitted this ex
cursion.

" And I hope you have the whole day to spare us ;"
said she. " We will return with Petit Pierre, to see
what my father proposes, and to settle with him the
best new place for the rose-trees ; and then, if you
please, we'll go over to Monsieur le Cure's together.
I was on my way to show him this beautiful ' Clotilde
de Surville ' which you brought me yesterday."

The hearty farmer seemed as well pleased as his
daughter to see the ' bon jeune homme ' so soon
among them again. Gerard had become a great
favorite with the old man ; he liked his sincere
straightforward manners, and his unaffected cor
diality ; while the warm interest which he took in all
matters that related to the farm and its inhabitants,
and the liking he displayed for simple rural pleasures,
pleased the countryman, and won his regard.

The affair of the removal of Gabrielle 's rose-trees
was soon arranged to the mutual satisfaction of the
assembled trihominate ; and then, while the farmer
went off to his barns, Gerard and Gabrielle sauntered
through the garden toward the pavilion.

' ' I have told Babette to take some strawberries and
cream there for us, ' ' said Gentille-et-sage ; "I thought
you would like to sit in the shade and eat some fruit
before we set out for Monsieur le Cure's. I think I
will pop a little pot of cream in a basket for the dear
old man ; and we'll carry it to him. And I think I
can find room for a fowl and some new-laid eggs, and
we'll ask him to give us some dinner, shall we ?"

" With all my heart ; and yet " Gerard paused.

Gabrielle asked him archly if his hesitation proceed
ed from the weight of the basket he would have to
bear ; ' ' for I give you warning, ' ' said she, ' ' that I
mean to let you carry it by far the greater part of the
way."

" I willingly engage to let you carry it no step of
the way yourself ;" said he. " It was not the basket

THE PHYSICIAN S ORPHAN. 245

that weighed upon my mind ; but I feel some scruples
of conscience, I own, in accepting a second feast at the
hands of Monsieur le Cure, when I have it in my hope
to ask of his bounty a boon of surpassing worth. ' '

" Indeed !" said Gabrielle. " This sounds like a
secret. You must promise to tell me what it is that
you are going to ask of Monsieur le Cure, — I long to
know. In the first place, I never had any secrets,
either of my own or anybody else's, to keep — and
there must be something very grand and very pleasant
in having a secret ; and in the next place, I can per
haps help you in obtaining this favor from him ;
though he is such a kind old darling, he never can find
it in his heart to refuse anybody anything. ' '

' ' And yet this is a very, very great favor — the most
valuable of all gifts. Still, you promise me your help
— and your help is everything — nay, unless you, Ga
brielle, grant me the boon first, I cannot ask it of
Monsieur le Cure."

" Tell me, tell me ; I am all impatience," said she,
"to learn this secret; tell me what is the gift you
mean to ask of Monsieur le Cure."

" I want him to give me a wife ;" said Gerard.

A rapid succession of emotions was visible upon the
clear artless face of the country girl. First there was
the sudden wonder at so new an idea presenting itself
to her, as Gerard's marriage ; then the pallor which
the thought of his loss occasioned, was replaced by a
flood of rosy color which suffused her cheeks, brow,
and neck, with the dawning consciousness of who was
really the woman he desired for the wife he sought of
the Cure.

'' You may have failed to discover my love — I
learned not its depth myself, until to-day, my Gabri
elle," said the young man, pouring forth his words in
hurried passionate accents ; " still, you cannot but
have perceived how my happiness has grown since I
have known you, how my soul has knit itself to yours,
how my grateful heart has exulted in the regard you

246 HELENA ;

have accorded me, in the gentle interest you have
shown, in the affectionate tone you have permitted to
subsist between us. You may have mistaken these
tokens of my feelings for those of esteem, of friend
ship merely — till my father's words opened my eyes
this morning, I mistook them for such myself — but O,
Gabrielle, believe that the esteem, the friendship I feel
for you have all the warmth of love — of love only —
and it is as the partner of my existence — as the crown
of all my hopes — as my wife, that I beseech you to
give me yours in return."

Gabrielle drooped her head, instead of replying to
her lover's passionate appeal, and for the first time
since she had known Gerard, her looks failed to re
spond to his. She seemed to be struggling for courage
to strengthen herself against his pleading.

" Your father's words!" she faltered; "then he
refuses to sanction your love. ' '

" His prejudices are worldly — he is unjust — he does
not know your worth, my Gabrielle," said her lover.

" A father's prejudices deserve consideration ;"
said the low voice of Gentille-et-sage.

" But not to the destruction of a son's happiness ;"
said Gerard. ' ' Not when they interfere to sever those
that love each other. My Gabrielle would not have me
abide by a parent's prejudices when they bid me
marry where I cannot love. Surely, mutual love has
sacred claims of its own ?"

" Ay, mutual love ;" murmured Gentille-et-sage,
persevering with what she conceived to be the duty of
refusing one who sought her against his father's will,
she strove to resume her old tone of archness and easy
gaiety, " you speak of mutual love ; but though you
have told me of your own, I have not told you of mine.
Pray who told you that I have any love for you ?"

"My own eyes;" said Gerard. "Although my
Gabrielle will not tell me that her heart has understood
mine, that she has read its depth of affection beneath
the smiling ease of our late happy friendship, although

THE PHYSICIANS ORPHAN. 247

she will not generously own that her love exists as truly
as mine, still I do not despair."

" And where is your hope, audacious ?" asked the
blushing and smiling Gabrielle, who could not resist
the happy confidence of Gerard's eyes.

" Here ;" said he, drawing his odd glove from his
pocket. ' ' I have found my missing glove — the
fellow to this one. I know where it is, at this in
stant."

The hand of Gentille-et-sage stole toward the con
victed bodice, which fluttered and heaved with the
consciousness of harbouring abstracted goods. For a
moment she sat thus, the picture of innocent guilt,
covered with blushes of mingled modesty, gladness,
confusion, and happy love revealed ; then without
raising her eyes, she drew the detected glove forth
from its concealment, took its fellow from her lover,
and folding them one in the other, replaced them thus
both together in the same sweet hiding-place.

Gerard was not slow to read this mute troth-plight,
and confession of her love ; but, with a lover's true
avarice, which exacts fresh indulgence with each new
evidence of affection, he rested not until he had ob
tained a spoken avowal, which Gabrielle gave him in
her own simple ingenuous manner.

He, in return, frankly told her that he had no
wealth to offer her, save his resolve to earn indepen
dence, by unremitting industry in the acquirement and
pursuit of his profession ; but if she would share in
his early struggle, and become at once his incentive
and reward, he doubted not of success. He did not
conceal from her the alternative offered by his father's
severity ; but he knew enough of Gabrielle, to feel
secure that the loss of present fortune consequent upon
incurring Monsieur Gerard's displeasure, caused no
part of her hesitation — which had proceeded solely
from dread of inducing a son's disobedience. Gerard
did not falsely calculate the motives and principles of
her he loved.

248 HELENA ;

Nor was it long before he succeeded in vanquishing
her scruples on his father's account ; in persuading
her that she owed more consideration toward one she
knew and loved, than towards one she had never seen ;
in pleading his cause, with love's own casuistry, so
well, in short, that he gained her leave to ask her of
her father at once, and, if he should sanction their
union, her promise to resume the former plan of going
over to Monsieur le Cure's that very morning.

The hearty farmer, when he found the object with
which the young people sought him, only said : —
" Ask Gabrielle, mon bon jeune homme, ask her ; if
she be pleased, I am pleased. If she can be happy
with you for a husband, I shall be happy to have you
for a son-in-law."

And soon the lovers were on their way to the village
where Monsieur le Cure lived ; nor were the fowl, the
eggs, nor the cream forgotten, though there was hap
piness enough to have made it very excusable, even
had the basket been left behind.

" And now to ask you of your second father, my
Gabrielle ;" said Gerard. " We must obtain his con
sent to bestow you upon me at once ; for I am resolved
not to return home till I am able to tell my father not
only my irrevocable decision, but that my happiness
in life is as irrevocably decided as my choice."

" Heaven send that it may be indeed your happi
ness which is thus decided by your choice," said
Gentille-et-sage ; ' ' but you must promise me to return
home straight from Monsieur le Cure's, instead of see
ing me back to the farm ; it will be only just to your
father to tell him of your decision at once."

"The farm is my home now," said Gerard. "I
know my father too well, not to be quite sure that he
will abide by the alternative he has- fixed. ' '

" Still it is your duty to inform him which alterna
tive you have chosen ;" said Gabrielle.

" You are right ;" said her lover. "It is only
honest to let him know which marriage I have chosen ;

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 249

it is for him to say whether he will not remit the other
part of the sentence. ' '

' ' Ay, he may think better of it, and change out
lawry into forgiveness and welcome ;" said Gabrielle,
with the sanguine hope of youth, and of one who had
never known other than indulgence from her own parent.

Gerard shook his head. " You do not know my
father — I do. However, I will go ; he shall, at any
rate, have the option of a kinder fiat. But remember,
ma mie, should it prove a harsh one, you must prepare
to receive an outcast at the pavilion this evening.
Whether my sentence be amnesty or banishment, I
shall return to the farm directly it has been pro
nounced. ' '

" Where you shall find either gratulation or com
fort ;" said Gentille-et-sage, with one of her sweet
frank smiles.

When they reached Monsieur le Cure's cottage,
they found the old man in his garden ; a jug of fresh
spring-water was in his hand, from which he was pre
paring to fill a shallow vessel, that he always kept sup
plied for the accommodation of the birds.

" I love to bring them about me," said he ; " and
plenty of water for them to drink and bathe in, is as
welcome to them in summer, as strewed crumbs are in
the winter ; so, as I have not a pond in my garden, as
you have in yours, Gentille-et-sage, I have bethought
me of this plan for letting them dip their dainty beaks,
and plunge, and flounce, and flutter their wings and
feathers to their hearts' content. I am glad to see
you, mon cher monsieur. What is that you have in
your basket, Gentille-et-sage ? Something very nice,
as usual, for the old man's dinner. I thought so,
you little rogue ! Well, we must get Jeanneton to
make us a fricandeau and an omelet, out of these good
things ; and we shall have quite a feast, shan't we ?"

" And I am sure Madame Jeanneton will exert her
best skill, Monsieur le Cure," said Gerard, "when
she knows it is to be a wedding-dinner."

250 HELENA;

The old man looked at him ; then at the dimpling
blushing face of Gentille-et-sage ; and said : — " Ah,
ha, is it even so ? I thought as much, I declare, when
I used to see this little rogue turn her head away
every time I asked her whether she had seen that good
young Monsieur Gerard lately. Ah, ha ! the old
man is very cunning — he knows Gentille-et-sage can
not tell an untruth, and so he used to ask her this on
purpose to see her look down and own that the jeune
monsieur had been to the farm that morning. ' And
yesterday ? ' ' Yes, mon pere. ' ' And the day be
fore ? ' ' Yes, mon pere. ' Ah, ha ! I thought what
all these ' yes, mon peres, ' and all these visits would
end in. Ah, ha ! the old man is very sly, and can
see many things that Gentille-et-sage fancies she keeps
very snug, sage as she is ! And what say your parents
to this marriage, my children ? What says your
father, Gabrielle ? What says yours, mon cher jeune
monsieur ?"

The whole state of affairs was candidly stated to the
good priest ; and his simplicity could . not find any
objection to offer against consenting to join two young
people who loved each other, and who availed them
selves of a granted alternative between poverty and
separation.

He united their hands ; and a few hours after
Gerard and Gabrielle had been made man and wife,
they took their respective paths to Perpignan, and to
the farm, consoling themselves for this temporary
parting, in the thought of the duty that demanded it,
in the reflection that they were now beyond the power
of fate to divide them, and in the hope of meeting
again ere close of day.

Not thus speedily, however, was their hope fulfilled.
When the young man reached his father's house,
Monsieur Gerard had not returned from the banking-
house. As the best means of controlling his impa
tience, Gerard betook himself to his own room, and
endeavoured to fix his attention upon a medical treatise

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 251

which he had been diligently studying of late. But
now the pages failed to convey any meaning to him ;
his brain refused to receive any definite impression
from the sentences he read ; the lines waved and
swam before his eyes, the words danced hither and
thither, and formed themselves into fantastic images
of Gabrielle's eyes, her hair, her mouth, her smile,
every varied look of her countenance, every movement
of her graceful figure. But he was not long detained
thus. He heard his father's step in the corridor, —
which led to Monsieur Gerard's room as well as his
own, — and stepping forwards, thus addressed him.
" Father, you accorded me twenty-four hours to de
cide on the alternative you offered me this morning.
But as my mind is made up, I would not an instant
defer the avowal of my choice. "

" Then it is your choice, and not mine, that you
determine to abide by, is it ?" said Monsieur Gerard,
in his usual mode of forming his own conclusions.
" But I will take good care you shall have no oppor
tunity of carrying out your absurd determination. ' '

So saying, the banker furiously slammed-to the door
of his son's apartment, and turned the key in the lock,
while Gerard hastily exclaimed : — " Father, I am
already married !" But Monsieur Gerard made far
too much noise in his enraged departure, to hear the
exclamation ; and his son could hear him repeating,
as he strode along the corridor : — " No, no ; no, no ;
I'll take good care you shan't carry out your fool's in
tention, sirrah !"

Gerard sprang to the door, and shook it ; but it was
too surely fastened. He threw up the window — but
there were too many feet between it and the ground,
for even his eagerness to venture the leap.

He paused and listened ; he heard the family as
sembling for the evening meal — he heard the opening
and shutting of the dining-room door — he heard the
domestics moving to and fro — and he determined to
rein his impatience until one of them should be sent

252 HELENA:

with his allotted portion, if it was indeed intended that
he should be treated in all respects like a prisoner.
But possibly Monsieur Gerard thought that a little
wholesome fasting might not be amiss in helping a
refractory spirit to due submission ; for hour after
hour passed, and no one came near the delinquent's
chamber. Evening closed in ; nightfall came — and
still Gerard remained in solitude and darkness, pacing
his room like a caged lion, his spirit fretting against
this tyrannous confinement, while his thoughts, eman
cipating themselves as his body would fain have done,
winged their way towards the pavilion of the farm,
where he knew sat one watching through the starlit
night for his coming. Morning dawned. ' ' Patience, ' '
murmured the prisoner to himself ; "he will not let
me starve, and when he sends me food, I will make an
appeal to my gaoler, whoever it may be whom he has
appointed to the office. ' '

But noon came before food was sent. It was bread
and water ; and was brought by one of the lackeys of
his father's household.

' ' Jerome, ' ' said Gerard, ' ' tell my father that
j »>

The lackey shook his head, and hastily withdrew,
leaving a small note on his young master's table.

The note was from Monsieur Gerard, and contained
these words : —

" GERARD,

When you are prepared to conform in all
things to my pleasure, you may signify as much to me
in writing — but till then, I forbid your tampering with
my domestics, by addressing them under pretence of
sending messages to me. Jerome has orders to bring
you your daily meal in silence.

" Your offended father,

" ANTOINE GERARD."

" My daily meal ! So then I shall not see Jerome
again till noon to-morrow !" thought Gerard. " This
is starving me out with a vengeance ! Hoping to re-

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 253

duce strength of will and strength of body upon bread
and water ! Prudent discipline ! And this is how
my father thinks to compel obedience ! Is this how
he thinks to exact compliance ? Rebellion, contumacy,
unnatural disaffection may rather be generated by such
means, than filial reverence and submission. ' '

As the afternoon wore away, Gerard was sitting in
another hopeless attempt to chain his attention to the
study of his treatise, when a slight noise, near the en
trance of his room, attracted his notice, and upon
looking in that direction, he descried a paper packet,
which was gradually making its way beneath the door,
thrust by some furtive hand. He seized the paper,
which he found contained an iron nail, and these
words : —

" Monsieur desired me not to speak or to listen to
you — but he did not forbid me to write (which I
luckily can do), or to give you the means of pushing
back the lock of your door. I don't like to see my
young master shut up and forced to live upon bread
and water — I like liberty and good eating myself — a
man hasn't a fair chance or a free choice without 'em.

" JEROME."

Gerard hastily secreted this welcome paper, and
availed himself of the means of escape. He soon
found himself outside in the corridor, along which he
glided with noiseless steps, down the great staircase,
into the hall, where he was startled by hearing his
father's voice. But it proceeded from the saloon,
where Monsieur Gerard was entertaining a party of
guests. At that moment, Gerard caught sight of
Jerome, who was beckoning to him with one hand,
while with the other he held his fingers to his lips.
Gerard followed him in silence ; and Jerome, leading
him hastily through a passage that communicated
with the servants' offices, darted into a small closet
near the larder, emerged again with a basket in his
hand, went on toward a deserted yard in the rear of
the house, across which he preceded Gerard at a rapid

254 HELENA ;

pace, until he reached a little cobwebbed, unused door,
that opened into a back street. Here he paused, and
thrusting the basket into Gerard's hand, unlocked the
door, pointed through it, and enforced his meaning,
by taking his young master by the shoulder, and
amicably turning him out.

Gerard, hardly able to help laughing at the man's
whimsical adherence to the letter of his master's
orders while he thus zealously infringed their spirit,
lost no time in hurrying along the unfrequented back
street, from which he made his way out of the town,
and was speedily on the road to the farm.

In the basket, Gerard found substantial evidence of
Jerome's opinion that a man needs better fare than
bread and water ; and as he walked briskly along, he
had an opportunity of enjoying that worthy domestic's
favorite combination of liberty and good eating.

The short twilight that succeeds a southern sunset
had yielded to the shades of evening by the time
Gerard reached the farm. He threaded the bowery
lane which skirted the premises, in the hope that the
little door in the garden-wall might have been left
unfastened for his access. It was as he hoped. " I
am expected ;" he thought, as the door yielded to
his hand. He pushed through the clustering bushes
and fruit-trees, that hung their boughs athwart the
narrow garden-path. lie sprang up the steps that led
into the pavilion. It was empty — she was not there.
But the intermediate door that led into the inner room
was partly open ; and as Gerard's eye caught sight of
the two pillows, which now peered among the neat
white draperies of the alcove, his heart again whis
pered — ' ' I am expected. ' '

The stars shone clear in the blue arch of heaven ;
in at the open casement stole the soft breeze of even
ing, rich with the perfume of fruit and flower ; no
sound broke the stillness ; and purity and peace
seemed to hover with their angel wings around this
sequestered spot.

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 255

Gerard hears a light footstep ; he can discern a
coming figure ; he leans from the window, and as she
approaches beneath, he drops his glove with true aim.
Gabrielle instinctively retains it, recognizes the tokens
of his presence, looks up, sees him, — at a bound is on
the top step, and the next instant is clasped in her
husband's arms.

For a few happy weeks did Gerard permit himself
to linger in this quiet pavilion, making it his dwell
ing-place, and the scene of his wedded joys ; but with
his characteristic honesty, he would not allow himself
to lose sight of the strict course of duty he had marked
out for himself, by yielding to the too-seductive idle
ness of such a retirement. Accordingly, he roused
himself from his blissful dream of existence, and im
parted to his wife a plan he had conceived for com
mencing a more active life, and one which should be
the means of fulfilling his hope of earning indepen
dence and fame.

At Narbonne there lived an old doctor, who was
Gerard's godfather. Much deference had formerly
been paid to this old doctor's opinions by the Perpignan
banker ; for Doctor Dubrusc was esteemed wealthy,
and in the hope of gratifying a rich godfather, as well
as that his son might be brought up to a profession
instead of trade, Monsieur Gerard had sent his son to
college, to study with an ultimate view to a doctor's
degree. But in course of time, it came to be dis
covered, or rather Monsieur Gerard came to one of his
conclusions upon the subject, that the reputation
which Doctor Dubrusc had gained for being a man of
wealth, was merely founded upon his eccentricity, —
his peremptory manner, his repulsive brevity, his in
difference to the opinion of others, his reserve, his
solitary habits, his wilfulness — all which traits had
been considered indicative of the conscious possessor
of wealth, as it was supposed that a poor man would
not have dared to indulge in such unproductive whims
of conduct. Circumstances arose which occasioned

256 HELENA;

Monsieur Gerard to adopt his new view of the matter,
and to believe that, after all, Doctor Dubrusc was one
of those absurd beings who consent to resign all
worldly advantage, for the one delight of carrying out
their own humour, and who, in consequence, remained
paupers to the end of their days. When once Mon
sieur Gerard had made up his mind that this was the
case, the connection with the old Narbonne Doctor
had been gradually but decidedly dropped.

