L I B R.ARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 or ILLI NOI5 
 
 v.l 
 
 %
 
 iw-'' 
 
 A 
 
 ^/i
 
 THE 
 
 GOSSIP'S WEEK
 
 A gossip's week has seven working days ; 
 When the prayer's over, then begins the tongue 
 As though it were Saint Maundy j — and the night, 
 Which should bring Sabbath rest, must needs be spent 
 To swell the gallimaufry into eight. 
 
 Michael Poynerx Trage<1i/.
 
 THE 
 
 GOSSIP'S WEEK 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 SLIGHT REMINISCENCES." 
 
 FAMILIAR MATTERS OF TO-DAV — 
 
 SOME NATURAL SORROW, LOSS, OR PAIN, 
 
 THAT HAS BEEN, AND MAY BE AGAIN. 
 
 WorJsitnrth. 
 
 WITH WOOD-CUTS FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON- 
 LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMAN; 
 AND JOHN RODWELL, BOND STREET. 
 
 1836.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 Maurice <& Co., Howford Buildings, 
 FenchuTch Street,
 
 V. I 
 
 I 
 
 4 
 
 Si 
 
 TO 
 
 SAMUEL BODDINGTON, Esq. 
 
 '^ If absence were always to lessen affection, 
 
 r*f you and I, my dear friend, would have been by 
 
 this time heart-strangers, but I feel that we are 
 
 still, and ever shall be, heart-friends ; and thus 
 
 thinking, inscribe to you my " Gossip's Week," 
 
 knowing that, while you gently hem down the 
 
 fV bad, your kind nature will find out any good 
 
 § that may be in it, and love it for the sake of 
 
 i 
 ^ Your old Crony, 
 
 !:> THE AUTHOR. 
 
 
 
 i
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 BoccACCio''s gossips (what an impolitic simpleton, 
 says my reader, to put one in mind of him now,) 
 were young Florentine damsels whom our fancies 
 endue with exceeding beauty, rich robes of antique 
 stuffs gorgeously wrought, gemmed clasps, and 
 maiden graces ; placing them on a swelling carpet 
 of verdure within sound of a fountain, with a long 
 forest glade sunny and southern, a broad palm 
 tree, a shadowing vine, and perhaps the pillared 
 portico of a marble villa, or a terrace balustrade 
 with a white peacock glossing itself in the sun- 
 beams, for accompaniments.
 
 Vm PREFACE, 
 
 My gossips had pretty maidens too amongst 
 them ; sweet listeners, and curious lovers of story- 
 book lore ; with fine ears worthy of more delicate 
 phrasing, but content to hearken to the simple tale 
 of the stranger-land, or the home one, when the 
 moonbeams rayed in through the open window, 
 and the sound of the rippling sea came with it, and 
 the perfume of the salt sea-weed that often has 
 thought and distance in its fragrance. Lord love 
 them for their kind hearts and gentle feelings, and 
 for their ears too, — quick as the nymph Echo's, 
 only drawing in the sound to be set in the memory, 
 not evaporated by the lips. 
 
 Ah, those were sweet evenings which \^e passed 
 together on that bright shore ! But what is its 
 brightness to us now ? — only a recollection ; (what 
 a volume might be written on these three words !) 
 The gossips are scattered, north and south, — fate 
 has so willed it ; and now that I sit by my winter 
 iire, and think of other listeners — unseen and un- 
 known ones, I cannot, even with the remembrance
 
 PREFACE. IX 
 
 of the charming indulgence which my former gos- 
 sipings — sent out into the world without name, or 
 friend, or paragraph — met with, in my heart, and 
 the hope of again finding the same, in my mind, 
 think of my new adventure without anxiety.* 
 
 Indifferent health, and the stay-at-home life 
 which it necessitates, have made me a scribbler. 
 After the exercise of those affections in which 
 nature has placed the best and purest source of our 
 delights, I know of nothing that has to do with 
 earth, — unless it be the aspect of the beautiful 
 world, and the beautiful sky that covers it, — which 
 soothes and gladdens the heart so much as a good 
 book. But ramblers, who run after health from Dan 
 to Beersheba, have seldom room for many, and thus 
 fall into the way of inditing their own imaginings, 
 for want of having those of others to dwell upon. 
 
 * These Tales were written two or three years before 
 the publication of the Slight Reminiscences^ and now venture 
 abroad, encouraged by the kind reception which the latter 
 experienced.
 
 X PREFACE. 
 
 To write is my dear enjoyment: would that to read 
 what has often lured me out of the " pale cast 
 of thought," might be one to others; — but the 
 word, I am well aware, claims too much — shall it 
 be amusement ? 