The last time that Gerard had seen his godfather
was at the college at Perpignan, on the day when he
had completed his twelfth year. The boy had been
summoned to see a visitor, and found Doctor Dubrusc
standing in the room appropriated to guests.

Gerard showed sincere delight at seeing thus unex
pectedly one whom he remembered as a child ; but
when he pulled a chair for the old man, who stood there
stock still and begged him to sit down, Doctor Dubrusc
only mumbled : — " Not tired ;" proceeded to look his
godson steadily in the face for a minute or two, end
ing his scrutiny with an emphatic " Humph !"

" You will go with me to my father's, sir ; I can
obtain leave to go with you, directly, I know," said
Gerard. " He will be glad to see you."

" Don't want to see him ; shan't call ;" said Doc
tor Dubrusc. ' ' Did want to see you — have seen you
— that's all !" And the old man turned on his heel,
and was going straight out of the room.

" 0 don't go ! Don't go ! I've seen nothing of
you yet ! Don't go, doctor !" said Gerard.

" Want to see me, — come !" said the doctor with
out turning back ; and in another moment he was
gone.

Gerard had often thought of this singular visitation
of his godfather ; and had as often begged his
father's permission to go to Narbonne to see one
whom he had always liked, spite of his oddity.

But Monsieur Gerard had no notion of sending his
son so far merely to comply with a boy's wishes, and

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 257

with those of a dictatorial old man, who had no right
of opulence to entitle him to indulgence ; so year after
year had passed away without Gerard having seen any
more of his godfather, though he frequently regretted
this abrupt termination of their intercourse.

Now he related to Gabrielle the circumstances con
cerning this godfather ; and he told her he thought
that if this eccentric old doctor would consent to take
him as a pupil, and conclude what had been well com
menced at college, he should shortly be in a condition
to commence practice as a physician.

" It is asking a sacrifice at your hands, my Gabri
elle," said her husband, " to propose your leaving
your father, your friend and second father, the Cure,
and your native home, to go and settle in a strange
place ; but in Narbonne, with Doctor Dubrusc's in
struction and counsel, I feel sure of a career which
must bring us independence. Who knows ? I may
one day see you the wife of a famous physician. One
day I may win a surname that shall serve to reconcile
my father to his denounced son. Should I live to be
called Doctor Gerard de Narbonne, it will replace the
family name, which, if my father still retain his ire,
he may wish me to resign ; in any case, it cannot fail
to please him, and would gratify his pride. I have
courage to ask this sacrifice of my Gabrielle ; for I
have good hope that honor and wealth await us in
Narbonne. ' '

Gabrielie for an instant thought how willingly she
could resign any prospect of worldly advantage, so
that she might still abide in this peaceful spot, the
scene of her childhood sports, her indulged youth,
her happy bridal hours ; but she felt that it might be
otherwise with her husband, whose energy and talent
required a broader field — and whose honest spirit
naturally sought self-earned support. She felt that
though she could be well content to owe all to a
parent's bounty, yet Gerard's sense of probity might
shrink from trespassing farther on the generosity with

258 HELENA;

which her father had hitherto accorded them a home
— a home which his own exertions might obtain. She
felt that she had no right to repress his honorable
ambition, by the utterance of her own limited wishes,
and she said :

" Then let us go to Narbonne, dear Gerard."

Gerard accordingly wrote to Doctor Dubrusc, stat
ing the fact of his rupture with his father in conse
quence of his marriage ; and asking his godfather if
he would consent to aid a disinherited son (who had
committed no crime but availing himself of an offered
alternative) to acquire honest competence for his wife
and himself.

Gerard also wrote to his father, stating his mar
riage, and expressing his hope that he might one day
achieve distinction, which should restore him to favor,
and obliterate the remembrance of his having attempt
ed this achievement in a manner opposed to his
father's views ; but no notice was taken of his letter,
then, or ever.

To the former application, Gerard received the fol
lowing concise epistle in reply : —

" Told you before — ' Want to see me — come ! ' :

" BLAISE DUBRUSC."

Gabrielle could not help thinking this a little un
promising ; but seeing her husband look disconcerted,
she said cheerfully, " Well, we can go and see him,
at any rate ; he may take a kinder interest in us,
when we are there, than his words seem to infer."

After many an affectionate leave-taking had been
exchanged between the young couple and their two
kind old fathers, Monsieur le Cure, and the farmer,
Gerard and Gabrielle set out for Narbonne. Arrived
there, the young man lost no time in hunting out the
obscure lodging in which it pleased Doctor Dubrusc
to abide.

He found him, after toiling up six flights of stairs,
in a dilapidated old mansarde, where he fjat environed
with musty volumes, cobwebs, dust, dirt, and snuff.

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 259

" Humph ! There ; are you ?" was his remark, as
he raised his head from his book, on Gerard's entrance
and salutation.

Having given the youth one finger, dry, dusty, and
colourless as a bit of touchwood, which was his way
of shaking hands, he jerked his head toward a chair,
and said " Sit down !"

Gerard complied, by lifting several tomes on to the
floor from one of the only two chairs, that were in the
room besides Doctor Dubrusc's, drawing it forward,
and seating himself. These two chairs had been long
unaccustomed to support any other weight than that
of books ; and this one, beneath its unwonted human
deposit, creaked resentfully and ominously, as if it in
tended to snap, give way, and come down, with a
malicious fracture.

No such catastrophe occurred, however, and Doctor
Dubrusc interrupted something Gerard was saying in
acknowledgment of his permission to come and see
him, and in explanation of his having been unable to
do so before, by saying : — " Tell me your story."

Gerard faithfully related all that had happened from
the time he had last seen Doctor Dubrusc at Per-
pignan, on his birthday, to the present moment of his
arrival at Narbonne.

" What d'ye intend to do ? What d'ye want me to
do ?" were the doctor's next words.

Gerard explained his views, his wishes, his hopes ;
to all of which Doctor Dubrusc listened, and when the
young man concluded, said : — " Humph !" and turned
round from him, and stared blankly at the opposite wall.

" Will you help me, sir ? Will you advise me ?
Will you let me study under you, and commence prac
tice under your direction ?" said Gerard.

"Yes. Come to-morrow. Go now. " And Doc
tor Dubrusc resumed the perusal of the book over
which he had been leaning when Gerard came in.

Next morning, Gerard returned early to Doctor
Dubrusc, who had sketched out a course of study for

260 HELENA;

his godson, and set his pupil down to commence its
pursuit at one end of the dusty table, while he himself
hung over his book at the other.

Before the young man settled down to his work, he
was beginning to say something of his first impression
of the town of Narbo'nne, and of the quarter he had
chosen in seeking a lodging for Gabrielle and himself,
when Doctor Dubrusc, without raising his eyes from
his own book, but pointing to those which lay before
Gerard, stopped him with : — " Don't talk. Learn."

For some hours Gerard worked diligently, and in
obedient silence. Then the old doctor looked up and
said : — " Go now. Come to-morrow."

His godson rose, and was withdrawing, when he
returned to the writing-table, and said : — ' ' I am anx
ious to present my wife to you, sir, that she may add
her thanks to mine, for your kind help. ' '

" Wife ? Pshaw ! What's the use of a wife ?
But go now. Come to-morrow."

Having entertained his wife with an account of the
old doctor's eccentric ways, Gerard agreed with her,
that the benefit of his aid more than compensated for
the strange style in which it was extended, and that
his instruction was far too valuable a gift to be re
ceived without gratitude ; so they resolved that Gabri
elle should venture to accompany Gerard to his god
father's den on the morrow.

When she entered the room, the old doctor started,
and rose from the arm-chair in which he always sat, at
the table.

He advanced to the middle of the room, where he
stood stock still, staring at her, while she, in simple
graceful words, and with a blushing face, where smiles
played in both eyes and mouth, uttered her thanks for
his goodness to them both. She could not help these
smiles, at the recollection of all she had heard of the
old doctor's oddity ; which, confirmed by his present
reception of herself, rendered a decorous gravity im
possible.

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 261

But Doctor Dubrusc, after continuing to stare at
her for a few minutes longer, suddenly said : —
" Humph ! Good and pretty !" Then advancing a
step or two nearer, said : — " Very !" Then abruptly
turning on his heel, he made his way back to his seat
at the table, over which, looking, as if from a safe
intrenchment, he said : — " No women here ! Go
away !"

Gabrielle left the room ; and Doctor Dubrusc, look
ing at his godson, added : — " Can't study with 'em.
Send her away !"

Gerard hastened out after his wife, and found her
sitting on the stair, at the bottom of the first flight.
As he caught sight of her drooping head, he thought
she might have been disconcerted, perhaps chagrined,
at this unpropitious reception and summary dismissal,
but on coming close to her, he found she was only
indulging in a hearty fit of laughing ; of which she
was endeavouring to suppress the sound, lest it might
reach the queer old man's ears.

" He is so droll, Gerard ;" whispered she, with
eyes brimming in mirthful tears. " He is so very
odd !" How do you ever manage to keep your coun
tenance, while you are studying with him — or to learn
anything of so strange a creature ? How does he
manage to teach you, with such sparing speech ?"

And in truth it was marvellous how Gerard contrived
to acquire so much, or his godfather to impart so much
of knowledge, as they both did in the course of the
months which followed the young couple's arrival in
Narbonne. But certain it is, that though scarcely
more than a dozen words were ever exchanged be
tween master and pupil in the course of their daily
studies, yet before a twelvemonth had elapsed, Gerard
was more proficient in his art than many physicians
who have practised for a series of years. Perhaps
there are not wanting sly sceptics in the merits of the
generality of medical professors who will think this is
saying but little in favor of the young doctor's skill ;

262 HELENA;

but the fact was, that Gerard became within the space
of time stated, not only master of a large amount of
theoretical learning, but he had gained some practical
experience in his profession, for he was already con
sulted and esteemed by a circle of patients.

These were mostly poor people, it is true, who could
not afford large fees ; so that Gerard and his wife still
occupied the humble lodging they had taken on their
first arrival in Narbonne ; but they were happy in each
other, and the size or grandeur of their household
formed no part of their consideration.

Yet although a larger house, finer furniture, or a
better-supplied table had no share in Gabrielle's esti
mate of what might be wanting to complete her com
fort, she could not but sometimes feel that incom
pleteness to exist.

Carefully she strove to conceal this feeling from her
husband ; she strove even to conceal it from herself ;
but there were moments when the thought of bygone
times — when she had dwelt at the farm, of those few
happy weeks when she and her husband had all the
world to themselves in the pleasant old pavilion —
would come upon her with a fond retrospection that
partook of regret.

It was not so much the altered existence, as the
change which this new existence had wrought in Gerard
himself, which occasioned her involuntary sigh when
she recalled past days.

When they had first come to settle in Narbonne,
her young husband would each day return to her after
his long morning study with Doctor Dubrusc, like a
released schoolboy. He would come laughing, and
shouting, and bounding into the room, declaring that
he must indulge himself with some noise and active
motion after so still a sitting. He would snatch the
needle-work or book out of her hand, whisk her round
the room, give her half a dozen kisses, bid her put
her bonnet on, and come out with him that instant for
a long walk in the fields, that he might give his voice

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 263

and his legs relaxation. He declared that his jaws
and his limbs became cramped with the inaction to
which they had been subjected for so many hours ;
that his eyes ached with looking upon the stern im
mobility of Doctor Dubrusc's countenance, or the
eternal monotony of the read or written page instead
of the bright sunny smiles of his Gabrielle ; that his
ears would become deaf with the silence of that dull
old mansarde, and with longing for the cheerful sound
of his wife's voice. And then he would make her
chatter to him, as they walked along ; telling him of
all that had happened in his absence — of the neigh
bours she had seen — of the work she had planned — of
the drawing she had done — of the arrangements she
had made in their little household.

But gradually this boyish gaiety subsided ; Gerard's
youthful spirit was not proof against the diurnal dull
ness of those long forenoons. Insensibly, the silence
became infectious, the sedentary position habitual ;
and he would return home spent and weary, and dis
inclined to talk, as he was for exertion. The after
noon walks ceased to be proposed ; Gerard would
hang over his wife's chair, and watch her needle as it
took stitch after stitch, without asking her to throw it
aside ; and the conversation languished, when only
she was the talker. The change was so gradual, and
Gentille-et-sage was so slow to perceive anything amiss
in the manner of one she loved so well, and likewise
so little accustomed to urge what she found to be dis
tasteful, that she yielded to his preference for remain
ing at home, and his growing disinclination to talk ;
never discovering that he was altering, until the change
had actually taken place. There was no change in
his affection towards her. He loved her as passion
ately, as devotedly as ever ; his love seemed only in
tensified by his greater sobriety of manner ; but he
had altered from the light-hearted youth to the staid
man — from the ardent student to the grave doctor.
He was as kind as ever, but he was less gay ; he was

264 HELENA ;

thoughtful rather than hopeful ; he was reflective,
instead of demonstrative.

His love for her remaining the same, Gabrielle
would neither have noted nor regretted the transforma
tion of the hoy-lover into the attached husband ; but
when she became aware of the shadow which had thus
by degrees fallen upon his once bright young spirit,
she could not but sigh when she remembered their
joyful existence at the farm.

She would now have ventured to urge him to take
more air and exercise, and would have endeavoured to
lead him into lively conversation, instead of indulging
him in the fits of silence into which he constantly fell ;
but she herself was no longer so capable of exertion as
she had been. She could no longer walk so far, or
chatter away in so continuous a strain as formerly.
She almost felt tempted to repine at the cause of her
incapability for much walking or talking, now that
both might possibly conduce to rouse her husband into
greater cheerfulness, but she could not bring herself
to resign the hope of which her present state was the
signal. She contented herself, therefore, with look
ing forward to the time when the baby she expected
should be born ; in the trust that its existence would
be a source of new joy and interest to Gerard, inspir
ing him afresh, and restoring him to his native gaiety
and animation.

The happy moment arrives. A little girl is born.
Gabrielle places the infant in her husband's arms, and
as Gerard blesses his child, and fondly traces its
mother's face in those shapeless features that bear no
impress to any other than a parent's eye, she mur
murs : — " Like me, Gerard ! No ; the portrait of
yourself ! I thought of our favorite Clotilde's words :
— true, as they are tender and beautiful !

' Voila ses traicts — son ayr ! voila tout ce que j'ayme !
Feu de sou ceil, et roses de son teynt :
D'ou vient m'en esbahyr ? aultre qu'en tout luy-mesme,
Peut-il jamais esclorc de mon .« -yn ': ' '

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 265

That morning, the young father is scarcely able to
settle tranquilly to his study. Though his transports,
which would fain have found vent in communicating
to his godfather their cause, met with a check when
he had first announced the tidings.

" Give me joy, sir !" said Gerard, as he entered
the mansarde. "I am a father ! Gabrielle has
brought me a little girl this morning ! I have a baby
born !"

"A baby? Pshaw! What's the use of a baby ?"
muttered Doctor Dubrusc ; ' ' Don't talk stuff !
Write I"

Gerard tried to obey, and to work steadily ; but
just as a little hand, with its fairy nails, joints, fingers,
and thumb, all in mimic miniature was shaping itself
in fancy upon the page before him, the apparition of
a bony, shrivelled, dry hand, grimy with snuff, and
shiny with unwashed use, spread itself on the leaf, seem
ing gigantic in its proportions, after the baby image it
replaced.

" Know as much as I do now ! Needn't come
any more ! Can't teach you much more ! Practice
better than reading or writing now ! Practise ! Find
patients !"

" I have some patients already, sir ;" said Gerard.
' ' After leaving you of a day, I go my rounds ; and
they are fast increasing."

" All the better ! Practise ! Learn more than by
coming here ! Needn't come !"

" But I hope you will let me come and see you
often, still, godfather. I can never thank you suffi
ciently for all you have done for me. Though you
have taught me so much, and so untiringly, yet I
must still come and intrude upon your time ; I must
still come to see you."

" Want to see me, — Come !" And Doctor Dubrusc
resumed the perusal of his book, precisely as he had
done about a year before, on Gerard's first arrival in
Narbonne.

266 HELENA ;

His pupil and godson now pursued his medical
career in good earnest. His- practice increased, his
patients grew more and more numerous ; he gave un
remitting attention to their cases, by devoting his
thoughts to the consideration of symptoms, and devis
ing means of cure, when he was absent, as well as by
the care, patience, and kindness, which he bestowed
while attending the bedside of the sufferers.

Gerard was an enthusiast in his profession. He
believed the art of healing to be a science divine. He
regarded the privilege of cure as something partaking
of godlike power. He looked upon his patients as
sacred deposits in his hands, alike blessed in a vouch
safed recovery, and conferring a blessing on him who
was the instrument of Providence for their rescue.
The exalted light in which he viewed the functions of
his calling, led him to discharge its duties conscien
tiously, reverently ; he labored with scarcely less piety
and devotion of spirit, than he might have done, had
his ministry been a religious one, — for holy did he
feel a physician's vocation to be. Its skill puts in
requisition the highest faculties of the human intel
lect, as its administration calls forth the tenderest
sympathies of the human heart. The able and the
kind physician is a human benefactor. He garners
up his treasures of learning and experience, that he
may dispense them again to his suffering brethren.
He comes with his timely succour, cheering both body
and spirit with the single boon of health. He raises
the sick man from his couch of pain, and sends him
forth elate and vigorous for fresh enjoyment of exist
ence. He restores the ailing, and rejoices their de
spondent friends. He gives new life to the sick, and
revives the hopes of those who depend on the sick
man's recovery for subsistence. He banishes illness,
and holds death at bay.

Conceiving such to be a physician's privileges and
duties, Gerard felt how especially they called him to
their exercise among the poor and helpless. He ac-

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 267

cordingly devoted himself almost exclusively to the
care of this forlorner class of sufferers, and sought
rather those who needed his aid without the means of
paying for it, than those who could summon and
remunerate its services.

His skill, his tenderness, his charitable care, made
him renowned among the destitute population of Nar-
bonne ; although he had as yet obtained little fame or
employment among its wealthier inhabitants. But his
time was so fully occupied with attendance upon his
patients — as numerous as they were (pecuniarily) un
profitable, that he had now less and less opportunity
of leisure at home with Gabrielle than ever.

His personal vigilance of the cases he had in hand
was unwearied ; and when he was not engaged in ^.sit
ing a patient's sick room, his thoughts were anxiously
engaged with the circumstances of the disorder ; with
its origin, with its progress, with the means it admitted
of relief, with the hope of its ultimate cure.

It was therefore fortunate for Gentille-et-sage that
the birth of her little girl afforded herself a great
resource from the solitude to which the incessant pre
occupation of her husband would otherwise have con
demned her. In its smiles, in its cooings, in its first
recognition, in its growing love, in ministering to its
comforts, and in developing its faculties, the heart of
the mother found full content. To Gerard, also, at
first, his infant daughter had been an object of great
interest ; he had called her by his mother's name —
Helena ; and had taken great delight in watching her
baby beauty, and dawning intelligence. The child
had thus fulfilled the hope which Gabrielle had con
ceived from the prospect of her advent ; but not long
did the influence last ; soon the father's thoughts were
again absorbed in his vocation ; and though Gerard's
love was firmly and entirely fixed upon his wife and
child, they possessed but little of his society or atten
tion.

There was one demand upon his time and thought,

268 HELENA ;

however, which no preoccupation ever led him to dis
regard. However busy, however anxious, Gerard
never failed to find a moment for calling upon Doctor
Dubrusc. Three or four days never elapsed without
his visiting the old mansarde. Though his godfather's
brevity of speech promised but little gratification to
either party from conversation, yet Gerard never neg
lected to go and see the old man, to tell him the news,
to sit with him a few minutes ; to let him see, in
short, that he was not unmindful of what he owed to
his instruction, and that he felt both gratefully and
affectionately toward him, spite of the eccentricity
which might choose to repulse the expression of such
feelings.

On the occasion of one of these visits to the old
mansarde, when the little Helena had attained to an
age, which placed her beyond that state of babyhood
which was avowedly objectionable to Doctor Dubrusc,
when she could trot about, and speak plain, and under
stand every thing that was said, when she had become,
in fact, a very pretty, lively, amusing child, Gerard
thought he would take his little girl with him to see
his old friend.

It happened to be the doctor's birthday, or saint's-
day ; and in observance of a national custom, Gerard
stopped in the market-place, and bought a bouquet of
flowers, which he might take with him to present to
his godfather, when he wished him joy.

He gave the nosegay to Helena, while he carried
her up the six flights of steep stairs which led to the
doctor's attic dwelling. He set her on her feet, when
they reached the door of the mansarde, and opening
it, bade her take in the flowers, and souhaiter le bon
jour a Monsieur.

The child obeyed ; running across the room, look
ing up in the old man's face, and presenting the birth
day offering, with pretty smiling looks, and tolerably
articulate words ; for Helena was not at all shy with
strangers.

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 269

" What do you want here, child ? Who are you ?"

" She is my little daughter ;" said Gerard. " I
thought you'd like to see her, sir, now she's no longer
a baby. Helena, sir ; my child."

" Child ! What's the use of a child ? Go away,
child ;" said Doctor Dubrusc.

Helena did not move, but stood there, staring at the
old man, as he did at her.

"Do you hear me, child? Go away !" repeated
the doctor ; but in a less gruff tone than before.

Still Helena did not move. She gave a short little
nod ; then another. " Ess ; I hear you ;" said she.

" What are you nodding at child ?" said the doc
tor.

" At you ;" she replied.

" What d'ye stand nodding at me for ? Go !"
said the old man.

" Ess, I'm going ;" said Helena, with a succession
of rapid little nods, as she turned towards the door ;
then suddenly coming back, she went close to the old
doctor, leaned against his knee, held up her mouth
towards him, and said : — " Kiss Nenna 'fore she goes. "

" Kiss ye, child ! Get along with you !" But
though the old man said this with much surprise, there
was no harshness in his voice, nor did he draw back
from her as he uttered the words.

The little girl, judging, as most children do, rather
from manner than words, and finding no very formid
able repulse in the former, proceeded to clamber on to
his knee, repeating : " Kiss Nenna 'fore she goes !
Well, then, kiss Nenna 'fore she goes !"

The old doctor gave a little stealthy bashful glance
at Gerard ; and seeing him apparently absorbed in the
contemplation of a map that hung against one of the
dusty walls, he ventured to let his face stoop towards
that of the child ; who, hugging him round the neck,
and giving him a hearty kiss on his wrinkled cheek,
slid down from his knee, saying : — " Not angry with
Nenna ; she go now. ' ' She went to her father, put

270 HELENA;

her hand in his, and led him towards the door, looking
back at the old man with a repetition of her series of
short nods, as she said : — " Good-bye, good-bye !"
And then she and her father, who repeated her saluta
tion, quitted the mansarde, leaving Doctor Dubrusc
staring silently after them.

Next morning, nothing would suit Helena, but her
father must give her some sous. Gerard was going
out to his usual round of patients ; and he could not
stay to listen to what his little girl asked. " I don't
know what she is talking about, Gabrielle ;" said he
to his wife. ' ' Make out what she says, and give her
what she wants. I think she is asking for money ;
though what such a child as that can want money for,
is more than I can comprehend," added he, as he left
the house.

"Is it money you are asking for, Nenna mine ?"
said her mother.

" Ess, chere maman ; give Nenna four sous,
please ;" said the child.

" What do you want them for, my Helena ? Are
they for the poor sick fruitiere yonder ?"

Little Helena shook her head ; but continued to
hold out her hand for the money.

" Not for her ?" said Gabrielle.

" No ; papa takes care of her ; she don't want any
more than he gives her ;" said Helena, with a little
knowing look ; "he never lets poor people wint
money — I've heard you, mamma, say so. He's a
good kind papa. But Nenna wants you to give her
four sous for her own self, chcre maman. ' '

" Little coaxer !" said her mother, giving Helena
the money ; which the child had no sooner obtained,
than she put up her mouth with her usual little
speech : — " Kiss Nenna 'fore she goes !" and her
valedictory nod, and " Good-bye !" and then trotted
demurely out of the house door, which, as is usual in
southern places, stood wide open all day.

Gabrielle, — accustomed to see her little daughter

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 271

step across the door-sill whenever it pleased her to go
and play with the neighbours, who loved the child's
innocent prattle and its pretty face, and who encour
aged her to come and linger about with them, — said
no word to prevent Helena's departure, imagining that
she was only bent upon some ordinary expedition, a
door or two off.

The little girl, however, went in a very grave and
orderly manner straight down the street ; then, at an
equally determined pace, she turned the corner ; and
so on, until she came to the market-place ; where she
made her way to the flower-stall, at which she had
observed her father make his purchase on the previous
day.

She made her selection with a very discreet air, rest
ing her chin upon the ledge of the board, and peering
carefully over all the heaps it displayed ; and when
she had fixed upon the brightest and gayest bunch
there, she pointed it out to the presiding marchande
de fleurs, requested her to reach it down to her, and
delivering the prix-fixe, — the requisite four sous, she
trotted off again with a sobriety of pride in her bar
gain that would have done honor to a grown lady re
turning from market.

Not very long after this transaction, as Doctor
Dubrusc was sitting as usual in his solitary mansarde,
poring over his book, he heard a stamp, — creak, —
stamp ; stamp, — creak, — stamp ; coming up his crazy
stairs, as if some foot approached, that was only satis
fied when its fellow foot was planted safely on each
stair, as it was gained, at a time, lie listened ; then he
heard a pattering to and fro on the landing-place out
side his room-door, as if a pair of little feet were trot
ting about in some uncertainty. A pause ; then came
a dubious pat, as of a small open hand ; then the
spread fingers were closed, and a more assured thump,
as of a little clenched fist, made itself heard.

" Come in !" said Doctor Dubrusc.

Nobody came in, and nobody answered ; but a dull,

272 HELENA;

though somewhat heavier thump than before, was to
be distinguished on one of the lower panels, as if some
short individual had applied the most ponderous por
tion it could find about its person in a still more vigor
ous appeal against the door.

" Come in, I tell you !" repeated Doctor Dubrusc.

" I can't !" said a childish voice ; "I can't reach
the lock ! Come and open it for me !"

In astonishment more than in hesitation, the old
doctor remained seated where he was ; while he heard
the dull thumps renewed ; lumping and bumping be
tween every word, as if the short individual were de
termined to push its way in, and take no denial.

" Come — and open — the door ! Come (thump),
and open (lump), the door (bump) !"

Then followed a series of sullen, silent, resolute
thump-lump-bumps, that threatened to effect a breach
in the worm-eaten door that guarded the entrance to
Doctor Dubrusc 's den, spite of the diminutive size of
the battering-ram that was now applied so unrelent
ingly against the crazy portal.

" I do believe it's that persevering toad of a child !"
exclaimed the old doctor ; beguiled by wonder into a
longer speech than he had uttered for years.

But though Doctor Dubrusc said this amidst a tor
rent of pishes and pshaws, it was remarkable that his
face glowed with a look that it had not worn for many
a day ; and his furrowed cheeks, lean and sallow with
hours of solitary study and brooding disappointment,
were lit up with an expression that made them look
almost smooth and comely.

lie arose from his chair, with this look beaming in
his eyes, while on his lips lingered : — ' ' Hark how she
keeps on ! She'll have the door down ! She'll burst
it in ! And then the brat' 11 fall through, and hurt
herself !"

It was curious that this idea did not appear to afford
the old doctor so much pleasure, as, to judge by his
mode of speaking of her, it might have done ; on the

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 273

contrary, he hastened his steps towards the door,
though he continued to murmur, " I never met with
so persevering an animal as this child is, in the whole
course of my life !"

Considering that Doctor Dubrusc had met with few
children in the course of his life, and even among
those few, had been slow to form any acquaintance
with their dispositions and habits, it was not wonder
ful that he had never happened to encounter one so
persevering as his godson's little daughter.

But in truth, Helena was singularly given to persist
in any point that she had once resolved upon ; and
without being either obstinate or wilful, she was re
markable for perseverance, and unswerving pursuit of
that upon which she had once set her heart.

And so, day after day, did this little creature come
trotting out to bring the old man (to whom she seemed
to have taken a strange fancy) a nosegay from the
market ; day after day, she would come tramping up
the old creaking stairs ; day after day, she bumped at
the door until Doctor Dubrusc came grumbling to
open it for her, when she would toddle in, give him
the flowers, hold up her mouth, saying : — " Kiss
Nenna 'fore she goes," and then toddle out again,
nodding and bidding good-bye.

Whether it was that this brevity of speech and visit
on her part, appealed to the doctor's own taste for
limited intercourse, it is impossible to say ; but cer
tain it is that these interviews took place, to the
mutual satisfaction of the old man and the child, with
out intermission from the day her father had first in
troduced Helena there, until the one when the meet
ings came to an unavoidable close, — as sad, as it was
abrupt.

One morning, when the little girl, having been able
to obtain no answer to her repeated calling and thump
ing, had succeeded in bunching the door open, she
went towards her old friend the doctor, whom she
found seated in his usual place by the table ; but

274 HELENA;

instead of leaning forward over his book, he was rest
ing against the back of his chair, his head drooping
upon one shoulder. She spoke to him, offering him
her flowers ; but he neither answered, nor looked
toward her, nor stirred at all.

She thought he was asleep ; but finding she could
not wake him by calling to him, or plucking him by
the skirts, she went and got some big books, which
she piled up by his side, until she had made a heap
high enough to let her get up and reach his face.
When she touched it, she found it cold as the marble
brink of the fountain in the market-place, and then
she knew that he was dead !

Helena's screams soon brought the people who oc
cupied the remainder of the house into the mansarde
of their fellow-lodger ; and they were speedily engaged
in endeavours to restore the old man, who, they hoped,
had only fainted. One of them hurried for medical
assistance, and soon returned bringing Helena's father,
Gerard. He immediately pronounced that life had
been for some time extinct ; and, appointing some
one to watch the body, until the proper authorities
could be informed of the sudden death of Doctor
Dubrusc, in order that steps might be taken for the
funeral, Gerard took his little girl home in his arms.

On looking over the papers of his deceased friend,
Gerard found, within a leaf of the book that lay open
before Doctor Dubrusc at the time of his death, one
which proved to be a will, the body of which was
regularly and formally drawn up, signed, and attested.

It appeared, by its date, to have been executed soon
after the doctor's last visit to Perpignan. It spoke in
some bitterness of Monsieur Gerard's cooled friend
ship ; of its truly surmised cause ; of the probability
that his godson would follow in the steps of his father,
and never seek nor require his aid ; and then the will
went on to bequeath the whole of his property, which
was of large value, to the foundation of a school of
medicine in his native town, Narbonne,

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 275

In a codicil, also regularly executed, and dated im
mediately subsequent to Gerard's arrival in Narbonne,
he rescinded his original bequest, in his godson's
favor, making him his sole heir and legatee. After
that, lower down, and seeming to have been added
when his pupil had gained a numerous circle of
patients, — which the old man supposed would prove
only the commencement of so large a practice that
there was every prospect of his godson's accumulating
a large fortune of his own, — was written, in form of a
codicil, but unsigned, and unwitnessed, this sentence :
— ' ' Gerard won't want it. Let it be for the school of
medicine. ' ' Still lower, on the parchment, appeared,
in unsteady characters, the words : — " If Helena,
Gerard's daughter, should "

The pen seemed to have been flung aside, or
dropped, here, as if the writer had felt unequal to the
task of penning more at the time ; and Gerard could
not help thinking that it was in the act of inscribing
these very words, that his old friend had been seized
with the attack of illness which had ended in death.

Gerard, with his characteristic probity, resolved that
the wealth of Dr. Dubrusc should be devoted to the
purpose originally stated in the body of the will ; tak
ing no advantage, which perhaps might have been
legally claimed, — or at any rate, litigated, on the
strength of the first codicil, which was formal in all
respects. He could not have felt honestly happy in
availing himself of the kind intention of his godfather,
while a doubt existed as to whether that intention had
been altered. Whether the alteration might not have
been made under a false representation of Gerard's
circumstances, seemed to him a question nowise affect
ing the case ; that his godfather's wishes in the dis
posal of his money should be strictly and exclusively
fulfilled, was his sole consideration.

He accordingly set zealously to work to promote the
foundation of a school of medicine from the funds
which his friend's property produced ; and in disco v-

276 HELENA;

ering how large a sum this really was, he could not
refrain from a bitter smile at the thought of the mis
taken worldliness which had actuated the Perpignan
banker in his secession from amity with the eccentric
old doctor.

But while Gerard's sense of honesty thus bade him
yield all claim upon his godfather's legacy, and taught
him to ensure its appropriation elsewhere, he was at
that very time so far from not needing it himself, that
there was no period of his life when its possession
would have been more useful to him. So little pros
pect was there of his making a large fortune, that his
income was next to nothing from his custom of giving
his chief attention to the maladies of the poor. By
constant devotion of his time to them, instead of seek
ing richer patients, he had contrived to be but a poor
man himself, though increasing rapidly in experience
and ability.

For Gabrielle and himself this was enough ; neither
he nor Gentille-et-sage caring for more than mere
competence. But just at this period an object pre
sented itself more and more strongly to their wishes,
which rendered a sum of money indispensable.

Gerard and his wife had once in each year indulged
themselves with a visit to the farm — to the village
where Monsieur le Cur6 lived — to all their favorite
haunts thereabouts. They had often agreed how
pleasant a thing it would be, if ever they should be
able to return and make this spot — the scene of their
youthful happiness — the home of their old age.

Of late, this scheme had won still more upon their
fancy ; and they longed to see their vision of retire
ment realized, while they were still of an age to enjoy
it fully.

To enable him to carry out this plan at once, Dr.
Dubrusc's legacy offered itself in opportune tempta
tion ; but Gerard's principles of honor were not of
that kind to be affected by a chance, however oppor
tune, however tempting. He had no sophistry that

THE PHYSICIANS ORPHAN. 277

might sanction ill-doing, either from a conviction of
expediency, or from a pretence of pure motive. With
him right was simply right ; wrong, simply wrong.
He therefore renounced all thought of Dr. Dubrusc's
money, as if there had never been any question of its
by possibility accruing to him ; and only began to
consider whether he might not manage to earn some
of his own, without infringing on the claims which his
poor patients had on his tune and skill.

He was earnest in this desire, on Gabrielle's ac
count, as he saw how much pleasure the plan afforded
her, and he omitted no exertion which might tend to
the object in view ; but, just then, the wealthier in
habitants of Narbonne happened to enjoy provokingly
good health ; besides, though he had obtained an ex
tensive renown among the pauper population of the
town, and though his name was high in those quarters
where squalor, filth, poor diet, and want of fresh air,
made disease rife, and had demanded and received his
best skill, yet his fame had not spread much beyond
such precincts, and hitherto, the principal people in
Narbonne knew little of the clever physician who dwelt
among them. However, Gerard strenuously pursued
his aim, and worked harder than ever in his profes
sion, with the hope of earning enough to maintain his
wife, his child, and himself, at no very distant day,
in the old pavilion of the farm, as their pleasant home
ever after.

There was a spacious public garden a little way out
of the town of Narbonne, where Gentille-et-sage, with
little Helena by her side, often spent a large portion
of the day. Here, with a view to her child's health,
and her own (which had for some time banefully felt
a slow but sure effect from the banishment from native
and pure country air, as well as the constant confine
ment within the walls of a town lodging), would
Gabrielle and her little girl sit ; the mother working,
or hearing Helena say her lessons. Sometimes the
child would clamber about the back and sides of the

278 HELENA ;

seat — which was a sort of long wooden chair with
arms, that might have accommodated half-a-dozen
persons ; sometimes, a game of ball, or battledore, or
bilboquet, would engage the attention, and exercise
the limbs of the little Helena ; while the mother
watched her active happy child, her fingers employed
in knitting some winter comfort for its father.

One afternoon, when Gabrielle and Helena had sta
tioned themselves in their favorite nook — one particu
lar corner of the long wooden seat, which was shadily
situated under a tree, — a Bonne and her charge, a fine
little boy about a year or two older than Helena, ap
proached the spot, and sat down near them.

Gabrielle 's basket, knitting-ball, and one or two
other articles belonging to her, lay on the seat beside
her. She would have drawn them towards her, to
make room for the strangers, but as there was plenty
of space beyond, she left all still.

Presently the little boy collected a quantity of peb
bles from the gravel-path, and came towards the bench
with his treasure in his arms. He deposited the heap
on the seat, and then commenced clearing a space far
ther on, by brushing away Gabrielle 's basket, ball,
&c., with his arm, taking no heed that the articles
were suddenly tumbled on to the ground by this un
ceremonious proceeding on his part.

For some time, little Helena contented herself with
silently remedying the mischief, by picking up her
mother's scattered property, and replacing it on the
seat ; but after repeating this process once or twice,
and finding that it by no means mended matters, as
the boy invariably brushed them down again, she
said : — " Take care, little boy ; mamma's basket will
ibe broken."

" I want room to build a castle ;" replied the boy,
giving another clearing nudge. Gabrielle removed the
basket to the other side of her, and put the knit
ting-ball into her apron-pocket, without speaking, that
she might observe the children.

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 279

" What pretty hair you've got!" said Helena
next ; after having looked with admiration at the
boy's curls, which hung down, glossy, dark, and
thick, upon his shoulders. " How bright, and how
long, and how soft it is !" added the little girl, touch
ing it, and smoothing it down with her fingers.

" Don't ! you'll tangle it ;" said the boy, drawing
away his head.

" Fie, master Bertram !" exclaimed his Bonne ;
4< let the little girl admire your beautiful hair !"

" I shan't ! Let it alone !" replied master Ber
tram.

After a pause, during which Helena had shrunk to
a little distance, whence she tried to peer at what he
was doing, she said : — " Are you building a castle ?"

" Yes ; don't you see I am ?"

" I can't well see so far off ; may I come nearer ?"
asked she.

" Take care you don't jog, then ;" said the boy.

Helena comes a little closer ; gets a better view of
his operations ; becomes greatly interested in the tot
tering fortalice, which with much careful piling to
gether of pebble-stones is gradually rearing its walls
beneath the boy's hands. She leans forward, watch
ing breathlessly ; when, being a little too near for
master Bertram's convenience, his sturdy little elbow
is suddenly stuck in her chest, to remind her to keep
farther back.

She obeys the warning for an instant ; but forget
ting caution in her eagerness to watch the progress of
the castle, she leans too forward, and again receives a
hint in her chest that she is in master Bertram's way.
The blow this time is directed with such unmistakable
earnestness of reproof, that the little girl reels back,
falls, and bruises her arm. The Bonne exclaims ;
Helena's mother picks her up and asks her if she's
hurt.

"No, he didn't mean it; did you, little boy?
Here, kiss it, and make it well !" said she, holding

280 HELENA ;

out her arm, where the skin, soiled and grazed by the
gravel, bore sufficient evidence of her hurt.

" It's bloody and dirty ; indeed I shan't kiss it,"
said the boy, turning away to finish building his castle.

Again the Bonne said : — " Fie, master Bertram !"
And again she was satisfied with saying it, and with
the slight effect it produced upon master Bertram him
self. For presently, Bertram was as busily engaged
as ever in the erection of the pebble stronghold, and
Helena was again leaning over him, forgetful of the
late consequences of her vicinity to the sturdy little
elbow. It made one or two lunges at her, from which
she had the presence of mind to withdraw in time ;
but as she always had the hardihood to. return to her
post of observation, the boy at length said : — " Don't
worry, little girl. Don't you see the wall of my castle
is nearly built up to the top ? Don't jog so. Go and
pick up some more stones for me. I shan't have half
enough for the high tower I mean to build here. ' '

And accordingly, for some time after that, Helena
patiently trotted to and fro collecting stones in the
skirt of her frock, and bringing them in heaps to Ber
tram, who went on with his edifice now, in peace, and
much faster ; and he signified his approval of this
state of things by graciously accepting her contribu
tions, bidding her deposit them on the bench ready to
his hand, and then to go for more.

The two children went on thus for some time, until
the castle was completed to master Bertram's satisfac
tion ; when Helena! s proposal to cut out some paper
dolls with her mother's scissors, and to place them
inside the pebble fortress as its Baron and Baroness,
and suite of retainers, was negatived by master Ber
tram's " No, no ; that's stupid work ; dolls are only
fit for girls ! What's this ?"