 
 CONTENTS TO VOL. I. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 THE GLOVE 1 
 
 THE king's daughter 49 
 
 THE roc's egg 197 
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON 285
 
 THE GLOVE.
 
 THE GLOVE 
 
 Ladj, what mean you to do with that glove ? 
 Wonders ! — the small machinery of love 
 Makes armour sometimes. 
 
 Si potro, si — che mi fara possente 
 Amor ond' alta forza i men forti hanno. 
 
 Gerusalemme Liber ata. 
 
 At the foot of the fine range of hills that partially 
 and at some distance surrounds the beautiful city 
 of Turin, are many villages, and amongst them 
 one more lonely than the rest, niched in a green 
 hollow, and so hidden from men's eyes, that he 
 must have been a shrewd guesser who could have 
 discovered it until he was in the middle of what its 
 inhabitants called the street, though by what right 
 they did so — except it might be that of ancient 
 usage — it were hard to say. 
 
 Side by side with the church stood the inn, a 
 house of humble entertainment, where, on holidays, 
 
 b2
 
 4 THE GLOVE. 
 
 a well-seasoned olio and a cup of sour wine regaled 
 the simple palate of the husbandman ; and removed 
 from it by a small vineyard, was a dwelling which, 
 though poor and rustic, was of somewhat better 
 mien than its neighbours, though not enough so 
 to breed ill will to the owners. Within it lived a 
 widow and her daughter, a simple child, but quick 
 minded, and withal so fair and gentle, that she was 
 known throughout the hamlet by the name of 
 * the Beloved.' 
 
 This widow's husband had been a learned lawyer, 
 and once of high repute, holding an honourable 
 station in Pisa, his native city. But ill health, 
 and then ill fortune, had come upon him, and his 
 heart — as it was said — had broken. Be that as it 
 may, he died, leaving a sorrowful widow and an 
 infant child, with little other dowry than their 
 innocence. 
 
 Why Monaca Capaccio had come to settle in tliis 
 lonely place, none knew; but she had lived there 
 many years, never quitting it, and seeming to have 
 nothing more to do with the outward world. Her 
 neighbours respected her for what she had been, 
 and loved her for the kindness which, even in her 
 poor circumstances, she found means to show them.
 
 THE GLOVE. 5 
 
 It happened, about the time when her daughter, 
 the young Dianora, had reached her thirteenth 
 year, that one evening, an hour after sunset, two 
 strangers entered the village, and stopping before 
 the gate of the Aquila Nera, demanded where- 
 withal to refresh themselves. Beds there were 
 none, nor did the travellers require them ; but the 
 landlord, loath to lose guests of appearance so 
 much above the usual frequenters of his house, 
 was lavish — as far as promises went — of all other 
 comforts. The strangers entered the kitchen, which 
 was also the banquetting room, and hastened the 
 preparations for supper; small skill was necessary 
 to accommodate the simple materials to the urgency 
 of hunger, and yet they crept on sluggishly, for to 
 speak truth, honest Paolo had work for his thoughts 
 as well as his fingers, and while with the one he 
 seasoned the mess that simmered slowly over the 
 half alive embers, the others were busily engaged 
 in noting the strange aspect and stranger demeanour 
 of his guests. 
 
 " Shut out the sun, Francesco," said the elder, 
 pointing to a window which opened on the street. 
 
 " The sun !" repeated Paolo, inwardly ; " why 
 he went to bed half an hour ago, and but for the
 
 O THE GLOVE. 
 
 red lights on the mountains, we should have hard 
 work to see our hands without a candle." 
 
 While he thus ruminated, the youth closed the 
 blind cautiously, and the elder guest continued to 
 pace the floor with measured strides, stopping at 
 intervals, and moving his lips as if he talked with 
 his own thoughts. He was tall, and bore himself 
 haughtily, like a proud soldier; or, as Paolo 
 thought, like a captain of banditti. No sooner 
 had this notion crossed his brain, than fear con- 
 verted it into certainty, and his heart, being 
 none of the stoutest, quailed within him. In the 
 courteous demeanour of the youth, he found some- 
 thing more encouraging ; and yet it was nearly 
 guess work with them both, for their cloaks were 
 pulled round them, and their hats flapped upon 
 their faces far too cautiously for Paolo's curiosity, 
 and much too cunningly, he thought, for good to 
 come of it. 
 
 In the aforesaid kitchen were two windows; that 
 which the youth had closed, and another which 
 stood open and looked into the widow's vineyard. 
 The supper was served, the wine cups filled with a 
 most thin-flavoured beverage ; yet still the senior 
 cavalier paced up and down, and the youngest.
 