" That's my bilboquet ; you can have it, if you like,
to play with. And here's a ball ; or here's a battle
dore and shuttlecock ; if you like them better."
Master Bertram seized the offered toys ; and became

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 281

amicable with his new acquaintance ; letting her be
his playfellow, by permitting the little girl to run and
fetch his ball when he tossed it up high, and it fell at
an inconvenient distance ; or to pick up the shuttle
cock, when it dropped upon the ground in consequence
of his failing to hit it, and by other such little sociabili
ties, and condescending equalities which he established
between them in the games they had together.

Meantime, while familiarity was growing between
the two children, the Bonne seated herself rather
nearer, on the long bench, to the corner where Gabri-
elle sat, and entered into conversation with her.

The Bonne began with the theme always most agree
able to a mother's ear ; one, in which she rarely dis
cerns hyperbole.

" Ah, madame," said she, " what an amiable child
is your little daughter ! What grace ! What spright-
liness ! And what beauty ! An absolute nymph !
And what goodness ! What sweetness ! What
patience and forgiveness of pain and injury ! An
absolute angel ! Ah, madame ! How fortunate you
are, to possess so much loveliness, and so much virtue
united in the person of that seraph, your child ! How
rare is such a union ! There is master Bertram, for
instance. He is beautiful as the day, but his temper
is deplorable. He has the adorable grace and loveli
ness of Cupid himself, but he has not that gentleness,
that softness which inspires love. Alas, no ! he is
rough and selfish !"

" He has been spoiled, perhaps — indulged too
much ?' ' said Gentille-et-sage ; ' ' and yet, ' ' added she
with a little sigh, ' ' indulgence ought not to spoil a
grateful disposition."

" You are right, dear madame ;" said the Bonne.
" A good heart is not spoiled by having its own way.
But where every kindness is received as a right —
where attention and affectionate service are claimed
only as feudal dues — when faithful domestics are
treated like slaves — ah, madame — then, indeed, too

282 HELENA ;

much power entrusted to childish hands is injudiciously
fostering native haughtiness, caprice, and selfishness,
and encouraging tyranny."

The sentimental and sententious Bonne went on to
explain to Gabrielle, that her charge, master Bertram,
was sole heir of an ancient family, and only child of
the count and countess of Rousillon. That he was
inordinately indulged, and that, in consequence his
natural defects — those of pride, self-will, want of
generosity, and disdain of those beneath him in birth
— had been enhanced rather than repressed. She
spoke of his mother, the countess, as a virtuous gen
tlewoman ; and of his father, the count, as a noble
gentleman, a brave soldier, and one in high honor at
court, possessing the confidence and friendship of the
king himself. She told Gabrielle that his lordship, the
count of Rousillon, was at present suffering from a dis
order which had originated in a severe wound in the
chest that he had received on his first battle-field, some
years since ; and that he had quitted his chateau in
Rousillon to sojourn for a time at Narbonne, in the
hope that he might receive benefit from the change of
air, which had been recommended to him. The count
had been accompanied hither by his countess, who was
a devoted wife and mother, and by his little son, from
whom his parents could not bear to be separated.

Many times, after that day, Gabrielle and Helena
met the Bonne and her charge in the public garden ;
and, Gabrielle 's pleasant manners soon winning the
good graces of the Bonne, as little Helena's good-
humour rendered her an agreeable play-fellow to mas
ter Bertram, it came to pass that the countess, ere
long, heard a good deal from her son of the little girl
he had found in the gardens, and from her Bonne of
the little girl's mother, who seemed to be quite a
superior kind of person — quite a lady, indeed, though
only a poor physician's wife, as she had by chance
discovered her to be.

The countess of Rousillon, whom anxiety for her

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 283

husband's recovery, made eager to seize any chance of
cure, was struck by hearing that the stranger's hus
band was a physician ; and she was just thinking of
joining her little son in his visit to the public garden
that day, to learn more concerning this unknown doc
tor, when her thought was confirmed into a determina
tion to seek him, by a singular chance.

It happened that the countess, in her charitable
kindness, having afforded relief to a poor woman who
begged of her in the street, learned that the sick hus
band of the mendicant had been attended in his illness
by a certain good young doctor, who, in consideration
of the destitute state of his patient, would take no fee.
' ' Ce bon monsieur Gerard would have given us money,
instead of taking any from us," said the woman ;
" but I pretended we didn't want it — for I know he
does — almost as much as we — having a wife and child
to support, and not earning a great deal to support
them with. No, no, he's too generous and good to
the poor, to have made any thing of a purse ; so,
rather than take from him, I said we had enough to
go on with — (may le bon Dieu forgive me for lying !)
— and I came out into the streets to beg, when you,
madame, kindly gave me this."

By a little questioning, the countess soon discovered
that this good young doctor, with a wife and child to
support, was no other than the husband of the inter
esting stranger whom her Bonne had mentioned to
her ; and farther, the poor woman went on to say so
much, of her own accord, respecting the skill, and
care, and attention, which this good young doctor had
bestowed, and the wonderful relief his treatment had
yielded her suffering husband, that the countess re
solved to lose no time in applying to him in behalf of
her own.

Gerard, upon being consulted on the count of
Rousillon's case, with his usual integrity, gave it as
his opinion, that from the nature of the wound itself,
and partly from the injudicious treatment it had hith-

284 HELENA ;

erto received, he could not hope to perform a complete
cure ; that his lordship would in all probability be
subject to relapses during the remainder of his life,
even should he survive the present crisis ; but, he
modestly added, if the count would consent to place
himself in the hands of an obscure practitioner, he
thought he could undertake to relieve suffering, and
avert immediate danger.

The result was the fulfilment of his promise ; and
the count, restored to more robust health than he had
ever dared to hope might again be his, was enabled,
at the end of a few months' sojourn at Narbonne, to
return with his wife and child to their estate at
Rousillon.

The noble family, on taking leave, testified their
gratitude to their benefactor, by loading him with
affectionate proffers of friendship, and assurances of
gratitude ; by an earnestly-expressed hope of seeing
him at no very remote period, as a guest at the chateau
de Rousillon, and by a handsome sum of money, pro
portionate to their estimation of the benefit they had
received at his hands.

The chateau de Rousillon being situated at no very
great distance from Gabrielle's native home, Gerard
imparted to his new acquaintances the hope he had of
accumulating sufficient to come and reside permanently
in their vicinity ; and, in the anticipation of one day
becoming neighbours and friends, they parted mutually
pleased with each other.

Time wore on, and still Gerard was working hard
with his cherished object in view. Like many men
who propose to themselves the acquisition of com
petence, of retirement with independence, they leave
undefined what is in reality to form this competence,
this independence. They assign no limit to the yearly
income which is to suffice for all their wishes ; they
vaguely speak of waiting until they shall have earned
enough to live upon, without previously calculating
what annual amount will supply means of subsistence,

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 285

or computing the sum requisite to produce such annual
amount ; they talk of moderate desires, simple tastes,
inexpensive pleasures, without reckoning costs, or ask
ing themselves what is, in fact, the style of living
which will fulfil their ideal of enjoyment in exist
ence.

And thus went on Gerard year after year ; without
perceiving that life itself was passing in the acquire
ment and prospect of a living. His was a probation
— an awaiting of some expected future, some visionary
period — rather than an actuality, a positive state of
being. In that anticipated epoch he dwelt, not in the
present lapse of time ; he noted not that the cheek of
his wife grew ever paler and more attenuated with
abiding in a pent town, while he contemplated her
ultimate removal to her native country air and home ;
and Gentille-et-sage was just the unselfish being to
forbear urging her own condition upon his notice,
whilst he himself was well and contented. For in the
vision of this ultimate retirement with his beloved
Gabrielle, in the present work of attaining this pro
posed future good by the prosecution of his profession,
in the daily thought and occupation it afforded him,
and in the sight of the daily benefit it effected, he was
both well and contented.

The sum he had gained by his attendance on the
count Rousillon, was the foundation of his fortune ;
the care of so illustrious a patient brought him patron
age from others of equally high rank ; while the
wealthy but untitled herd, followed in the track, where
nobles had been their precursors. The young doctor
became the rage — the fashion ; he became as noted as
he had been neglected ; and at length the very title
was awarded to him, which he had once dreamed
might be his ; for he became known as the eminent
physician — the famous Gerard de Narbonne.

Alas, for poor short-sighted human nature ! It
sacrifices its best years in struggling for that which
when obtained, time has rendered valueless ! It

286 HELENA ;

neglects the enjoyment of daily life, toiling to achieve
a remote existence, which is poisoned in its approach !

Gerard now possessed a surname which might grace
the wife for whose sake alone he prized its honors ; he
had amassed a fortune large enough to empower him
to establish her in ease and even luxury wherever they
might choose to fix their abode ; but in the very mo
ment of his awakening to a consciousness that he had
attained both these desired objects, he became aware
that she, for whom he had coveted their possession,
could no more hope to share them long with him.

Gerard had given instructions that the pavilion
should be prepared temporarily for their reception, as
he meant to defer refitting, enlargements, and all other
improvements, until they themselves should be on the
spot to decide upon the necessary alterations. He
was in all the delight of prospectively enjoying the
happiness which such a plan opened to them both ;
when, on proposing an early day for their departure to
take possession of their old new home, he found that
Gabrielle was compelled reluctantly to acknowledge
that she was too weak to undertake a journey just
then. She spoke cheerfully of shortly being better
able to bear the fatigue ; but Gerard, once his attention
drawn to the subject of her health, perceived with
alarm many symptoms which had never struck him
till now. His observation had been so concentrated
upon the cases of his patients ; his thoughts had been
so much occupied elsewhere, that he had failed to per
ceive the illness which made its approach beneath his
very eyes, and lurked ' insidiously beside his own
hearth.

Gabrielle had always concealed her growing failure
of strength under a sprightly demeanour, and as much
activity of carriage as she could assume ; while her
natural ease of manner, simplicity, and gaiety of heart,
had seconded her innocent deceit. Her husband,
looking into that smiling face, and within hearing of
that cheerful sweet voice, did not surmise the lassitude

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 287

of limb, and debility of frame, that in secret oppressed
her. We all know, how the countenance of those we
daily see, let them be loved as intensely as they may,
— nay, the rather for that intensity of love — fails to
strike us as changing in appearance, as long as affection
is still its prevailing expression. The fading lustre of
the eye is unnoticed, while love lends its own light to
the look which meets ours ; the lines that draw and
contract the mouth are unseen, when smiles play
around lips uttering nothing but kindness and cor
diality. We forget to look for traces of indisposition,
where all bespeaks something far more welcome to our
sight ; and our own natural shrinking from aught sin
ister to them, refuses to acknowledge the approach of
danger, helping to mislead us into a fatal confidence.
Comfort and assurance of heart dwell in the gaze of
those we love ; and thus It comes, that those who are
nearest and dearest to each other, are not unfrequently
the last to perceive what it most concerns them to
know — threatened ill health.

Totally unaware of the blow about to be dealt him,
until the very moment of its stunning fall, Gerard had
hardly been aroused to perceive the approach of the
foe ; he had scarcely, with shuddering acknowledged
the presence of peril, when he was smitten with the
full force of its consummation. Gabrielle's declining
symptoms were abruptly aggravated by an attack of
fever ; and she died on the very day of their proposed
return to their native home.

Her husband sank prostrate under this unexpected
stroke of fate. His usual strength of mind utterly
forsook him. He yielded, without a struggle to his
grief, and lay overwhelmed and unresisting, struck to
the earth by a misery so sudden and so complete. He
felt alone in the world. She, who had alone, of all
the world, understood and entirely responded to his
nature ; she, whose image had blended so completely
with his every thought, that (with the paradoxical
mood of intimate affection) he had come to pay her as

288 HELENA ;

little outward attention as he did to his own semblance ;
she, who had become so integrally a part of himself
that he gave her no more external regard than he did
himself, was now torn away for ever. What wonder
that the poor remainder, the writhing wounded other
self, should lie there in anguish as acute as if actually
severed, disrupted, and rent asunder — henceforth a
bleeding mangled fragment of being ?

He had cast himself upon the ground close beside
the bed, upon which she had breathed her last, and
from that, moment had never raised his head. He
had not swooned ; he did not shed a tear, or utter a
sob ; but there he seemed flung, a broken desolate
man, bereft of that which had given him heart and
vitality. He had no consciousness of time, of aught
existing. The poor neighbours whom the young couple
had attached by their kindliness, and gentle courtesy,
and unostentatious benevolence, offered some respect
ful attempts at consolation and sympathy ; but his
apathy of misery awed them, and they pursued in
whispers and with noiseless steps their offices about
the dead, while, after their first unsuccessful proffer,
they only from time to time ventured stealthy glances
of compassion towards the prostrate sufferer.

Little Helena crept towards him, and sought to re
lieve his grief and her own, by sharing its pain to
gether ; but he took as little notice of her as he had
done of the neighbours, and the thought of his child
seemed to be lost in that of the wife who had been
snatched from him. He actually was, as he felt,
thenceforward alone in the world.

The neighbours feared, that when he should see
them, in accordance with their national custom, ere
twenty-four hours had elapsed, withdraw the body for
interment — he would be moved to some violent demon
stration of despair ; but no, in beholding her death,
he had felt the full sting of her loss, and the mere
corporeal form, the earthly remains of her he loved,
seemed no longer to him to be Gabrielle — that creature

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 289

whom he had worshipped — that being who had been
a part of his own.

When night came, he still remained there, a heap
of silent sorrow — for he had somehow formed a fierce
determination never to occupy a bed more. They had
placed food by him — for they had not dared to urge
it upon one who had mutely refused, with the sullen,
incapable look of a young bird in bondage. They had
left him at length alone, to deal as he best might with
his strange misery ; his little girl only, crouched in
one corner of the room, watching him in hopeless
ignorance of how to offer aid, yet unable to abandon
him, and instinctively lingering near him, as if her
very presence could help to guard him from farther
evil. She watched until her strained eyes became stiff
and weary ; and then the childish lids gave way,
drooped, and closed in sleep — profound as it was in
voluntary. She had thought that sorrow for her dead
mother, and anxiety for her unhappy father, would
have surely kept her awake ; but to youthful sorrow
and anxiety it is mercifully granted that they shall be
powerless against drowsiness, and they have thus the
boon of promoting their own remedy.

Through the watches of the night thus remained
Gerard and his young daughter ; the one wrapped in
a deep slumber, the other in his profounder grief. A
lamp lent its feeble rays to the chamber, which seemed
a sepulchre — so lately had it held the dead, so com
pletely did it bury the hopes of its principal occupant.
The drooping figures of the father and child looked
like sculptured mourners, monumental images of grief,
so mute, so motionless were they.

Day dawned, and found them still thus. But as
the sun arose in his majesty, and poured his cheering
beams into that desolate chamber, Gerard's brain
seemed suddenly to acquire activity and perception in
estimating the circumstances of his loss. He uttered
a sharp groan as the painful process of resuscitation
took place in his hitherto spell-bound thought. The

290 HELENA ;

events of his life presented themselves in strange dis
tinctness before his mind. He beheld as in a vision
the whole train of incidents which had marked his in
tercourse with his wife from their first meeting to their
recent separation. He involuntarily retraced scenes,
words, looks, long passed away, but which had uncon
sciously engraven themselves upon his memory, now
to be recalled unbidden, yet with singular vividness.
As they passed in review before him, many a pang of
remorse seized him, as some fancied negligence, or
some occasion of omitted kindness on his own part,
smote him. With the sensitive self-accusation which
always accompanies reflection upon our conduct in con
nection with a beloved object lost to us for ever, a
thousand of such instances arose in all the torture of
unavailing regret to goad his heart. Above all, he
reproached himself bitterly for the blindness with
which he had suffered the tokens of her declining
health to escape his observation, while engrossed with
the sole pursuit of what should secure her repose, en
joyment, and prolonged life. He felt that in absorbed
prosecution of a visionary scheme, he had lost sight of
actual happiness, and that he had sacrificed substance
to shadow.

From the depth of his remorse arose two clear re
solves, as expiatory offerings to his troubled con
science. He determined that he would rouse himself
from the selfish lethargy of grief, and by devoting
himself with more fervour of zeal than ever to the
cause of the poor, render tardy homage to the angel
nature which might be supposed to rejoice in such a
consecration of his energies ; and the other resolve
was, that the wealth, which had been amassed with
an aim so frustrated in its accomplishment, should be
scrupulously dedicated to the use of the same suffering
class — the neglected of men, the pitied of God and his
angels.

With the courage which a new-formed resolution
imparts to the soul of man, Gerard arose from the

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 291

ground. With the same intense thought of herself,
which had not permitted her husband to regard the
remains of Gabrielle as the being he had loved, he
glanced not toward the spot where the body had so
lately lain, but looked straight up into the blue
heavens, where it seemed to him she now was. But
with the engrossing impression that he was now alone,
and completely alone in existence, neither did he once
glance towards his child, or perceive that she was
there, or for an instant recollect that there was such a
being in the world. Gerard was constitutionally a
man of strong feeling, and by habit a man of concen
trated feeling. He was at present wholly absorbed in
his solitude, his bereavement, and in the train of
thought, emotion, and resolve it had engendered ;
with the abstraction of one thus immersed, therefore,
he went forth from the chamber, bent solely upon his
new-conceived purpose, and totally unmindful of an
other duty which still more imperatively claimed fulfil
ment at his hands.

The little girl awoke as her father quitted the room.
She shivered with the chill of the morning air, with
the cramped unrestful position in which she had sat
for some hours, and with a sense of utter abandonment
and desolation. She staggered to her feet, and called
feebly after him, but no voice answered. She listened
to his retreating steps, but no sound reached her.
She thought of attempting to follow him, but she knew
not where he was gone. She wrung her hands, and
looking helplessly round, she saw the bed upon which
her mother had so lately lain cold and dead, and then
she flung herself down headlong upon it, sobbing,
" O, Mother ! Mother ! Mother !"

Very desolate and forlorn was the condition of this
poor young girl. Accustomed to the warmest evi
dences of affection from earliest infancy, her child
hood had, till now, been an uninterrupted course of
happy existence. She had never known what it was
to lack sympathy, or encouragement, or endearment

292 HELENA ;

from her mother, who was as tender as she was cheer
ful.

Gabrielle was one of those beautifully-constituted
beings, whose sprightliness detract no jot from their
sweetness. She was as gentle as she was gay ; she
was as loving as she was light-hearted. She had been
a fond, an indulgent friend to her little Helena, as she
had been her play-mate and companion. The young
mother and daughter had frolicked together as if they
had been of the same age ; and the child, though an
only one, had thus never known want of fellowship.
Now she was as much alone as her unhappy father ;
for he saw not how a consideration of her feelings, an
inquiry into her sorrow, might serve to alleviate his
own, and promote the consolation of both her and
himself.

Gerard devoted himself with all the energy of his
nature to his self-appointed task, in which alone he
believed he could find solace. The greater part of
every day he was absent from home, indefatigable in
administering the resources of his art ; the few hours
he was in his own house being passed in study, shut
up by himself in a small room which contained his
books. His mode of life was ascetic. He slept upon
the floor, and made his sparing meal upon scarcely
more than a crust. The only indulgence he permitted
himself was coffee, which was brought to him daily,
towards the dusk of the evening, by Helena. There
was a homely peasant woman who had been their ser
vant ever since Gerard and his wife had settled there ;
and she still remained, preparing such meals as he
would take, and contriving that his child should carry
in the only thing for which he showed any preference.
He continued to drink coffee, as it enabled him 1o
work late into the night ; and Nicole had taken it into
her worthy head, that by sending his little daughter
into his room with the coffee, he might be won to
notice her.

But day after day she stood there, with her patient

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 293

eyes, and in timid silence, unobserved by her father,
who would remain absorbed in his work, until some
stray waft of the steaming berry-scented beverage, or
some pause in his writing, or some slight noise of the
spoon against the cup and saucer she held, would in
duce him to stretch forth his hand, and take the coffee
from her, but without so much as lifting his eyes from
the book or paper before him. Helena had always
been taught, by her mother's example no less than by
her precept, never to disturb her father when he was
studying. She had, therefore, frequently before wait
ed upon him thus in silence, standing by him until he
should become aware of her presence, and take from
her that which she had brought ; but never before had
she felt so painfully his abstraction. He would
formerly say no more than he did now, it is true ; but
he would give her a little silent nod, or a pat on the
shoulder, or a touch under the chin, even if he did not
smile, or look toward her. Now, however, neither
nod, nor touch, nor smile, nor look ever reached her ;
no signal that she was even known to be there was
given ; no token that her presence was perceived, save
the final stretching forth of the hand to take the cup
from hers.

She would stand there watching that grave profile,
almost stern in its absorbed downward gaze, and ache
with longing to see it change its expression, and turn
toward her. She would stand holding the coffee,
fearing lest it should get cold, before he thought of
taking it ; she would watch the curling steam, and
note each diminishing upward curl of vapour, as the
liquid gradually lost its heat. She would stand there
with all sorts of strange fears and fancies crossing her
mind. She would wonder whether her father ever
meant to look at her or speak to her again. She
would at one time follow his hand with her eyes along
the paper, and thrill with impatience to see it stretched
out toward the coffee that she might be released ; at
another, she would think so closely and so anxiously

294 HELENA ;

about the time when the hand should approach her to
take the cup, that her heart beat with expectation,
and she would start violently when the instant arrived.
Sometimes she thought of setting down the coffee on
the table, and leaving it there ; but besides the fear
that it might remain there untouched, and that he
should thus miss the only thing he cared to take, there
was another undefined dread mingling with as vague a
hope, which whispered her not to put the cup down,
but to tarry till his hand received it. At others, she
thought she would summon courage to speak to him ;
and when she was away she thought she would surely
do so the next time she went to him ; but the next
time came, and she stood there as patiently, as silently,
as ever ; until at length it grew worse by delay, and it
became impossible even to think of addressing him.
At last so many nervous terrors beset her as she stood
there motionless beside him, that the hour for taking
in her father's coffee came to be looked forward to
with almost as much dread, as it had formerly been
wished for.

But though Helena would tremble and become very
pale, when she went to Nicole to fetch the cup, still
she never ceased punctually and constantly to go to
the kitchen when she knew the coffee was ready, take
it steadily in her hand, and proceed straight to her
father's room. The good-hearted servant- wench,
when she observed the little girl's agitation, asked her
if she should take it in for her. But she said : —
" No, no ; give it me, Nicole ; I'll take it myself ;"
and though her tremor every day increased rather than
diminished, nothing could persuade her to relinquish
the task she had undertaken.

" I'll tell you what, ma'amselle," said Nicole one
day abruptly to Helena, as she was preparing to take
in the coffee, " if you don't speak to monsieur, I
shall. I can't see you going on in that way, shaking,
and looking as white as a sheet. We shall have you
getting ill, or dropping the coffee-cup, and smashing

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 29$

it all to bits, or some mischief or another. So mind,
if you don't speak to him, I shall ; and tell him a
piece of my mind too !"

" No, no, Nicole ; you mustn't disturb him — you
mustn't speak to him — promise me, Nicole ;" said
Helena eagerly.

" Well then you just do — or I shall ; mind that !"
said Nicole ; and as Helena said something promis
sory, going in with the coffee, the kind-meaning ser
vant-wench added, as she followed her with her eyes :
— " I can't see what's the good of learning, for my
part, if it an't to teach people the use of their senses.
Here's a man poking over his books, and can't see
what's just under his nose ; a pretty doctor ! ferreting
out how to cure everybody's disorders, and never finds
that his wife was dying, and his child's dwindling
away, for want of a kind word, and a look, and a
helping hand, in time. I should like to know how my
pot-au-feu would get on, if I was to be readin' and
study in' about it, instead of putting the beef in, and
paring and cutting the carrots and turnips. Precious
soup we should get, if we were to depend on learning,
for it ; pardi !"

Meanwhile, Helena had gone into her father's little
study, and was standing there as usual at his elbow
with the cup of coffee. She tried not to listen to the
beating of her heart, and to muster enough voice to
speak ; but still she stood there mute and motionless.
Her eyes were fixed upon her father's high temple,
which was barer than usual, from the hair having been
somewhat pushed back when he leaned his head upon
his hand just before. A line or two of silver threaded
among the dark clusters of hair that were raised from
the brow ; and as the eyes of his young daughter traced
the course of those heralds of thought, and care, and
premature age, she unconsciously uttered a deep sigh.

It was at this very moment, that her father reached
out his hand for his coffee. The sound caught his
ear ; he started, and raised his eyes to her face.

296 HELENA ;

It was colourless ; and two dark rings surrounded
those meek patient eyes that were fixed upon his with
a look which childhood should never wear ; the lips
were wan, and quivered a little, as they stood apart in
timid yet eager expectation.

" Helena ! my child !" exclaimed Gerard, with a
look as if he had awakened from a dream. " Where
have you heen ?"

" Here, papa !" said she.

Her father passed his hand across his forehead ;
and seemed as if for a moment he fancied she had
been standing there ever since he had last beheld her,
with that enduring perseverance, that dumb unre-
proachful constancy, which spoke its involuntary ap
peal to his heart in those beseeching eyes, those pale
cheeks, and tremulous lips.

He drew her towards him, and pressed her head
against his bosom. " My child ! My dear Helena !"
were all the words he could find to express what he
felt towards his forgotten daughter ; his self-reproach,
his reawakened interest, his comprehension of her
patience, his admiration, his love. But what need
was there of words, where so much of tenderness was
expressed in his looks, in his voice, in his gesture ?
Helena, as she lay within his arms, wept gentle tears
of comfort, and joy, and satisfied affection.

Gerard now understood something of what had been
his little girl's sufferings, whilst he had been absorbed
in his own ; he saw that her solitary grief had preyed
on her health ; and in alarm lest another victim should
be the consequence of his neglect, he hastened to de
vise means for removing his child from a position
which he perceived was utterly unfit, and which might
be productive of fatal consequences. He wrote to his
friend and patroness the countess of Rousillon, enlist
ing her sympathy in behalf of his motherless girl, and
entreating her counsel and aid. He begged that she
would extend her former kind intention toward him
self to Helena, by receiving her for a time, at the

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 297

chateau de Rousillon, that change of scene might
efface the sad impression which had been made on her
young mind, and rescue her from a situation so peril
ous to her health and happiness as association with a
broken-hearted man, lost in his own eternal regrets.
" I have now but one solitary aim on earth ;" thus
the letter concluded. " It is that I may render myself
worthy of joining her who is now in Heaven, by self-
denial, humility, and faithful labour ; and by a life
dedicated to the relief of my poor fellow-sufferers on
earth. A man thus devoted to a sacred task, is not a
meet guide for youth. The two duties cannot co-exist.
The requirements of the one infringe on the exigencies
of the other. Let your charitable heart, therefore,
dear lady, prompt you in behalf of my innocent child ;
lost, if you do not step to her aid. My only plea in
asking this boon at your hands, is her own desert,
which will, I know, requite your goodness as it should
be requited. The grateful devotion and affection of a
young true heart will be yours. To these are added
the prayers and blessings of

Your ladyship's unhappy servant and friend,

GAUTIER GERARD."

The countess's reply was a warm compliance,
brought to Narbonne by Rinaldo, her steward, who
was charged to escort Helena back to the chateau de
Rousillon. On the arrival of her young guest, the
countess could not avoid being struck with the change
that had taken place. The lively, chubby, rosy child
of but a few years old, had grown into the pale quiet
girl — fast- growing, hollow-eyed, and lank. Traces
of premature care and suffering sat upon the young
face, and the effect of her white cheeks, and thin
arms, was touchingly heightened by the contrast with
the mourning frock she wore.

The lady of Rousillon received the poor motherless
girl with a gentleness and pity that went straight to
Helena's heart, so sore with its late unhappiness ; and
the young girl was still hovering near her kind new

29& HELENA ;

friend, when Bertram entered the room. He had
been out in the park, with his dogs, one or two of
which followed him into the saloon where his mother
sat.

He was now a fine tall lad ; and swung into the
room glowing with exercise, in high spirits and good
humour, flinging his hat off, and discovering a face
sparkling with animation, features regular and com
manding, and hair bright, thick, and curling.

As his mother's eye rested upon her handsome son,
— a picture of healthful beauty, her heart swelled
with happy pride ; she thought of the contrast he pre
sented with the poor little pale thin creature at her
side, and she drew her kindly towards her.

" Come here, Bertram ;" said his mother. " See
who is here. Do you not remember your acquaintance
of the Narbonne gardens, little Helena ?"

" Is that little Helena !" said Bertram. " I never
should have known her !"

" Did you remember me ? Did you think about
whether you should have known me ?" said Helena.

' ' I was absurd enough to think of you just the same
as you were ;" answered he. " I somehow fancied,
when I heard you were coming to Rousillon, that I
should see just the same rosy dumpling of a child that
you were then, forgetting that we had both grown
bigger since, and that of course you would be altered,
as I am."

" I don't think you're altered ; I should have known
you any where ;" said she. " I remember your hair
exactly ; and the high eyebrows — and the color of
your eyes, just as I recollect them, when you used to
be watching the shuttlecock fly into the air. ' '

Helena, in looking at Bertram, and tracing her
recollection of his features, was hardly aware of what
made her wince, and shrink, as the two large dogs
which had accompanied him into the room, were now
sniffing and snuffing and trying to make acquaintance
with the strange little girl, by poking their cold noses

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. $9$

against her bare arms, and pushing their rough snouts
up to her chin, and other slight amenities, somewhat
startling to a child of her age, unaccustomed to the
proximity of large hounds almost as big as herself.

"Bertram, my dear," said his mother, "hadn't
you better send these dogs out of the room, or call
them off, for I think they're annoying our petite amie
here."

" Here, Nero ; come here, sir ; lie down, Juba ;"
said Bertram, slightly whistling to his favorites.
" Are you afraid of dogs ? An't you fond of 'em ?"
added he to Helena.

" Are you ?" said she.

" Fond of them ? O yes ! I like to have them
always with me. That's why I like to be out in the
park, because there nobody minds 'em ; the saloon
isn't thought their fit place, is it, mother ? I know
you only allow them to be here, because you love to
please me, more than you care about the dogs, like a
good kind mother as you are. Don't you ?"

His mother smiled ; but after a little lounging
about, Bertram swung out of the room again, whistling
his dogs after him ; and Helena sat reproaching her
self with having driven him away, by her folly in being
unable to help starting when the dogs touched her.
She resolved to break herself of such a stupid trick,
and to try and make friends with the noble animals on
the first opportunity.

The count Rousillon was absent from the chateau at
this period. He was at Paris, in attendance on the
king, who esteemed him highly, and was fond of his
society. A few days after Helena's arrival, a mes
senger came to Rousillon from the count, bearing let
ters and greetings to his countess, with a present to
his son of a handsome fishing-tackle, which had often
been the object of Bertram's wishes.

There was a fine piece of water which adjoined the
chateau, and which in one part of its stream formed
the moat that surrounded the turreted irregular walls.

300 HELENA ;

Bertram had frequently expatiated to his father on the
capabilities afforded for angling in this spot ; and the
indulgent parent now remembering, in absence, his
son's desire, sent him the means of its gratifica
tion.

When Helena learned what the packet from Paris
probably contained, she begged of the countess that
she might have the privilege of carrying it at once to
Bertram, who was out in the park.

" My page shall take it to him ;" said the countess.

" Do let me take it, madam ;" urged the little girl.
" I know it will give your son so much pleasure, and
would give me so much, if I might be the bearer."

'The countess nodded and smiled ; and away went
Helena.

" See what I have here for you !" she cried from a
distance, as she perceived Bertram among the trees.
" My lord, your father, has sent Baptiste from Paris
with this box for you ! And we think it must contain
the fishing rod and flies you wished for so much ; and
my lady allowed me to bring it to you, that you might
open it at once, and you see what it is."

" Set it down on the grass, and undo the fasten
ings ;" said Bertram. " I hope it really is the rod !
Oh yes ! And what a capital one ! And what a
good line !"

" And look at these curious flies !" exclaimed
Helena.

" I'll put one on the line directly," said Bertram.
" I must have a throw. I know there must be mill
ions of trout here. Hush, don't make a noise ; don't
talk. Hush, Helena."

A moment after, he himself loudly exclaimed at his
dogs, who were snuffing to and fro, taking a busy
interest in all that was going on, and at length uttered
the sharp bark of excitement and sympathy with their
master's new pursuit, which had provoked his ire at
the interruption to his sport.

" Confound those dogs !" he exclaimed ; " I wish

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 301

they were hanged or drowned out of the way. It's
impossible to fish, while they're yelping about one."

" Mightn't they be put out of the way, without
hanging or drowning ?" asked Helena, with a smile ;
" you may want them to-morrow, you know, when
you're tired of angling ; and then you would rather
find them safe in their kennel, wouldn't you ?"

" How you talk, Helena ;" said he. " If they're
to be taken to their kennel now, I must go with 'em,
and leave my fishing ; for they won't mind any body
but me ; and they won't leave me for any body else's
bidding."

"Won't they?" said she ; "let's try."

The young girl uttered a little melodious whistle
which she had practised in imitation of the one she
heard Bertram use with such good effect in calling his
dogs. Then she went a short distance, slapping her
frock as she had seen him do upon his knee, and
mimicking as well as she could the imperative ' ' Here,
Juba, here ! Hie along, Nero !" with which Bertram
was accustomed to enforce their obedience. Finding
that they still lingered round their master, she drew
from her pocket a piece of rye-cake which she had
found effectual during her late assiduous training of
the dogs and herself to a mutual good understanding.
In the present instance, the lure proved successful ;
for wagging their tails, and following Helena with
wistful eyes, they drew off the field, leaving Bertram
in peaceful possession of the banks of the stream.

Here she found him, on her return, engrossed in the
pursuit of his new pleasure. And during the whole
afternoon, and for many following days, he still eagerly
enjoyed the sport ; Helena lingering by his side, help
ing him to fix his flies, to watch the bites, to land the
fish, to carry home the basket, and in a thousand ways
rendering herself an acceptable companion.

One morning, they had just succeeded in hooking
and landing a fine trout, that had enhanced the pleas
ure of his capture by making it a matter of difficult

302 HELENA ;

achievement ; now starting away as if he would snap
the line, now darting through some tangled sedges
where he might twist it, now floating teasingly near,
now giving them a run of several yards along the bank,
now waving slyly down by the weedy bottom, now
glancing recklessly close to the crystal surface, and in
short keeping his foes in all that breathless suspense,
and dubiousness of ultimate triumph, which consti
tutes the charm of the pursuit, — so bewitching to an
angler, so incomprehensible to other people.

Helena had secured the flapping victim in the bas
ket, and was anticipating the pleasure of Bertram's
displaying this prize to his mother ; when, having
adjusted a fresh bait, and thrown his line again across
the stream, he suddenly uttered an exclamation, which
caused his companion to look round. She found that
the end of the rod, with its appended line, had snapped
off, and was now floating away toward a plot of rushes
and river-weeds that grew in the water near to the op
posite bank, at a considerable distance from the spot
where they stood.

" 0 it will be lost !" exclaimed Helena. ' ' Your rod
will be spoiled, and useless, without the top. Let us
try and get it back. How can we manage ? What
had we best do ?"

" It's gone — it's hopeless !" said Bertram. " It
will be quite floated away, by the time we can get
round to the opposite shore ; or lost among those flags
and weeds. Provoking !"

" We can but try ;" said Helena. " I'll run round
through the wood over the bridge, while you remain
here to watch it, and to point it out to me, when I get
to the opposite side. ' '

" No, no ; it's almost out of sight now — it's of no
use. I must give it up. ' '

" We can but give it up, when we have done all we
can ;" said Helena, and she was just running off, when
Bertram said : —

" I tell you, it's of no use, Helena ; I can't stay

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 303

here watching all day for a thing that's already out of
sight. I shouldn't so much mind the loss, for I've
had almost enough of angling ; but I shall be sorry to
have to own the rod's spoilt, when my father comes
home. Provoking !" muttered he again, as he looked
in vain towards the weeds near which the broken rod
and line were fast disappearing.

" The count's kind gift ! His beautiful present !"
said Helena, with her eyes fixed in the same direction.

" Well, it can't be helped, at any rate," said Ber
tram, as he walked away, adding : — " I'll go and take
Nero and Juba out for a good long walk. I haven't
had a ramble with them this many a day ; ever since
I've been looking after the trout."

Helena remained for a few minutes longer, still
looking intently across the stream, which spread broad
and far just there, forming a small lake among the
grounds of the chateau ; then she suddenly turned,
and walked fast along the bank, beneath the trees, till
she came to some broken ground, which adjoined the
more level park, and where the stream dashed and
foamed among the underwood, from some rocks that
rose abruptly there about. This tumbling torrent was
crossed by a rustic bridge at its foot. Over the bridge
Helena passed swiftly ; and, tripping along the briery
pathway on the opposite side of the stream, made her
way with a rapid step.

On reaching the bank, near to which the plot of
rushes grew, she peered carefully about, in the hope
of descrying the object of her search, but no vestige
of rod or line was there to be seen. " If I could but
get among those weeds — close to them, I could look
better ;" thought she. " If I could but swim !" A
moment after, she exclaimed, half aloud : — " The
boat ! how came I not to think of it ?"

She retraced her way as speedily as she had come ;
and then hastened on to a spot in the park, where she
knew a small pleasure-boat was moored. She soon
succeeded in undoing the fastenings, and in paddling

304 HELENA ;

herself across the stream, back to the plot of rushes.
Here she spent some time in searching minutely among
the flags, and at length she became unwillingly con
vinced that the missing rod was not there.

She was reluctantly turning the head of the boat to
recross the stream, when its current drew her attention
to the fact that the rod had probably floated on far
ther, quite away from this spot. " The stream flows
from the torrent in the dell, across this broad piece of
water, toward the moat ;" thought she. " I'll follow
the course of the stream ; perhaps I may find Ber
tram's rod still."

She pushed the boat on in that direction, peeping
into all the sedgy nooks, and grassy crevices, along
the shore, in vain ; until she entered the moat which
washed the walls of the chateau, entirely surrounding
them. These walls were built irregularly ; forming
all sorts of odd angles, and crannies, and close re
cesses. In one of these, floated by the current, and
washed far inwards, lying in a tangled heap, Helena
spied the lost line, with the fragment of rod. She
steadied the boat as well as she could across the nar
row inlet, which was formed by two meeting angles of
the edifice ; for the space thus left between the walls
that rose sheer from the water, was too small to admit
the head of the vessel. Helena stretched herself as
far over the side, as possible ; but she could not nearly
reach the floating object, even with the tips of her
fingers. How tantalizing it was, to see it lie there,
within a few feet of her, but as much out of her
power, as when out of sight !

She seized the oar, with which she had paddled her
self thither ; but she not only nearly lost her balance,
trying to wield so heavy an object, but she had the
mortification to perceive that instead of gaining any
hold of the line with the unmanageable end of the oar,
she only succeeded in pushing it farther than ever be
yond her reach, until it washed away right up to the
extreme end of the recess, where it lay bobbing and

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 305

floating in coy retirement, — obvious, yet unattain
able.

Helena felt so frustrated and baffled in the very view
of success, that she could have shed tears of vexa
tion ; but recollecting just in time for the honor of her
childish wisdom, that such a proceeding would advance
her no jot, — at the very same fortunate moment
popped into her head another idea no less sagacious.
This was, that she would try and make one of the dogs
swim across the moat and fetch the line out of the
recess. Then remembering that she could hardly
make the dog comprehend what he was to seek, she
determined to row back and bring the dog with her in
the boat to the spot, where she might point out to him
the precise object she wanted him to fetch.

Her experiment was crowned with complete success.
She returned, accompanied by Fanchon, one of the
smaller dogs, Bertram having taken with him his two
favorites ; and, with its help, she succeeded at length
in securing the top of the fishing-rod and line. Her
first impulse was to take them to their owner, in the
hope of pleasing him by the news of their recovery ;
but remembering that his zest for angling had suffered
an abatement, she resolved to keep them quietly for
the present.