 THE GLOVE. 7 
 
 who had talked of haste, folded his arms and sat 
 within the coving of the antique chimney ; which 
 delay, where there had been so much impatience, 
 made Paolo say, (but always to himself,) " It is 
 not for food to satisfy their hunger, but for the 
 covering of night that these folks wait, or I am 
 a fool, and can no longer spell faces;" to which 
 comment he subjoined a smirk, that showed plainly 
 how far removed he was from admitting so hum- 
 bling a conclusion. 
 
 Suddenly his cogitations were interrupted by 
 the appearance of something shadowy at the open 
 window, and the sound of a gentle voice calling 
 " Paolo." 
 
 " Ah ! Dianora," cried the host, '' what brings 
 thee here, my child ? " 
 
 " My mother," returned the same sweet voice, 
 " sends back the pitcher, and wishes for more 
 quinces, such as she had of you this morning." 
 
 At the same moment, a foot was heard ascending 
 a stepping-stone placed beneath the window, and a 
 fair childish figure looked in through the casement; 
 and, resting a basket on the ledge, hastened to 
 deposit the pitcher, which seemed too heavy for 
 the head that carried it. Paolo would have assisted
 
 8 THE GLOVE. 
 
 her, and for that purpose laid down the lamp which 
 he was about to place upon the table, so that its 
 full glare was thrown upon the glowing face that 
 leaned forward into the room, looking, in the 
 rich frame-work of vine leaves that enclosed the 
 window, like one of those breathing portraits, 
 which strangers come to Italy to wonder at. 
 
 There was a quaint simplicity in Dianora'^s dress, 
 curtailed as it was from some ample garment re- 
 maining to Monaca out of the wardrobe of better 
 days, and fashioned without regard to modern no- 
 tions, that contrasted charmingly with her young, 
 joyous face and careless movements. Even the 
 strangers were struck with admiration. 
 
 " Beautiful,'' said the elder gravely. 
 
 " Most beautiful ! " exclaimed the youth with 
 ardour. 
 
 " Ah, you have strangers here,'' said Dianora in 
 a frightened voice, and hastily descended from the 
 stepping-stone; then, when safe under the shadow 
 of the wall, she stammered out, " My mother will 
 come herself for the quinces," and was out of sight 
 in an instant. 
 
 Now came fine scope for Paolo's loquaciousness ; 
 and, without waiting to be questioned, he began to
 
 THE GLOVE. 
 
 recount how the worthy Monaca was herself a 
 Lanfreduci, of a fallen, but honourable branch; 
 how she had espoused the learned lawyer Andrea 
 Capaccio of Pisa; and would have gone on through 
 all her sad varieties of fortune^ but that he was 
 suddenly interrupted by a voice crying out loudly 
 at the gate, 
 
 " Get thee up ! Paolo Gabati ; the soldiers are 
 coming to search thy house." 
 
 " How now, cousin Bartolo ; what say'st thou ?" 
 exclaimed the host ; " search my house ! Come in, 
 and we shall understand thee better." 
 
 "None enter here alive !" said the elder stranger, 
 planting himself firmly against the door. The 
 younger grasped at something within his cloak. 
 
 " If you are disposed," pursued the first, " to do 
 a good act, and to profit by it, bar your door and 
 give us time to escape. Here is my purse ; it is 
 weighty, nor shall my bounty, should occasion 
 favour me, stop here. For this I pledge a word, 
 which none have ever doubted. Should you admit 
 my pursuers, your death is sure. Could you even 
 escape from my hands, I leave those behind me 
 who would avenge the treason." 
 
 " Fly instantly !" cried Paolo, " I hear the tramp 
 
 b3
 
 10 THE GLOVE. 
 
 of horses. Fly through the vineyard to the widow's 
 house; there you may find shelter; none will 
 suspect her." 
 
 The strangers fled, and Paolo had just time to 
 throw the evidences of the supper behind a pile of 
 faggots, when a troop of horsemen arrived at the 
 gate, and knocking loudly, demanded admittance. 
 
 Meanwhile, the strangers had gained the porch 
 of the widow's dwelling; and, rushing into the 
 small chamber where she sat at work with Dianora 
 beside her, told in a few words their imminent peril, 
 and besought her to afford them the means of im- 
 mediate concealment. 
 
 " Signors,'' said Monaca, somewhat startled at 
 their request, " I am a lone widow, living here in 
 solitude with this child. It may be that, in pru- 
 dence, I ought to deny that for which you sue ; but 
 your need seems urgent, and God forbid that fear 
 should master the better feeling of humanity. To 
 this outer door there is neither bolt or lock, or other 
 issue from it than through the dwelling of our 
 neighbour Paolo; but there is the chamber in 
 which I and my daughter sleep. It is possible that, 
 as the door is of panel like the rest of the room, it 
 may escape the notice of the soldiers, should they
 
 THE GLOVE. H 
 
 come here in search of you. I do a fearful thing, 
 if I conceal the guilty ; but there is something 
 in your look, sir, and in that of your companion, 
 that reassures me. Pass in, and may Heaven be 
 your safeguard."" 
 
 There was no time for thanks. The strangers 
 did as she had told them, and Monaca sat down with 
 assumed calmness to her work; while Dianora, who 
 had been a silent though deeply interested spectator 
 of this short scene, placed her stool near to the 
 panelled door, and setting her spinning-wheel before 
 her, began to turn it thoughtfully. 
 
 " Hush ! Dianora," said the widow, after a mo- 
 ment's pause, " I hear them coming: now. Heaven ! 
 give us courage. You are young, my child, and 
 unused to such things ; let not look or word betray 
 you. Consider, that on our prudence depend the 
 lives of two fellow-creatures." 
 
 " Fear nothing," replied Dianora firmly ; " my 
 heart is strong. I feel as though my father's spirit 
 were here with us." The good Monaca sighed, but 
 Dianora began to turn her wheel, as if she was 
 anxiously finishing her evening task. 
 
 The soldiers entered without knock or parley. 
 " You have criminals here," said he who seemed
 
 12 THE GLOVE. 
 
 their leader, " and we have authority to search 
 your house."" 
 
 " Search where you please, masters,'"' replied 
 Monaca, " you will find nothing. We harbour no 
 criminals, and have no hiding-holes in our small 
 dwelling."" 
 
 " That we shall see," said the soldier sternly ; and 
 to work they went, overturning the old-fashioned 
 furniture, thrusting their swords up the chimney, 
 and displacing every thing but Dianora''s wheel, 
 which they plainly saw could not have contained a 
 mouse. While thus employed, Monaca continued 
 to work, and Dianora to sing, as thoughtless 
 children may be allowed to do, even in anxious 
 moments ; and yet one who had watched her atten- 
 tively, might have seen the colour come and go 
 in her cheek, and her heart beating through the 
 double folds of her kerchief. 
 
 The widow"'s dwelling consisted of three rooms ; 
 one in the centre, from which a door opened into 
 the vineyard ; another on the right hand, that served 
 as a kitchen; and a third in which the fugitives 
 were concealed. The door of this chamber and
 
 THE GLOVE. 13 
 
 that of the kitchen were opposite to each other, and 
 both opened into the small parlour in which Monaca 
 and her daughter were then sitting. At every stir 
 of the soldiers, Dianora trembled, and prayed for 
 assistance to all the saints in the calendar ; but 
 above all to the blessed Saint Petronilla, the eve 
 of whose festival it happened to be, and for whose 
 holy intercession she put up a very urgent and 
 especial petition. 
 
 In the chamber within which the strangers were 
 concealed, was a window so near the ground, that 
 one who was no leaper, but had his wits about him, 
 might with small effort reach it in safety. But then 
 beneath the window was a narrow alley, enclosed at 
 each side by a hedge of prickly evergreens, firm and 
 impenetrable as a wall ; to climb it was impossible, 
 for in its even and closely knit surface was neither 
 hold for hand or foot. A narrow gate, which 
 Monaca always locked herself at nightfall, closed 
 up the entrance: without the key, there was no 
 chance of escape into the open country, and Dia- 
 nora's heart sunk within her when she recollected 
 that it had already been taken from the lock, and 
 hung in its customary place over a cabinet, behind 
 the door in her mother^s chamber.
 
 14 THE GLOVE. 
 
 " All !" thought she, «' if I could but tell them 
 where it is ; — but I dare not speak. Poor souls ! 
 thej will surely be discovered." Then singing and 
 praying all in a breath, suddenly a stanza of an old 
 ditty in the patois of her native hills came into her 
 head. Again she thought, '• O, if they could but 
 understand me, it might save them !" Then gently 
 moving her stool backwards, until her face almost 
 touched the key-hole of the panelled door, she 
 began to sing, in a clear voice and slowly, like one 
 who tried by much exertion to keep herself awake, 
 the ballad on which hung her only hope of saving 
 the ill-fated strangers : — 
 
 Mj Lady Genevieve ! my Lady Genevieve ! 
 
 Why are you mourning ? 
 Is it love you crave ? Your knight is true and brave, 
 
 All others scorning 
 
 My Lady Genevieve ! my Lady Genevieve ! 
 
 Foul plots are hatching ; 
 Faith and love can save ; see, in yonder cave 
 
 Your true knight 's watching. 
 
 My Lady Genevieve ! my Lady Genevieve ! 
 
 'Tis your lover's praying ; 
 Hall and bower leave, night and danger brave, 
 
 List to what he 's saying. 
 