Another letter arrives from the count, stating that
he is still detained from rejoining his family, by the
wishes of the king, whose gracious desire for his longer
stay is not to be withstood. The count speaks of a
valued friend of his, the lord Lafeu, who has been de
sired by his royal master to prepare for a diplomatic
mission to some neighbouring state. This friend
being anxious, during his absence, to obtain honorable
protection for his daughter Maudlin, who lost her
mother when an infant, the count has invited the
young lady to pass a few weeks at the chateau de
Rousillon, on a visit to his countess.

Mademoiselle Lafeu arrives ; and is greeted with all
distinction and affectionate welcome. She proves to

306 HELENA ;

be a lively girl, with an air of decision and court-bred
ease about her manners that bespeak her to be an in
habitant of the capital.

French words best describe the distinguishing char
acteristics of this young French girl. She was in-
souciante, in her gaiety of spirits ; nonchalante, in
her indifference to the opinions of others ; she was
assez spirituelle ; tant soit peu espiegle ; and had
much aplomb in her tastes, her judgment, her convic
tions, or rather in her mode of answering them all
three, whenever, however, and with whomsoever she
might choose to assert them.

She formed a striking contrast with the provincial-
bred Helena, who was quiet, retiring, and undemon
strative in speech. The one was accustomed to utter
every thought aloud the instant it was formed ; nay,
sometimes, before she had thought at all upon a sub
ject, she would express very decided sentiments re
garding it ; while the other would speak no word upon
matters which had not only engaged her serious con
sideration, but upon which she was prepared to act
with energy, firmness, and pertinacious constancy.

Maudlin Lafeu would eagerly discuss veriest trifles
as if her whole soul were wrapt up in them, and the
next hour, prove by her actions, that she cared no iota
for any one of the things for which she had been so
earnestly arguing ; Helena was chary of alluding to
her own views, even upon topics on which her mind
was made up with a consistency and steadiness hardly
to be expected from a girl of her age. Maudlin was
sparkling, animated, and full of vivacity ; Helena was
tranquil, and somewhat reserved, though not shy, or
awkwardly bashful. She had timidity, though no
want of resolution. A diffidence of self, combined
with remarkable self-confidence. A mistrust of her
own merit, with a consciousness of moral power.
An unassured belief of intrinsic worth, with a strong
faith in her own principle of right. A humility that
taught her to assign blame to herself rather than to

THE PHYSICIAN' S ORPHAN. 307

others, combined with a high internal sense of her true
claim to regard.

In externals there was the same dissimilarity be
tween the two young girls. Maudlin was brilliant in
complexion, had eyes bright and restless, with lips
wreathed in smiles ; while Helena was pale, her eyes
were soft and thoughtful, with a look of steadfastness
in resolve, and her mouth was sedate, though the lips
were full, and so coral and red, that they afforded the
point of colour, in which her face would otherwise have
been deficient.

To complete the contrast, Maudlin was dressed in
the height of the then Parisian fashion, a rich father's
liberality enabling her to indulge in every extrava
gance of adornment ; while Helena, a poor country
physician's daughter, wore a simple black frock of the
plainest make, and of the least costly material.

On the morning after Mademoiselle Lafeu's arrival
at Rousillon, the countess, having done the honours of
the house, by showing her young guest over the
chateau, deputed her son to escort her through the
park and the rest of the domain, which was extensive,
and very beautiful.

With more eagerness of manner than he usually dis
played, when the gratification of any other than him
self was in question, Bertram complied. He led the
way, talking animatedly with the young lady, who,
interrupting him in the midst of something he was
saying, turned to Helena, with : — " Will not you
come with us ?"

" Go, ma petite ;" said the countess, in answer to
the mute enquiry of Helena's eyes.

They had crossed the drawbridge over the moat,
and were just entering the park, Bertram dwelling
with much complacency upon the noble growth of the
trees, upon the valuable timber they would yield, upon
the beautiful site of the chateau, its picturesque struc
ture, its best points of view, and upon the territorial
grandeur of the estate generally, when he turned

308 HELENA ;

slightly to Helena, and said : " I should like the dogs
to be with us."

Helena replying, " Ay, they would enjoy this ram
ble," tripped back to fetch them.

" Where is she gone to ?" asked Mademoiselle
Lafeu.

" Gone to fetch Nero and Juba, my dogs, they are
such fine fellows ; I should like you to see them ;"
answered he.

" Should you ? But I am sorry Mademoiselle
Helena should have the trouble of returning for them,"
said Maudlin.

" O, she don't mind it ; and the dogs are very fond
of her ;" replied Bertram.

Mademoiselle Lafeu seemed about to say something
more, but was prevented by Helena's running up, with
the dogs leaping and bounding each side of her.

They walked on again ; Bertram by the side of
Maudlin Lafeu, talking and laughing in high spirits,
and using his best efforts to entertain her. Helena
followed a little in the rear, with the dogs still frolick
ing, and gambolling, and jumping about her ; while
the young lady frequently turned to address some re
mark to her, as if wishing her to take part in the
conversation that was going forward.

Presently, as they emerged from the shade of the
trees, Helena perceived that the glare of the sun seemed
oppressive to Mademoiselle Lafeu, who had only the
small flat hat or cap worn by French ladies of the
period, and which afforded little protection to the eyes
or the complexion.

" You feel the rays too hot and too bright for you,
Mademoiselle ;" said Helena. " Will you use my
broad straw hat, which makes a good screen for the
eyes?"

" Do ;" said Bertram.

But Maudlin declared she would not deprive Helena
of it, who would then be as badly off as herself.

" But you must not risk such tanning as this ;"

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 309

said Bertram. " Helena will go and fetch you a veil,
or a fan, from the chateau. ' '

" Yes, that will be the best ;" said Helena, as she
darted off in quest of them ; while Bertram added
some gallant speeches about the brilliancy of the com
plexion that Mademoiselle Lafeu was so ruthlessly ex
posing to injury, which she interrupted by saying : —

" Is this your country good-breeding, Monsieur
Bertram ? You pay a few fiddle-faddle compliments
to one young lady, while you permit another to run
about on your errands — or what ought to be yours, —
for why could not you go yourself for the fan or veil
which you think I ought to have ?"

" O, Helena don't mind it ;" repeated Bertram,
laughing.

" Perhaps not ; but you ought. If you pretend to
be a gentleman, as I suppose you do, how comes it
that you let a young lady wait upon you ?"

" She's not a young lady ;" said Bertram, hastily.
" She's only a poor girl, a protegee of my mother's.
A country doctor's daughter that my good mother took
a fancy to, because the father happened to cure mine,
a long time ago, — for which service he was well paid,
by the bye, — and because the girl herself has lately
lost her mother. ' '

" Tolerably good claims, too, to consideration ;"
said Mademoiselle Lafeu. " But whatever may be
her birth, she deserves politeness from a young gentle
man, one would think, from the mere fact of her being
a pretty girl. ' '

" Pretty !" said Bertram ; — " what, with that pale
face ? She was pretty as a little child ; but she's quite
altered — an absolute fright now, with her white cheeks,
and those dark rings round her eyes. ' '

" Poor girl ! Perhaps she lost her good looks with
grieving for her dead mother. For good looks she
has, depend upon it ; I can perceive them through all
that sorrowful one ; and some day or other, you'll see,
she'll prove my words, and come out a beauty."

310 HELENA;

" Not my sort of beauty ;" said Bertram, fixing his
eyes with an admiring look upon Maudlin's brilliant
countenance, but with a boy's bashfulness soon with
drawing his gaze, and stammering out : — " I don't see
any beauty in linen cheeks for my part ; give me lovely
red and white, and a pair of bright happy eyes. Such
as, I trust, some day or other, to see in perfection
among you Parisian Belles."

" The sieur Bertram tells me he is dying to see
Paris ;" said Maudlin to Helena, who now returned
with the veil and fan. " Why does he not persuade
his father to bring him the next time he comes thither ?
You must help him to gain the permission, I believe, by
pleading his cause with his mother, who will plead it
again with his father, and then the affair will be settled. "

" It's of no use any0one pleading ;" said Bertram
testily. " My mother would long ago have given me
my wish, but my father is obstinately bent upon my
not visiting the capital yet. He has violent prejudices
against Paris as an abiding place for youth. Thinks
ill of the young men there as examples, and I know
not what of scruples and strictnesses, which surely are
old-fashioned, over-rigid, and misplaced, now-a-days. ' '

' ' This is so beautiful a place, I can hardly fancy
sighing to leave it, even for dear delightful Paris !"
said Mademoiselle Lafeu. " And you must have
plenty of amusement here, too, to compensate for the
court gaieties, and the society of the capital. What
a fine place for a gallop on horse-back, a row on the
lake, a falcon match, a trial with the bow and arrows,
or for hunting or fishing, or the thousand enjoyments
which you country gentlemen can command. There
must be capital fishing in that piece of water. Do
you know, I'm a bit of an angler myself ? When I
have been en campagne with my father, at our house at
Marly, he has taught me to bait a hook and throw a
line, so that I should scarcely be afraid to challenge
such proficients as you and Mademoiselle Helena
doubtless are."

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 311

" You like angling ?" said Bertram. " How vexa
tious that I should have no rod to offer you. Mine is
broken — but — how I wish I had it now !"

" I have it safely for you, I'll fetch it ;" said
Helena eagerly. " I got it back — it's mended ; I'll
bring it to you directly. ' '

" Do, do, Helena ! But how on earth do you
mean ? How did you get it back ?" said he.

In a few words, she explained her recovery of the
detached portion of his rod and line, and then hurried
away to fetch them.

Highly pleased, he began to question Mademoiselle
Lafeu on her knowledge of the sport, and to express
his delight at the prospect of enjoying it with her.
She answered by dwelling upon Helena's having taken
such pains to gratify him, and by reproaching him for
the slender gratitude he had shown for her friendly
zeal.

" If you go on praising it so, you'll make me detest
it, instead of teaching me to feel grateful for it ;"
said he. " I hate things or people that are belauded
and cried up by every one. My mother tells me so
much of Helena's good behaviour that I'm rather sick
of it ; and now you are doing the same, and giving
me a downright surfeit of her merits. She's well
enough, but she's no such paragon as you'd all make
her out to be."

" You are a spoilt young man, and have your own
way too much, and are too little contradicted, I see ;"
said Mademoiselle Lafeu. " If I were to take you in
hand, I would soon effect a reform."

" I think I am very well as I am, and want no re
form ;" said Bertram laughing ; " but still, you may
take me in hand, if you like ; I don't know that I
should object to that ; especially when the hand that
is to take me in it, is so white and so soft," said he,
with another boyish struggle between admiration and
embarrassment, as he took her hand and attempted to
kiss it.

312 HELENA;

11 One of the first things I should expect you to
alter, would be your conduct to women, " said Madem
oiselle Lafeu, with the little air of superiority which
girls of her age allow themselves to lads of his ; ' ' you
should be less forward to me, and more polite to
Helena ; I would have more deference, more fitting at
tention to each. See, where she comes, with your
fishing-tackle ; and yet you do not hasten to meet her,
and relieve her of the burthen. You a cavalier fit for
a Paris circle, and so insensible to a woman's due !"

' ' On the contrary, ' ' said Bertram, with his careless
laugh ; " I'm quite sensible of her peculiar excel
lence ; I'm thankful to her, as I am to my dogs, for
what they do for me ; I'm bound to acknowledge her
ministry, as I am to my hounds for their attachment,
and their faithful fetching and carrying. I'm a judge
of dogs, you know — and she's a good spaniel."

During the visit of Maudlin Lafeu, Bertram heard a
good many truths with respect to his haughty conduct,
told him with no sparing of his self-love by the young
Parisian ; but they served little else than to pique him
into extra admiration of herself ; while they rather in
creased than diminished his contempt of Helena,
whose modest zeal showed like servility against
Maudlin's freedoms ; and where humility seemed only
conscious inferiority both of beauty and station, when
seen in contrast with Mademoiselle Lafeu's high-bred
ease, court manners, and various graces of person and
demeanour.

Bertram was a spoiled child by birth, by fortune,
and by circumstance ; and like many spoiled people,
he felt little preference for those who spoiled him. It
seems an instinct, teaching the humoured person to
disregard those who work this evil, at the very time
that he avails himself of their indulgence. He uses
and abuses the ministrants to his will, while he feels
an involuntary respect for those who inconveniently
yet boldly oppose its tyrannous dictates. He disdains
and tramples on those whose value he acknowledges by

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 313

accepting their service, while he courts and renders
homage to those who treat him with indifference, and
whose sole claim to superiority may be their own as
sumption.

Time passes on. Bertram's boyish desire to visit
Paris is yet unfulfilled ; for his father, firm in his con
viction that a court is an unfit school for youth, as the
capital is an unfit asylum, until his son's principles
shall be more formed, and his studies farther ad
vanced, has sent him to college for a few years.

The king still frequently detains his favourite by his
side ; and the count, anxious to secure for his wife
affectionate companionship in her solitude at Rousillon,
undertakes the entire charge of Helena. He writes to
her father, entreating him to commit her to the coun
tess's and his own care, engaging to provide her with
masters and all requisites for a solid education.

Gerard, strictly observant of that moral devotion,
in which alone he finds peace for his wounded spirit,
and consecrating the whole of his earnings — accumu
lated and present — to the needs of his poor patients,
reserves to himself the mere pittance requisite in his
self-imposed asceticism, and is, in fact, bare of all,
save renown in skill, and the attachment of grateful
hearts. Thus destitute of resources, a voluntary
pauper — a devotee to penury in his own person, as in
his tribute to the exigencies of a sacred cause — Gerard
willingly consents to a plan that secures for his child
an education and a home, which he himself has no
means of giving her.

Helena accordingly remains at the chateau de
Rousillon, growing in knowledge acccomplishment,
and virtue, while the improvement in her health,
spirits, and mental culture, brings corresponding in
crease of beauty ; and, on the verge of womanhood,
she possesses as many attractions of worth and excel
lence, as she presents those of person and matured
loveliness, which her early childhood promised.-

She has courage, prudence, constancy in an eminent

314 HE LEX A ;

degree. She is stable in resolve ; faithful in duty |
invincible in attachment ; and she is as full of womanly
sweetness and gentleness, as if her character were not
compounded of such firm elements. True strength of
mind is less inconsistent with softness of heart than is
generally or willingly allowed, by those who injudi
ciously or interestedly persuade the sex that weakness
— moral, mental, and physical, is their most winning
characteristic. Feeble-mindedness, indecision, vacilla
tion, cowardice, want of solid principle, lack of energy,
infirmity of purpose, supineness of limb, debility of
muscle, enervation of frame, and the thousand foibles
of soul and body that are supposed amiable, will often
lead to a selfish hardness, and an inflexibility of egoism
any thing but womanly ; while a loving nature will not
unfrequently inspire the most heroic acts of fortitude,
dictate the highest deeds of bravery — bravery in
achievement — no less than in endurance, and yet de
tract no particle from the sweet grace of feminine re
serve, nor abate one blush of sensitive modesty.

Such was Helena's nature ; full of the gentlest
strength of love ; the most unflinching capability of
sacrifice ; the deepest tenderness, and the bravest
courage, the maidenliest diffidence, with the most
lavish generosity ; the truest and most steadfast
affection, with the most passionate warmth.

But as yet, little occasion for the development of
these qualities in Helena presented itself. Till such
occasion should arrive, she seemed a quiet, earnest,
obliging girl, faithfully attached to the countess, who
ever treated her with well-nigh a mother's regard.

The count Rousillon, when able to be at the chateau,
was kind and paternal in his manner to Helena, and
esteemed her highly for her own merits, for the credit
her accomplishments did to his having charged himself
with her breeding, and for the sake of the pleasure
which her society and affection afforded to his coun
tess.

Bertram, on the recurrence of his vacations, spent

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 315

them, by his parents' wish, at Rousillon ; and on each
of these occasions he failed not to call upon Helena
for her sympathy with his own indignation at being
compelled still to defer repairing to Paris, where he
might spend his holidays so much more to his liking.

True to her friendship, at the expense of her grow
ing love, Helena failed not to condole with him on
these repeated disappointments, and even to help him
all she could to obtain the desired permission, although
it would destroy her own fondest prospect, — that
of seeing him at Rousillon. For the intervals
when he was absent, were occupied in thoughts of
his last visit, of what he had said, of how he had
looked, of what he had chiefly liked ; or in dreams
of his next-approaching one, of what he would say,
of how he would look, and of what he might like,
that she might prepare it for him against his
coming.

At length a period arrives when she is able to greet
him with something th#t she knows will please him.
She is so eager to give him this gratification, that she
watches by the park -gates for his arrival during the
whole morning that he is expected at the chateau.
The welcome sound of his horse's feet reaches her
ear ; she springs forward, when the abruptness of her
appearance startles the mettled animal, who rears, and
plunges, and it requires all Bertram's good horseman
ship to keep himself firm in his seat.

The sight of his danger, the fear that he will be
thrown, makes Helena turn deadly pale ; but she does
not utter a single shriek ; only, after an instant's dis
mayed pause, she throws herself before the horse's
head, regardless of her own imminent peril, and en
deavours to seize the bridle.

" Stand out of the way ! Stand back ! You will
be trampled down !" shouts Bertram. " Leave him
to me ; let him alone ; I'll manage him ! So then,
so then, Charlemagne ! So then !"

When he had succeeded in reining in the steed,

316 HELENA;

and reducing him to quietude, Bertram liad leisure to
observe who it was that had thus crossed his path.

' ' Is that you, Helena ? How could you be so
absurd as to start out in that sudden way just before
him ? Any horse would have shied at such a thing,
especially a skittish high-blooded creature like this.
So then, so then, my beauty !" said he, patting the
arching neck of his favorite, that still quivered and
throbbed in every one of its swelling veins.

" I had some tidings for you, that I knew would
please you — and I could not help coming out here to
be the first person to tell them to you. It was very
rash and foolish of me, to rush out so unawares upon
poor Charlemagne. Poor fellow ! Poor fellow !"
And she patted the horse on the same spot where his
master's hand had so lately been.

" Well, but what are your tidings, Helena ? You
don't tell them to me, after all ;" said he, as he rode
on slowly, she walking by his side.

" My lord the count arrived here from Paris, yes
terday, and "

" My father at Rousillon !" exclaimed Bertram ;
"why didn't you say so before, Helena?" And
the young man was about to ride on impetuously.

But Helena called to him that he had not yet heard
what she had to tell ; and with a muttered ' ' pshaw, ' ' he
checked his horse, until she should come up with him.

I heard the count tell my lady yesterday, that ho
had lately made the acquaintance of two young men,
whom he thought would make admirable friends for
his son. They are brothers of the name of Dumain,
have just obtained commissions in the army, and are
in high favor with his majesty. He said that their
excellent qualities made him take all measures to
secure their intimacy for you, against you go with him
to Paris ; and from what more fell from him on the
subject, I cannot help thinking, my lord means to re
move you from college, and introduce you at court,
the very next time he returns to attend the king."

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 317

" Do you really think so, Helena ?" said Bertram,
with sparkling eyes and heightened colour. " This is
indeed good news ! I long to see my father, and learn
if it be true."

He flung himself off his horse, as he approached the
chateau, and throwing the bridle to Helena, said : —
" Just lead Charlemagne round to the stable for me ;
I cannot lose a moment in seeing my father."

Bertram hurried away ; while Helena kept her eyes
fixed upon his handsome agile figure as long as it was
in sight, and wondered at the blank that seemed to
fall upon her spirit as he disappeared.

" Why am I so unhappy, when he is so elated ?"
thought she ; " Ought I not to rejoice that he is
pleased ? What delight shone in his eyes as he bent
their hawk glance upon me while I spoke the words.
And what eyes they are !" She threw her arm over the
saddle where he had lately sat, and looked up as if she
could still see the eyes dancing and sparkling with joy
at her tidings. " He is happy to go ; how selfish
of me then, not to feel glad that he is going. Glad
that he is going ! Glad at his absence ! Ah, how
can I ? Glad !" she repeated in a soft sad murmur,
as she hid her burning cheek against the neck of the
horse.

The noble animal turned its head towards the young
girl, as if in dumb sympathy with the low sobs she
uttered, and the tears she could not repress, which
trickled down the glossy skin of its throat.