 Thus having, as she thought, excited their atten-
 
 THE GLOVE. 15 
 
 tion, and accustomed the soldiers to the humming 
 of her voice, she changed the measure, singing in a 
 lower tone, but more distinctly : — 
 
 Why sit you silent on the floor, 
 My beauty bright ? Why sit you weeping ? 
 
 The key is hung beside the door ; 
 O lady fair ! sad watch you're keeping. 
 
 The leap is low, the moon is bright, 
 Your true knight waits without to aid you ; 
 
 The key is hanging in your sight, 
 Leap, lady, leap ! and good saints speed you ! 
 
 While she sang, repeating every line twice over, 
 and turning her wheel languidly, the soldiers had 
 visited every hole and corner in the kitchen, first 
 having taken the precaution of stationing one of 
 their party at the door to watch Monaca's move- 
 ments, and prevent escape by the vineyard. Every 
 thing was overturned, even to a pile of wood, which 
 being heavy work, gave them some minutes'* occu- 
 pation, and as many of mortal anxiety to Monaca, 
 who expected every moment to see the eyes of the 
 sentinel fixed upon the panelled door. Dianora had 
 still a hope, and contrived, while she sang, to put 
 up mental prayers to all the holy women with whose 
 saintly names her memory j ust then served her ;
 
 16 THE GLOVE. 
 
 indeed, in the hurry of the moment, some were 
 invoked who had no claims to the honours of 
 the calendar, as that gentle girl of Verona, who, 
 though loving enough for a saint, was only a 
 martyr. 
 
 But she did not think of that ; her hope was, that 
 some one of the holy phalanx might open the ears 
 of the poor souls at the other side of the panel, to 
 the jargon of her ballad. " If," said she inwardly, 
 '• they are of the mountains, they will understand 
 me." 
 
 " Ah," thought Monaca, who perfectly compre- 
 hended her daughter's meaning, " it is a poor shift 
 of thine, my child ; but Providence is all sufficient." 
 
 Age, rendered timid by disappointment, doubts 
 — pauses — trembles ; but youth thinks flying ; its 
 hope is winged ; it does not lean upon an anchor 
 rooted in the earth, but soars upwards, trusting 
 to the broad pinion that cleaves its way where a 
 feebler one dare not follow, and wins its wish by 
 its undauntedness. 
 
 " Honest Paolo is right," said the foremost 
 soldier as he re-entered the parlour ; " not a mouse 
 stirring. But you have a bird here, lady, who 
 sings rarely ; a true nightingale, and one that
 
 THE GLOVE. 1^ 
 
 warbies in the rough company of soldiers, as if she 
 were perched on the loneliest tree in the forest." 
 
 " My daughter," returned Monaca, " possesses 
 the happy gaiety which becomes her age: God for- 
 bid that I should check her innocent cheerfulness. 
 The time will come, — alas, too soon ! when she 
 will be silent and thoughtful as her mother." 
 
 " You are right, widow," said the soldier fami- 
 liarly ; " a light heart is better than gold. Better 
 sing gaily like the ruddock on the bare thorn, than 
 force a whistle to please those who hold you by 
 a string, though it may be a silken one; and so 
 farewell. We shall report to our employers that 
 Madonna Monaca is an honest dame, and no se- 
 creter of malefactors." 
 
 " Not so," interrupted another, advancing fierce- 
 ly ; " your memory is somewhat deficient. You 
 have forgotten to ask this gentlewoman where her- 
 self and her daughter sleep ; we have seen neither 
 couch nor resting-place, yet such there must be." 
 
 At this moment a slight movement, unheard by 
 any one but Dianora, gave her the sad assurance 
 that the room on which she kept guard was still 
 tenanted. She turned pale, and looked towards 
 her mother
 
 18 THE GLOVE. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Monaca, '« my chamber is 
 adjoining. If you will visit it, you are no doubt 
 the masters, and may do so ; but it seems strange 
 that persons of your gallant profession should come 
 thus to disturb the privacy of a lone woman, in- 
 truding upon her retirement, and creating alarm 
 in the dwelling of the helpless and the inoifensive.'" 
 
 " Madam,'' replied the soldier roughly, " this 
 parleying is of no avail ; we must act. Where is 
 the chamber in question ?" 
 
 " A moment, sirs," said Monaca, rising with dig- 
 nity, and seeming to seek for the key, which she 
 well knew was within the door. The delay was 
 but short, too short for her anxiety, though much 
 too long for the impatience of the surly soldiers. 
 At length the door was opened. Dianora, pale 
 and trembling, held fast by her mother's arm, but 
 neither moved: there was no sound. Monaca 
 hesitated a moment, advanced a step, heard a 
 soldier say in a calm tone, " Here is no trace of 
 the men we seek," and then putting on a bold 
 mien, entered the chamber with her daughter. 
 
 The casement was open, but so are all casements 
 in the cool evening of a sultry day : a soldier looked 
 out, but not suspiciously, and lowering a lamp from
 
 THE GLOVE. 19 
 
 the window, saw by its glare the whole of the nar- 
 row and tenantless alley. While he did so, Dianora 
 spied a glove lying on the floor, but so concealed 
 by a curtain which had fallen over it, that it had 
 escaped all eyes but her own anxious ones ; hastily 
 placing her foot upon it, she held it fast until 
 the soldiers, having craved pardon in their rough 
 fashion for the alarm their visit had occasioned, 
 took their leave. 
 
 No sooner were they out of sight and sound, than 
 Dianora burst into tears. Her mother kissed and 
 praised her ; but she who had a moment before 
 helped by her ingenious courage to save two lives 
 from imminent jeopardy, relapsed into the fearful- 
 ness of childhood, and trembled from head to foot. 
 
 " Cheer up, my Dianora,'' said the widow, " you 
 have done bravely. The holy Virgin, no doubt, 
 prospered your endeavours." And then she blessed 
 her, and giving thanks to Heaven, went to bed with 
 a heart lighter than it had been for many a da}^ 
 
 Nothing more came out, nor was a word said in 
 the country that could throw a light upon this 
 mysterious business. Paolo, after wasting some 
 days in idle conjecture, and in praises of his own 
 adroitness, which (as he himself averred) might —
 
 20 THE GLOVE. 
 
 but that he scorned so to use it — have got every 
 thing out of the soldiers, seemed to have grown 
 tired of the subject, or to have forgotten it altoge- 
 ther. But it lived in the memory of Dianora, and 
 as the sequency of drops makes the rill, so did one 
 recollection following quickly on another in long 
 succession, produce the undivided stream of thought 
 which at last filled up every chink of her mind ; 
 and nothing occurring for a long time to interrupt 
 the simple and uniform tenor of her life, or to 
 weaken the only remarkable impression which ex- 
 ternal circumstances had ever made upon her, it 
 became the treasure of her heart, the secret of her 
 silent keeping. Never did she name the strangers ; 
 yet seldom did she pass an hour without thinking 
 of that mild September evening, when she sat, and 
 sung, and turned her wheel before the panelled 
 door, or let a day go by without drawing out the 
 glove from the little bag of silk which she had 
 made to keep it in, and admiring its soft material 
 and cunning workmanship. It was a gentleman's 
 glove all over — Paolo had assured her — and one 
 that had never fitted working hand. And then 
 came a proverb, — an old one, the good man said, 
 but doubtless invented for the occasion ; he had
 
 THE GLOVE. 21 
 
 forgotten the rhyme, but the bearing of it was, 
 that he who would judge the race of a damsel, 
 must look well at her hand ; but that a knight 
 was known by the cut of his glove. 
 
 It happened, that about the time when Dianora 
 had reached her sixteenth year, honest Paolo was 
 summoned to attend the death-bed of a relative, 
 one who had done him much service in his youth, 
 and after whom he hoped to reap certain benefits, 
 of great moment to one of his poor fortune. It 
 was late in the evening of the fourth day from his 
 departure, when he arrived at his own door. 
 
 " Welcome," said his ancient housekeeper, " wel- 
 come, master. You must needs be weary after 
 your long journey. Here is your seat ; repose, 
 while I prepare your supper.*" 
 
 '* Mother," said Paolo, " I must not stop, till I 
 have spoken with my neighbour Monaca." 
 
 " But it is late. She is, no doubt, gone to rest, 
 and may not be willing to open her door to you." 
 
 " That we shall see," rejoined Paolo, who, with- 
 out farther parley, crossed the vineyard, and was 
 in a moment at the door of the widow's cottage.
 
 22 THE GLOVE. 
 
 She was still up and sitting at her work, just as 
 she had been on the night when the strangers had 
 craved her protection. Dianora, too, sat beside 
 her, — the same Dianora, and yet another : the fair 
 child had grown into the far fairer woman, in whose 
 maidenly demeanour virtue spoke blushingly, and 
 in whose star-like eyes the noble courage which 
 had distinguished the child, shone out in the bright 
 setting of innocence and purity. 
 
 " Read on, my child," said Monaca ; " read that 
 old ballad which your father loved. Better rhymes 
 please me less than those simple ones that bring 
 back the olden time, the yesterday of the heart.'" 
 
 Dianora took up a book that lay open before 
 her, and read from it : — 
 
 THE BOLD KNIGHT. 
 
 " Your heart is bold, jour lady fair, 
 Your steed is neighing at the gate, 
 Your path is by the wild wolf's lair. 
 And farther on the sea 3'ou'll meet ; 
 Away, sir knight! — your horse is fleet." 
 