She spoke fond words, caressing and patting the in
telligent creature ; bidding it bear safely him whom
they both worshipped as their ruler, their guide, their
dear master ; and whispering many a gentle entreaty
that it might not be long ere the good steed should
bring back his lord to Rousillon, where loving hearts
awaited him, that bore him stronger and more con
stant affection than all the friends in Paris, young or
old, man or woman.

The countess's page at this instant came running

3*8 HELENA;

towards Helena, bidding her hasten in to his lady, who
was in sad distress at a sudden attack of illness which
had seized the count Rousillon, only a few minutes
after his son's arrival.

Giving Charlemagne's rein to the page, while she
hastily dried her eyes, and endeavoured to assume as
much calmness as might be, that she should be the
fitter to support and assist the countess, Helena hur
ried to the saloon of the chateau, where she found
the late tranquillity in which she had left it, ex
changed for a scene of the greatest confusion and
anxiety.

On a couch lay extended the count of Rousillon, his
eyelids closed, his features convulsed and distorted,
and his head supported on the bosom of his wife, who,
with her usual composure, the result of a placid tem
perament and a well- disciplined mind, was administer
ing restoratives ; although her trembling hand and
pallid cheek betrayed the inward agony she was suffer
ing. Beside the couch, and holding his father's
hand, knelt Bertram, while behind it stood Isbel, the
countess's woman, who was holding the essences and
remedies with which she supplied her mistress from
time to time. Close by, stood Rinaldo, the steward,
who was receiving his mistress's low- voiced orders to
despatch messengers post-haste to Narbonne, to fetch
Gerard, while others were sent elsewhere in the mean
time for medical assistance nearer at hand. In one
corner of the room was Lavatch, the clown, lustily
crying and sobbing in the sincerity of his heart, for
his master, to whom he was fondly attached.

Helena joined the anxious group, and was soon
busily engaged in her own quiet steady manner, assist
ing, relieving each in their several duties, and doing
much by her judicious suggestions, and calm activity,
to contribute to the ease of the sufferer.

Her father, Gerard's arrival was looked for with the
greatest solicitude, as the harbinger of safety to the
count. They all, the countess especially, had such

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 319

faith in his ability, it seemed as if his mere presence
could avert danger, as if his fiat could assure life.

At length he came. For a time, his skill, together
with the powerful remedies he brought with him from
Narbonne, as best suited to the nature of the seizure
which he learned to have been the count's, served to
restore the lord of Rousillon to something of his
former health. But he soon relapsed, languished,
and remained for several weeks in a state between life
and death. During this period, he was assiduously
nursed by his countess and Helena, dutifully attended
by his son Bertram, and treated with the utmost of
Gerard's care and skill.

Indeed, only resources of art such as were known
to this eminent physician could have preserved him so
long alive. Like a lamp spent of oil, his flame of
existence flickered from day to day, only held sus
pended by the cherishing hand of friendly care, zeal
ous to screen from rude approach — to protect from
extinction.

Each day brought messengers from the court,
charged with assurances of sympathy and solicitude
from the king, towards his esteemed and faithful ser
vant. Relatives and allies in Paris sent frequent
despatches indicative of their interest in the progress
of the count's disorder, and their hopes of his recov
ery. But royal kindness, friendly demonstrations of
attachment, conjugal and filial attention, his physi
cian's zeal and ability, were ineffectual to rescue or to
save ; after a protracted languishment, the count
Rousillon expired, surrounded by those he loved, and
respected by all who knew him.

Gerard, who had a suite of apartments devoted to
his use during his sojourn at Rousillon, now talked of
retiring to his duties at Narbonne. The countess,
much as she would have desired to retain so valued a
friend near her, could not withstand the plea that his
poor patients would have already missed him, and
needed his presence. But as it was fixed that when

320 HELENA;

the period of mourning for his father should have ex
pired, Bertram should go to Paris and pay his respects
to the king, under the auspices of the count's old
friend, the lord Lafeu, the countess made it her en
treaty to Gerard, that he would still indulge her with
the society of his daughter Helena.

He could not withhold his consent to the bereaved
countess in her sorrow ; although he had learned to
perceive the solace which his daughter's companion
ship would now afford to himself. In his late renewed
intercourse with her, he had had opportunity of be
coming acquainted with her true worth. In the
sobered and time-softened grief of his own heart, in
the comparative leisure of thought which his situation
recently permitted, he had been able to estimate the
many excellencies of heart and mind which distin
guished his Helena, and he had now felt that her pres
ence would be as great a comfort as it had formerly
been an increased distress to him. But Gerard was
not the being to allow a selfish motive, however power
ful, to influence him, where the happiness of a fellow-
creature was involved in any sacrifice he could make ;
therefore, with a suitable acknowledgment to his
patroness for her friendship towards him and his, he
prepared to return alone to Narbonne.

On the eve of the day fixed for his departure, he
sought Rinaldo, the steward, and bade him make his
excuses to the lady of Rousillon, or her son, should
either of them enquire for him when the family assem
bled to dinner, and to say that he had private business
a league or two from the chateau, which might proba
bly defer his return until eventide. When Rinaldo
gave this message to his mistress, Helena happened to
be within hearing ; and on questioning the steward
farther respecting her father, she learned that which
made her feel involuntary disquietude respecting his
sudden and unannounced absence. Rinaldo, who was
a faithful and attached servitor, and a remarkably dis
creet, observant man, owned to Helena that he had

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 321

remarked tokens of agitation in the countenance of
her parent, and that his voice was perturbed, although
both face and tone seemed to be held in restraint, as
if he would fain have assumed a calm demeanour.

Helena, with earnest thanks to Rinaldo, besought
him to add to his kindness, by telling her in which
direction her father had taken his way through the
park that morning ; for, perceiving the countess and
her son engaged together in conversation, she knew
she could be spared, and determined to await in the
path by which he should come back, the return of
her father, that she might the sooner satisfy her anx
iety respecting him.

The afternoon was lovely. As Helena crossed the
drawbridge, the stream, which supplied the moat,
spread widening through the landscape, and its
waters, sparkling and glistening in the rays of the
sun, gave movement and brilliancy to the scene. Be
neath the lofty trees of the park, the slanting beams
shed golden light, diffusing a rich glow upon the vel
vet turf beneath, making the green freshness more
apparent, whilst it cast twinkling shadows, and shone
in ruddy patches upon bark, and branch, and bole.
Beneath the shade, stood herds of deer, — the late
count having been at some pains to introduce the
breed upon his estate ; — some were standing at gazo,
with their soft yet lustrous eyes reflecting the bright
ness of some straggling sun-beam ; others reclining
their dappled bodies on the grassy sward ; some with
their patient mouths, ruminating ; all whisking and
vibrating their never- wearied tails, in ceaseless rebuke
of the flies, that hummed, and floated, and glanced,
and darted in the sunny air.

With the mottled denizens of the park, as with all
the animals about the domain, Helena was on excel
lent terms ; the lordly stag would scarce withdraw his
branching antlers from her reach, or the timid doe
start from her side, when she approached their haunts,
and stood among them, with some tempting morsel in

322 HELENA;

her hand for them, or a gentle caress, or a coaxing
word of salute.

But now she tarried not to fondle the deer, but
kept still on, hoping to meet her father soon.

But the golden sun-rays ever slanted more and
more ; the rich haze on the landscape faded ; the
glory settled downward, toward the horizon ; the sky
paled its azure hue ; the trees wore a veil of purple ;
the grass was bespread with dewy sheen ; and the
still breath of evening crept over all.

By and bye a star twinkled forth ; then another ;
and again more ; and then the moon arose ; and yet
Helena was seeking her father ; and yet he came not.

She had reached the extremity of the park, and was
hesitating whether she might not miss him, by pass
ing through the gate, and proceeding farther, when
she perceived approaching at a distance a figure that
she at once recognized to be his.

She hastened towards him uttering his name.

He did not answer ; his face was rigid and deathly
white ; for an instant he looked wildly in her face ;
then suddenly he caught her in his arms, and burst
into a passion of tears.

To behold the weeping of a man is always terrible ;
to behold that of a father, to feel his frame torn and
shaken by the strength of an irresistible emotion, to
find herself clasped to his bosom convulsed and swollen
with the fierce strife between anguish and the desire
to control its expression, — how overwhelming to a
daughter, a being like Helena !

She strove to compose him, to control her own
agitation that she might the better soothe his. At
length he found voice to say : —

" Be not alarmed, my Helena ! Forgive me, my
child ! It was beyond my power, or you should not
have witnessed this ! But it has saved your father,
Helena ; it has relieved his bursting heart, which else
must have broken ; and you will pardon your own
pain, that it has assuaged his."

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 323

As they returned together, she gathered from his
broken words that he had been drawn by an invincible
desire, to visit once more the old pavilion (the farm
itself had long since passed into other hands, on the
death of Gabrielle's father), before he quitted, proba
bly for ever, the vicinity of a spot so hallowed to his
remembrance. The scene itself, however, had awa
kened so many tender memories, so many bitter re
grets, had reopened such cruel wounds, that Gerard
had been thrown into a kind of swoon, from which he
had only recovered to stagger forth in renewed misery
from a place that was fraught with so much anguish
of recollection. He had made his way back somehow,
scarcely restored from that fainting-fit, when the sight
of his child and hers, had mercifully brought forth the
gush of tears which had in all probability preserved
him from delirium or death.

But the blow had been dealt ; the sentence had
passed. Although the timely advent of his daughter
had averted the immediate result, yet Gerard had in
reality received his mortal stroke in that old pavilion-
chamber. On reaching the chateau, he withdrew im
mediately to his apartment, and would not permit his
daughter to remain by his bedside, though she en
treated him long and urgently to let her stay with him.

On the next day, which had been fixed for his re
turn to Narbonne, he was compelled to acknowledge
that he was unable to attempt the journey, being too
ill, indeed, to rise from his bed. Helena hung over
him, and besought him to tell her what might be de
vised for his relief.

" There is no medicine now that can give me life ;"
said he. ' ' One there is, indeed, which might relieve
this oppression — but it is no matter, it cannot avail
to baffle death — it could only postpone his coming ;
his summons is already issued. Grieve not, my child,
my Helena ; it carries no terrors with it to me. The
grave to me has long been a wished-for haven, a
peaceful refuge, where I may hope to rejoin my lost

324 HELENA;

one, and with her to abide evermore in that joyful
realm beyond.

Helena by every winning persuasion, by every gen
tle art, taught her by her loving perseverance of nature,
strove to discover what and where this medicine was,
that she might seek it, to lighten, if not destroy, his
disease ; and at length Gerard told her, by way of
putting a stop entirely to her anxiety on the subject,
that it was in a certain medicine-chest in his little
book-room at Narbonne.

Far from ending her solicitude on the point, this
intelligence only awakened an invincible desire to ob
tain the medicine, and she inwardly resolved to set
out for Narbonne herself in quest of it. She no sooner
beheld her father sink into a doze, than she stationed
Isbel by his bedside, with an injunction to watch,
while she herself went to the countess of Rousillon
and implored her permission to depart at once in
search of the medicine-chest her father had mentioned.

The countess applauded her pious resolve, but shoe
ing her that her duty claimed her attendance by her
father's side, even more than her journey in quest of
the remedy, promised Helena that she would send her
steward, Rinaldo, to Narbonne for the medicine-
chest.

Upon her knees, Helena thanked the good countess
for her sympathy and help in a daughter's distress ;
and once more repaired to her father's bedside.

During that day, and part of the next, Gerard re
mained in a sort of stupor. From this he awakened
somewhat better, and spoke to his daughter in a cheer
ful strain of hope and comfort. He bade her regard
his approaching death as he did, as a removal from
suffering, as a period to grief, and as a commencement
of future joy. He told her that her promising virtues
and many excellencies gave him assurance that their
present separation would be but for a time. He
spoke to her candidly of the good he perceived in her,
taught her how best to cultivate and increase her

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 325

natural tendencies towards it, and admonished her
how best to avoid those points where her virtues might
lead to error.

" You possess firmness, steadiness, constancy, my
child, ' ' said he ; " beware that they become not hard
ness, unrelentingness, obstinacy. You have persever
ance, indefatigable and indomitable courage, in pursu
ing an object that you conceive to be right ; be well
assured that the object you seek is right, lest your
perseverance involve you in evil, and your courage be
but rash encounter of peril and ultimate wrong. Your
spirit of persistence may be productive of the highest
good, so that you let it not degenerate into obstinacy,
wilfulness, or headstrong, irrational inflexibility. Be
sure that your motives are pure, your means innocent,
and your aim a hallowed one, and then give full scope
to your native disposition ; then let nothing abate your
courage, then pursue the dictates of your own resolved
heart unswervingly, unflinchingly, invincibly. I have
that faith in your nature, — which is essentially loving
and generous, as well as persistive, — that gives me
confidence, you will secure your own welfare, win your
own happiness."

' ' Would that you might live to witness it ! To be
hold the result of your own instructions, my father !"
said Helena. " Why cannot you survive to see the
maturing of your child's destiny, to give her fresh
precepts for making it a blest one ?"

" That I might help towards such a consummation, "
said he, ' ' I could have wished my strength prolonged ;
but it is not to be. My breath is failing, and the re
vived speech that has been granted me, is nearly ex
hausted. ' '

" That remedy, that medicine, dear father, which
you spoke of, "

' ' Ay, it might have lent me strength to speak longer
to thee, my child ; and for that it had been welcome.
But it is at Narbonne ; and it is but spent breath to
sigh for that which is far away. I, who must hus-

326 HELENA;

band every moment's breathing now, for thy dear
sake, my Helena," said her father, with a faint smile,
" will not waste a single gasp in vain aspiration."

Helena returned his smile with a gay and hopeful
one, as she whispered : — " What if instead of being
far away at Narbonne, that medicine-chest. — which
contains, I trust, health, and strength, and life for
my father, — were now on its way hither ? Actually
coming ?"

"Is it so, my Helena ?" said her father, as if his
effort at cheer for her sake, and the prospect of aid in
his attempt, gave him renewed energy. "Is it in
deed so ?"

" Ay, my father ; this is one of the instances of
your Helena's perseverance, which I hope may deserve
your approval, in spite of its having been maintained
against, or rather without, your authority. I was so
determined to obtain it, that I would have risked aban
doning your sick-bed, rather than not have it here ;
but my dear lady, the countess, in compassion for my
anxiety, and in eagerness to secure aught that might
avail you, has sent Rinaldo to Narbonne for the medi
cine-chest ; they expect him here every hour."

A glow of satisfaction dwelt upon Gerard's features
as his daughter said this ; and for some time after she
had spoken, he lay silent, with the same expression of
content upon his face. He seemed to be endeavour
ing to gain strength by rest and silence that he might
speak farther without exhausting himself entirely. He
held out his hand to Helena for hers, and laid it upon
the pillow, beneath his cheek. After a time he
said : —

" Besides the boon of respite to myself, which that
medicine-chest contains — a respite now welcome to
me on thy account — it holds other things which make
its coming a satisfaction to me. In that box lie many
valuable secrets, the hoarded sum of many years' ex
perience and practice. Recipes of various kinds for
various disorders, jotted down at divers times by my-

THE PHYSICIAN' S ORPHAN. 327

self ; several rare unguents, drugs, and carefully-
extracted essences ; some subtle mixtures, distilla
tions, and condensed spirits ; together with explicit
declaration of their curious qualities and sovereign
effects ; and also the mode of using these recondite
medicaments. Besides this, my own words, should
they be permitted, shall explain to you the healing
properties and peculiar nature of the several contents
of this chest, which I bequeath to you, my Helena. It
is the fitting inheritance of a poor physician's child ;
may it prove a legacy eventually prosperous to her, as
it has been hitherto advantageous to her father. The
abstruse calculations, the profound research requisite
in their formation, with the active duty and beneficial
results attendant upon their application and adminis
tration have been a solace to him in periods of misery,
when no less engrossing a pursuit would have sufficed.
My art and its ministry have been a refuge to me,
when all else upon earth failed me. May its be
queathed treasures, the sole ones I have to bestow
upon her, prove the basis of good fortune and the
source of felicity to my Helena !"

Rinaldo soon returned to Rousillon, bearing with
him the precious medicine-chest. The remedy, from
which Gerard augured relief, is efficacious. His death
is deferred until he has fulfilled his desire of acquaint
ing his daughter with the contents of the box, and of
making her mistress of the numerous valuable secrets
belonging to each. It seems as if life were but lent
him until this task is effected, and as if life were valu
able to him but so long as it may serve this end ; his
purpose once accomplished, he resigns life as a
burthen, and his parting breath exhales with the satis
faction of having devoted it as he could desire. To
his daughter — to the daughter of his Gabrielle — he
dedicates his last sigh ; and he bids her farewell in the
hope of future and eternal reunion with those two sole
objects of his earthly affection.

The countess of Rousillon, practised in equanimity

328 HELENA ;

by past griefs, not by want of sensibility, consoles the
orphan by more maternal kindness than ever. To her
care and protection Helena has been consigned, with
a dying father's blessing on the long course of benevo
lence which has already attended his child, and with
his full confidence in its gracious continuance. The
countess and Helena support each other under their
respective losses, by mutual sympathy, tenderness, and
affection.

The period of mourning passes in acts of charity and
kindness towards those without the walls of the
chateau, and in gentle words and deeds among each
other, the surviving home-circle withinside.

The months creep by, and the time approaches for
the departure of Bertram. Helena's sorrow is two
fold ; but although grief for her father's loss serves to
screen that which she feels prospectively, yet conscious
love bids her hide the tears which have so natural and
so obvious a source, lest their double origin be sus
pected. She dares not trust herself now with Ber
tram ; and though she feels every moment's absence
will be bitterly regretted hereafter, when a compelled
separation will prolong the present voluntary one, yet
she shuns his presence, and inflicts this additional pain
on herself, partly to inure herself to the coming one,
partly to hide the secret which she instinctively feels
is ever ready to betray its existence.

She seeks every pretext for keeping her chamber ;
or wanders away solitarily through the park, where she
may indulge her melancholy with unobserved sighs and
tears, and unheard plaints at her lowly fate, which for
bids the hope of linking it with one so far above her.

" And were I not so humble of degree," she would
murmur, " yet still I am surely unworthy of him in
this selfish passion which would detain him here to
waste his youth and nobleness in obscurity. Spirit
like his, pines for broader range than the tame sports
of the chase ; . rank and wealth such as he owns, de
mand a wider field of benevolence and influence than a

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 329

country estate ; and why should the personal graces
which adorn him be denied to the court of his sov
ereign, and be doomed to rust here unseen ? Not un
seen ? ah, not unbeheld, unnoted, ungloried in ! Only
too dearly prized — too fondly worshipped ! And if
but by one sole worshipper, yet the plenitude of her
idolatry might replace a train of less adoring devotees.
How shall I bear his absence ? How do I even now
advance its season, by stealing from him, and abstain
ing from the joint pain and delight of watching his
face while yet it is near me ! The *time will come
when I shall vainly wish to look upon the well-known
features ; and when, though pictured faithfully in
memory, I shall pine to trace them in their living
beauty. Is it that I know my unhappy love is painted
on my own face that I fear to trust it within his ken ?
Traitor to its mistress, it denies her the only joy she
knows, by revealing the too great depth of that joy.
Unworthy face ! that lacks beauty in itself, and be
trays the suffrage it yields to his ; yet denying by its
treachery, the view of the very beauty and sweet favor
whose superiority it avows. And when the daily pres
ence of that sweet favor is withdrawn, shall I not feel
like some benighted traveller who has neglected the
waning hours of light, and now wanders on in chill
and darkness, bereft of the blessed sun, who sheds his
rays, and dispenses warmth, and light, and comfort
elsewhere ?"

Helena was strolling in the park while thus she
mused, lamenting ; the deer gathered round her, in
expectation of their accustomed notice ; but she paid
little heed to them now, so occupied were her thoughts.

Presently she heard approaching footsteps ; and on
raising her head, she was aware of an extraordinary
figure that made its way towards her, bowing, and
congeeing, and recommending itself to her notice.

It was that of a personage equipped in the most
extravagant fashion. His suit was of saffron-colored
taffeta, snipped and slashed, and guarded with showy

33° HELENA ;

gilt lace, and hung with a profusion of glittering but
tons and gaudy scarfs. A pair of bright red hose gar
nished his legs, which, with his arms, were bound
with fluttering bows and ends of ribbon, that made all
his limbs seem gartered alike. By his side hung a
long sword ; in his belt stuck a dagger ; and he wore
a plumed hat very much on one side, with a spruce
defiant air, as if announcing the reckless, roystering,
bold soldado.