 The lady shed some silent tears, 
 Her cheek was pale, her soul was sad ; 
 The bold knight chid her rising fears, 
 His heart beat high, his brow was 
 Much love, but little dread, he had.
 
 THE GLOVE. 23 
 
 " My fair, my gentle bride," he said, 
 " Why is the tear in thy sweet eye ? 
 We love not when such tears we shed ; 
 Thy father is mine enemy, 
 And yet from him thou griev'st to liy. 
 
 " How is 't my love ? Is thy heart cold ? 
 Or think'st thou of thy mother's sorrow ? 
 Thy lady -mother would have sold 
 Thy hand to the proud lord to-morrow ; 
 Yet love's first hour for tears you borrow.' 
 
 The gentle lady would have smil'd. 
 But that her heart was far too griev'd ; 
 She was indeed a simple child, 
 And all he said, her ear believ'd ; 
 'Twas pity such should be deceiv'd. 
 
 The sea ran high, the bark rode on, 
 
 The lady gaz'd on the last tree 
 
 That mark'd her home :— it soon was gone, 
 
 And she was left alone to be 
 
 The saddest sight that eye could see. 
 
 They told me how her fair brow dimm'd. 
 And how her cheek grew sunk and pale ; 
 And how her heart with sorrow seem'd 
 To labour, and the sigh to steal, 
 Though nothing did her words reveal. 
 
 They told me how she dying lay, 
 And how her lady -mother came, 
 And would have chid, but could not say 
 The thing she meant ; the dying claim 
 Mercy from mothers' hearts— not blame.
 
 24 THE GLOVE. 
 
 And soon the lovely lady slept 
 
 The long, long sleep beneath the stone ; 
 
 Perhaps the bold knight may have wept. — 
 
 But more of him was never known 
 
 Till grass upon that grave had grown. 
 
 'T was said he woo'd some foreign fair 
 Who loved him not as she had done ; 
 And that he too was craz'd with care, 
 And wist not to behold the sun, 
 But aU that look'd like joy would shun. 
 
 And once he sat upon the stone, 
 The stone on which the hoar moss grew ; 
 And one who pass'd could hear him moan, 
 But what was in his heart none knew, — 
 It might be shame for vows untrue. 
 
 But soon the grave had wider grown, 
 And close beside that lady fair, 
 Before another spring had blown, 
 One came, her last lone couch to share ; 
 'Twas the bold knight :— he's buried there. 
 
 <' The lady," said Monaca, as Dianora closed 
 the book, '' whose story makes the subject of 
 these rhymes, was of your father's house, and the 
 daughter of that bold captain, Ercole Capaccio, 
 whose castle overlooked the Adriatic. He who 
 lured her from her home was the renowned Hertz- 
 enstein — Heart-of-stone, as he was well named; 
 one from beyond the Alps, who had done brave
 
 THE GLOVE. 25 
 
 service here in Italy in the time <^ the old wazs, 
 but whose faithlessness broke the heart of the 
 young Gemma di Capaccio. A gentle lady it 
 would seem she was, and exceeding fair, if the 
 portrait which I have seen in mv vouth speaks 
 true, — but hist ! some one calls without." 
 
 " Worthy neighbour." said Paolo, thrusting his 
 head into the widow's parlour, with the look oi 
 ooe full of a secret too big for his keepiog, "I 
 would whisper three words to you, just as many 
 and no more. Now, I judge by your eye that 
 you will say, ' You are a late visitor. Pa<^o,^ and 
 you would say truly ; but when you have heard 
 my story, jou will soon see that I could not wdl 
 hare gooe to bed without light^iing my heart oi 
 its burthen.^ 
 
 " But how is this r exclaimed Monaca: ••nothing 
 anxious has, I trust, fallai on thee, good Faoia.'^ 
 
 ** Not upon me^~ replied the innkeeper; **but we 
 will begin bv the b^inning, and then we shall see 
 which way the wind drives. We have not talked 
 much of late of those odd folks who surprised us 
 here one blessed evening — it was the vigil of the 
 immaculate Petronilla — and vanished, Dianora, best 
 knows how, while the soldiers searched for them 
 
 c
 
 26 THE GLOVE. 
 
 under the faggots. But you have not forgotten 
 them, neither have I ; though till yesterday I had 
 my doubts whether or not they were living men. 
 Yesterday it was, and about noon, that as I jogged 
 homewards sorrowful enough, after having shook 
 the earth over m}^ dear friend and relative Antonio 
 Sarto, two men overtook me who were both bound, 
 
 as I was myself, for the town of M . I soon 
 
 found by their talk that they were farmers from 
 Annone, who were hastening forward to be present 
 at the trial of two famous robbers, accused of the 
 murder of a pious man, — a hermit, dwelling in 
 the lonely mountains that stretch off beyond the 
 monastery of the Holy Trinity. These fearful 
 men had (they said) long been the terror of the 
 country; but since the eve of the Santa Petronilla, 
 now gone by three years, at which time the murder 
 was committed, nothing had been heard of them 
 until a few weeks ago ; when one who had good 
 reason to remember their features gave the alarm 
 to justice, and they were seized, and brought with 
 
 a double weight of irons upon them to M , 
 
 there to be tried for the alleged oifence. 
 