" Madam," said he, raising his hat, and advancing
towards the spot where Helena stood ; but cautiously
and dubiously, with an eye cast upon the stags and
their towering antlers, which plainly indicated the
source of his hesitation. " May I beseech of your lady
ship's goodness to inform me whether this be, as I sup
pose it is, the chateau and domain of count Rousillon ?"

" It is, monsieur ;" answered she.

" And may I crave farther to know of your fair
grace, whether his lordship, the count Rousillon, be at
present at the chateau ?"

Helena was about to reply, by mentioning the count's
death ; but bethinking her that Bertram was now count
of Rousillon, she answered : — " Unless the count has
ridden forth, since I left the chateau, he is probably
at home now ; — but if you proceed to the gates, sir,
the servants will inform you whether his lordship is
able to receive you. ' '

" I am charged with a letter to him from a dear
college friend of his, madam, introducing to his ac
quaintance my poor self, whom you are to know by
name as Parolles, and by profession as a soldier. Of
appertaining accomplishments which may claim your
ladyship's favor, I shall say nothing, as I trust to time
for their discovery, or of deeds, as I think fame may
one day blow their record hither ; but I will rest my
present hope of a gracious reception, on your lady
ship's own indulgence, of which I behold assurance in
that fair form and benignant aspect. ' '

Helena bowed somewhat loftily to this flourish.

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN, 331

" I would crave permission to tender my homage at
once on your ladyship's fair hand," said monsieur
Parolles, " but that I cannot reach you, surrounded as
you are by those antlered deer, in manner of Diana,
the huntress-goddess. My warfare has hitherto been
with man, and not with stags ; with ramparted for-
talices, not with embattled antlers ; otherwise I would
make my way to you, through these living defences,
with my own good sword. ' '

"You might not be permitted to assault the inoffen
sive herd, monsieur ;" said she. " The deer are held
protected at Rousillon. "

" I crave your lady ship's pardon ; — but — which way
lies the chateau ?" said he, with another furtive glance
at the deer.

" Yonder, monsieur ;" replied she. Then, observ
ing his dismay at finding that she pointed in a direc
tion where a large troop of stags stood immediately in
the path, she added, when she had uttered a clear
ringing sound of call, to which the deer were accus
tomed as a signal to gather close round her : — " You
may pass on, monsieur, there is nothing to fear !"

" Fear, madam !" exclaimed Parolles, as he hastily
picked his way forwards ; ' ' fear ! But I shall find
meeter opportunity, I trust, of convincing you that fear
and I are unacquainted, save as I inspire it to my foes. ' '

" I have a notion that monsieur is less to be dread
ed as a foe than as a friend ;" thought Helena, as the
soldado disappeared. "It is not the friendship of
such a man as that, or I'm greatly mistaken, that the
count would have sought for his son. ' '

Monsieur Parolles, having recovered greater dignity
of step, after he had lost sight of the deer, lounged
on until he came to the drawbridge, against a side-post
of which leaned a tall, gangling lad, eating grapes with
great voracity, and chucking their stalks into the
moat ; while near to him stood a bright-eyed, cherry-
cheeked damsel, who was holding the basket of fruit
which supplied the lad's enjoyment.

332 HELENA;

" Now rest thee content, Isbel," he said, while he
slightly varied his occupation of chucking the grape-
stalks away, by chucking the damsel under the chin ;
" be not impatient ; I have promised to ask my lady's
good leave ; and it shall not be my fault, if I do not
shortly marry thee !"

'The damsel was about to reply, but looking up sud
denly, and seeing Parolles approach, she tripped away
abruptly, while the grape-eater turned to see the cause
of her startled withdrawal.

" Save you, fair sir ;" said he to the advancing
stranger.

" Save you, good fellow ;" replied Parolles.

" None of mine, sir ;" said the tall lad. " I hope
I know my place better than to claim fellowship with
such a sober-suited gentleman. My bauble and cox
comb would sort but ill with such apparel as that ;"
said he, pointing to the frippery which decorated the
person of Parolles ; who replied : —

" I see, friend, now ; thou'rt the fool here."

" Ay, sir ;" said Lavatch ; " and no great argu
ment of your wit that you found not that out before.
It is the part of wit to find out its counterpart in
others, giving it honor, where it exists ; as well as
readily, though pityingly, to discover its lack, where
it exists not. I warrant me now, the fool could
sooner track out what amount of folly lies in the gal
lant soldier, than you, the gallant soldier, can perceive
folly where it dwells openly, — in the fool."

"Go to, thou'rt .privileged ;" was Parolles' only
answer.

' ' Marry, sir, and the privilege of a jester is like to
have good scope when such visitors approach the
chateau ;" returned the clown. " We have been dull
enough of late ; mourning the dead is no season for
jesting. When good men die, and sincerity mourns,
light-hearted folly hangs its head for lack of em
ployment, and takes to weeping for company. ' '

" And so, my lord, the late count, was sincerely

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 333

lamented, was he, knave ? Think 'st thou, in truth,
no gleam of satisfaction lightened the heir's regret,
eh ? No redeeming solace in the fact that the young
lord was now the old lord's substitute, — that the late
count's title devolved upon the present count ?"

" Faith, sir, I cannot tell ; the long-deferred hopes
of heirship may have such freaks of gladness ; jolly
survivorship, that comes unexpectedly into the prop
erty, may wink, from his place as chief -mourner, at
grave-faced sympathy, watching the funeral train.
Inheritance is a sore test of truth. The legatee-
expectant tears his hair and beats his breast, till the
will be read ; then adieu to lamentation, and curses
ensue. Railing at dead men's wills is rifer than
thanks ; and few people leave testaments that pleas
ure all friends. He who would live well with his re
lations after his decease, should make no disposal of
his goods. Let him, if he would have posthumous
peace, leave his survivors to fight out their respective
claims, and battle among themselves their adminis
tration to his unbequeathed chattels. If he settle their
dispute beforehand by a will, they assault his mem
ory, and abuse him, instead of each other. ' '

' ' I met one pale face in the park, that bespoke true
sadness at heart, matching the outer garb ;" said
monsieur Parolles. ' ' It was that of a young lady.
Daughter or niece to the late lord Rousillon, I take it ?
Though I never heard that the young count mentioned
a sister. He spoke but of a mother. ' '

" Marry, sir, the lady you met was no relation of
our house. She claims no title to the name of Rousil
lon. All her having is, that she's good and fair ; all
her descent is, poverty and an honest name ; all her
title is, Helena, the doctor's daughter."

" Poor ! A doctor's daughter !" exclaimed Pa
rolles ; " truly, she gave herself as many airs as
though she had been Croesus' heiress ; and could not
have spoken more haughtily, had she owned, not only
the whole herd of those confounded horned beasts —

334 HELENA ;

those outlandish branch-headed animals — but the park
where they range. She pointed to the chateau with
as magnificent a gesture as if she had been its sov
ereign lady-mistress. ' '

" It's strange what lofty style modest merit will
ofttimes use, when repressing presumption ;" said the
clown. " Besides, timid virgins gain confidence from
Valour's presence ; and it might have been that your
worship's soldierly aspect inspired ma'amselle Helena
with courage more than ordinary — with enough to
confront even audacity itself."

" My address had nothing in it of presumption or
audacity either, sir knave ;" retorted Parolles. " I
accosted her with only too much respect, I find, now
that I learn what her claims really are."

" By my troth, sir," said Lavatch, " simple worth,
poor honesty, native goodness, fair innocence, and
such like claims to regard, are none with those who
know what is due to wealth, rank, and station. We
men of the world hold them at their true value. We
use them both as they ought to be used. Honesty
and innocence, joined to poverty and beauty, we make
our prey ; while wealth and high birth we adulate,
and contrive that its bounty shall requite our fawning.
Is't not so, monsieur ?"

" I have not time to stay dallying here with thee,
fool;" said Parolles. " I will find fitter time to argue
conclusions with thee. For the present, I shall desire
thee to convey this letter to thy young master, count
Bertram of Rousillon ; and to inform him that its
bearer is monsieur Parolles, a gentleman, and a sol
dier ; and one, moreover, that is known unto a mutual
friend — the writer of that epistle."

" I will send the letter by the page to my young
lord ;" said the clown. " A fool's office is to find
occasion for mirth, and to furnish matter for enter
tainment from his own poor mother-wit, not to bandy
to and fro the conceits of strangers, and play the go-
between to other folks' brains. Though the paper

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN'. 335

may be the work of folly, as well as the herald and
harbinger of folly, it shall not be the work of the fool
to carry it to my lord. ' '

Monsieur Parolles' letter of introduction, — which
set him forth as a valiant and experienced soldier, a
man of great knowledge, versed in several languages,
and a generally accomplished person, — was favorably
received by the young count ; who welcomed his vis
itor with warmth accordingly, retaining him at Rou-
sillon as his friend and companion, until his departure
for Paris, and inviting him to go thither also.

After Helena's first meeting with the new visitor at
the chateau, she was a little surprised at the alteration
in his mode of accosting her, which was subsequently
as impertinently familiar, as it had then been ob
servant and deferential ; but divining the true source
of the change, she was as much amused as surprised.

The countess had just left the saloon, leaning on the
arm of her son, whom she was about to present with
a valued memorial of his late father. It was a ring,
an heir-loom in the family, which she had hitherto
preserved in a casket in her own private chamber,
whither she now led the way, with Bertram, that she
might give him some loving counsel at the same time
that she bestowed the jewel.

Helena was busied in arranging some carnations
and myrtle in a vase near the seat which was usually
occupied by her benefactress, who was fond of flowers ;
and Parolles was lounging in a window-seat close by,
occupied in no more serious employment than tapping
his fingers with the point of his sheathed dagger.

" The young count will be glad to be absolved from
attendance on the maternal apron-string, though his
present fealty is touching to behold ;" said monsieur
Parolles. ' ' We shall both be glad of enfranchisement
from women's society — which hath its charms, doubt
less — but which is apt to be insipid after a time, to
us who pant for congenial intercourse with mascu
line minds, for manly pursuits, and stirring scenes,

336 HELENA ;

and ambition, and wars, and active life. The only
drawback I shall feel, will be commiseration for the
regret we shall leave behind us ; the gap which our
loss will create in the circle here."

" Monsieur Parolles hath the compassionate tender
ness which best assorts with bravery ;" said Helena.
" Valour such as his, must always be pitiful."

" It is as remorseful to its victims, as it is fearful
to its opponents ;" said he.

" Fearful, certainly, with them ; who else ?" re
joined Helena. " Courage such as yours, monsieur,
fears none so surely, as those who show it a bold face
at first."

" Poor devils ! they fear what they might trust, if
they knew its chivalrous consideration for the fallen ;"
said Parolles.

" They might safely confide in its forbearance, I've
no doubt ;" said she.

' ' You show some acquaintance with true valour, my
princess of gentlewomen, and deserve its commenda
tion in return ; I can tell thee, I approve thy per
spicacity exceedingly."

" I hope it will always serve me to distinguish true
valour from its counterfeit, monsieur Parolles ;" said
she, curtseying to him.

Some days elapsed ; and then the lord Lafeu ar
rived, bringing with him a gracious mandate from the
king, containing his majesty's desire to see the young
count Bertram of Rousillon at court.

The countess receives the valued friend of her hus
band with highest tokens of respect and cordiality,
although he is come with the express purpose of tak
ing away her son, so doubly dear to her now, since
she has lost his father, whose image he is in shape
and feature.

Previous to their setting forth, the whole company
assembles in the saloon at Rousillon. The countess pre
sents her favorite Helena to the excellent old lord Lafeu,
who speaks kindly and encouragingly to the maiden.

THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 337

For poor Helena is endeavouring to master her emo
tion, to conceal her overwhelming grief. Now that
the time is actually come, for parting with the object
of her secret passion, she knows not how to suppress
her sobs and tears ; and is relieved when the coun
tess's timely allusion to her father's loss, affords a
pretext for allowing them to flow unrestrainedly.

She weeps, and says : —

" / do affect a sorrow, indeed, and yet I have it too. ' '

The rest of Helena's fortunes is set forth where ' still
the fine's the crown.'

PASSAGES IN THE PLAYS

IN RELATION TO

FACTS, NAMES, AND SENTIMENTS,

WITH WHICH IT WAS REQUISITE THE TALE SHOULD ACCORD.

TALE I.

Page 45, " Now, Balthazar,
last line. As I have ever found thee honest, true,
So let me find thee still. "

MERCHANT OP VENICE, Act iii., s. 4.

Page 63, " Anunlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd :"
line 21. Idem, Act iii., s. 2.

Page 69, " It is your music, madam, of the house."
line 18. Idem, Act v., s. 1.

Page 84, " Do you not remember, lady, in your
line 6. father's time, a Venetian, a scholar, and a sol
dier, that came hither in company of the Mar
quis of Montferrat?" — Idem, Act. i., s. 3.

Page 96, " This house, these servants, and this same my-
line 12. self,

Are yours, my lord ; I give them with this
ring."— Idem, Act iii., s. 2.

Page 98, " There is a monastery two miles off."
line 12. Idem, Act iii., s. 4.

Page 99, " Who comes with her ? None but a Jioly Tier-
line 28. mit, and her maid."

Idem, Act v., s. 1.

34° ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES.

Page 105, " So is the will of a living daughter curb'd
line 6. by the will of a dead father." — Idem, Act i.,
s. 3.

Page 107, " Take this same letter,

line 26. And use thou all the endeavour of a man,
In speed to Padua ; see thou render this
Into my cousin's hand, doctor Bellario. "

Idem, Act iii., s. 4.

TALE II.

Page 148, " Had he not resembled

line 38. My father as he slept, I had done't."

MACBETH, Act ii., s. 2.

Page 179, There is historical authority for the name of
line 2. Macbeth 's mother being Doada ; that of his
wife, Gruoch ; and that of his son, Cormac.

Page 195, " We will establish our estate upon
line 3. Our eldest, Malcolm ; whom we name hereafter
The prince of Cumberland."

MACBETH, Act i., s. 4.

Page 200, " The Nprweyan lord, surveying vantage,
line 34. With furbish'd arms and new supplies of men,
Began a fresh assault." — Idem, Act i., s. 2.

Page 200, " The merciless Macdonwald

line 37. (Worthy to be a rebel ; for, to that,
The multiplying villanies of nature
Do swarm upon him) from the western isles
Of Kernes and Gallowglasses is supplied."

Idem, Act i. , s. 2.

Page 201, " What beast was it then,

line 15. That made you break this enterprise to me ?
When you durst do it, then you were a man ;
And, to be more than what you were, you would
Be so much more the man. Nor time, nor place,
Did then adhere, and yet you would make them

both :

They have made themselves, and that their fit
ness now
Does unmake you." — Idem, Act i., s. 7.

ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES.

341

TALE III.

Page 282, King. " I would I had that corporal sound-
line 15. ness now,

As when thy father, and myself, in friendship
First tried our soldiership ! He did look far
Into the service of the time, and was
Discipled of the bravest."

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, Act i., S. 2.

Page 285, " He was famous, sir, in his profession, and
line 36. it was his great right to be so : Gerard de Nur-
bonne." — Idem, Act i., s. 1.

Page 297, The countess Rousillon addresses her steward
line 25. as " Rinaldo." — Idem, Act iii., s. 4.

Page 298, " His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
line 30. * * * * heart too capable

Of every line and trick of his sweet favour. "
Idem, Act i., s. 1.

Page 305, " You remember

line 21. Tlie daughter of this lord ?

Bertram. Admiringly, my liege : at first
1 stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart
Durst make too bold^ a fterald of my tongue :
Where the impression of mine eye infixing,
Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me,
Which warp'd the line of every other favour ;
Scorn 'd a fair colour, or express'd it stol'n ;
Extended or contracted all proportions,
To a most hideous object : Thence it came,
That she, whom all men prais'd, and whom

myself,

Since I have lost, have lov'd, was in mine eye,
The dust that did offend it.

King. Well excused :

*****

Send forth your amorous token for fair Maud
lin."— Idem, Act v., s. 3.

Page 313, Tlin king, quoting his friend, the late count
line 7. Rousillon's opinion of young fellows at court,
says he called them : —

342

ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES.

" Younger spirits whose apprehensive senses
All but new things disdain ; whose judgments

are

More fathers of their garments ; whose con
stancies
Expire before their fashions. "

Idem, Act i., a. 2.

Page 313, Bertram disdainfully and ungenerously says,

line 16. when refusing to take the poor physician's

daughter for his wife. : —

" She had her breeding at my father's charge."

Idem, Act ii., s. 3.

Page 313, " Whose beauty did astonish the survey
line 31. Of richest eyes ; whose words all ears took cap
tive ;
Whose dear perfection, hearts that scorn 'd to

serve,
Humbly call'd mistress." — Idem, Act v., s. 3.

Page 316, Vide the scene in the fourth act, where the
line 31. soldiers are cross-questioning the blindfolded
Parolles. They are there called by their names
of " Dumain ;" but among the Dramatis Per-
sonae, they are styled "young French lords,
that serve with Bertram in the Florentine
wars;" and in the scenes where they appear,
the prefix to their several speeches merely
stands thus : — 1 Lord, 2 Lord. Their moral
excellence is best proved in the conversation
they hold together ' respecting Bertram ' at the
beginning of this scene. It is 1 Lord, the elder
captain Dumain, who utters the celebrated sen
tence : — " The web of our life is of a mingled
yarn, good and ill together : our virtues would
be proud, if our faults whipped them not ; and
our crimes would despair, if they were not
cherished by our virtues."

Page 318, Parolles, on his return to Rousillon after his
line 29. disgrace, addressing the clown, says : — " Good
monsieur Lavatch, give my lord Lafeu this let
ter." — ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, Act V.,

a. 2.

Page 324, Hel. " Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,
line 14. Which we ascribe to Heaven : the fated sky

ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES.

343

Gives us free scope ; only, doth backward pull
Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull.
*****

Impossible be strange attempts, to those
That weigh their pains in sense : and do sup
pose
What hath been cannot be. " — Idem, Act i., s. 3.

Page 326, " My father left me some prescriptions
line 36. Of rare and prov'd effects, such as his reading,
And manifest experience, had collected
For general sovereignty ; and that he willed me
In heedfullest reservation to bestow them,
As notes, whose faculties inclusive were,
More than they were in note : amongst the rest,
There is a remedy approv'tl, set down,
To cure the desperate languishes whereof
The king is render'd lost." — Idem, Act i., s. 3.

Page 327, King. " How long is't, count,

line 27. Since the physician at your father's died ?
He was much fam'd.

Ber. " Some six months since,

my lord." — Idem, Act i., s. 2.

Page 328, Countess. ' ' Her father bequeathed her to me :
line 3. and she herself, without other advantage, may
lawfully make title to as much love as she
finds : there is more owing her, than is paid ;
and more shall be paid her, than she'll de
mand." — Idem, Act i., s. 3.

Page 329, Lafeu asks Parolles (Act ii., s. 3) "Why
line 37. dost thou garter up thy arms o' this fashion ?
dost make hose of thy sleeves?" And in the
fifth scene of the fourth act, the old lord tells
the countess : — " No, no, no, your son was mis
led with a snipt-taffata fellow there ; whose
villanous saffron would have made all the un
baked and doughy youth of a nation in his col
our : your daughter-in-law had been alive at
this hour ; and your son here at home more
advanced by the king, than by that red-tailed
humble-bee I speak of."

Page 332, The clown says to his mistress, the countess,
line 5. " If I may have your ladyship's good will to go

344

ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES.

to the world, ' ' [said to be a cant phrase, meaning,
' to be married,'] " Isbel the woman and I will
do as we may." — ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS
WELL, Act i., s. 3.

Page 335, ' ' This is your devoted friend, sir, the mani-
line 5. fold linguist, and the armipoteut soldier." —
Idem, Act iv., s. 3.

Page 335, " Of six preceding ancestors, that gem
line 20. Couferr'd by testament to the sequent issue,
Hath it been own'd, and worn."

Idem, Act v., s. 3.

PR Clarke, Mary Gowden

2877 The girlhood of Shakespeare's

G$7 heroines in a series tales

1891

v.l

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