 " No sooner (continued Paolo) did I hear these 
 men name the vigil of the holy Petronilla, than my
 
 THE GLOV^E. 27 
 
 mind misgave me, and I determined to stop the 
 night at the town, thereby to get — if such a thing 
 might be, — a sight of the prisoners. This was 
 easier than I had fancied. It was but waiting a 
 while until their turn for exercise came, and then 
 looking through a grated window, which any one 
 might have done who minded not stretching his 
 neck a little, — and there they were, bound hand to 
 hand, walking up and down the prison court with 
 the jailor at their heels ; and proud enough they 
 looked, more like two lions in their den, than like 
 two sinners — as one may say — with the rope about 
 their necks. 
 
 " I knew them at once, though the father is 
 somewhat broken down, and the son — if he be 
 indeed the son — graver and less comely than for- 
 merly ; but for the soul of me I could not look 
 at them without feeling my eyes twinkle, they 
 stepped out so boldly, and looked so grand and 
 fearless in their chains. So as I stood gazing with 
 my heart in my throat, the thought suddenly 
 struck me that they were innocent ; and though the 
 means of proving them so did not exactly come 
 into my mind at the moment, yet I fancied that 
 if we were all together, we might strike a light 
 
 c 2
 
 28 THE GLOVE. 
 
 that would bring them out of their darkness. 
 And so hearing that the trial was not to come on 
 till to-morrow at ten in the forenoon, I straight- 
 way mounted my mule, and here I am, ready to 
 return to the town with thee and this good child, 
 if thou thinkest that by so doing we can save the 
 lives of these men.*" 
 
 " This is a sad story," said Monaca, after a 
 moment's pause ; «' and when I think of the lofty 
 mien and graceful manners of these cavaliers, my 
 heart travails for them in sorrow as thine does, 
 neighbour. And yet I much fear, that in their 
 case we can do but little good — '' 
 
 " O, say not so, my mother," said Dianora 
 earnestly ; "you cannot believe them guilty. Do 
 we not know by evidence almost as strong as proof, 
 that they are innocent.? Did they seem like mur- 
 derers ? and for gain, too ! — robbers for money, as 
 the paper which Paolo has given me sets them 
 forth to be ! O no ! to kill a pious man for the 
 sake of the small hoard of which casual charity had 
 made him master, — who could have looked at them 
 and think it.? Not we, most certainly; and be- 
 lieving them guiltless, ought we not to declare our 
 belief openly and boldly ? "
 
 THE GLOVE. 
 
 29 
 
 Monaca loved the feeling which had converted 
 the maidenly quiet of Dianora's habitual manner 
 into warmth ; it was a generous one, but she felt 
 that the reasoning was that of a child. 
 
 " I believe as you do, my Dianora,"" she answered, 
 " and am firmly convinced that these men are 
 innocent ; but alas ! what can our belief do for 
 them ? how can our testimony help their cause ? 
 Is it not evident that, whatever may have been 
 the nature of their offence, they were hunted as 
 criminals whose deeds had rendered them amen- 
 able to justice? Must not we, if called upon, 
 acknowledge that they came here as fugitives, 
 pursued by the enforcers of the law ? — and on the 
 very same night when, as has since been proved, 
 the murder was committed ?" 
 
 Paolo's lip dropped, and he shook his head 
 mournfully, looking with a blank eye upon Monaca 
 as though he would have said : " Thou art a wise 
 woman, and I am an ass." Dianora trembled, 
 was silent for a moment ; then took up the paper 
 which Paolo had brought, and read in a shuddering 
 internal voice the description of the robbers. It 
 was true as a portrait — there was no mistaking it. 
 Then turning it over and spelling every word with
 
 30 THE GLOVE. 
 
 the anxious scrutiny of that last hope which is just 
 not despair, which looks for, without daring to 
 reckon on, the slender possibility — the forlorn 
 chance, the little all that certainty has not deprived 
 it of, saw something that had before escaped her 
 eye, approached it nearer to the lamp, burst into 
 an hysteric laugh, and flung herself sobbing on 
 her mother's bosom. 
 
 "Good news!"' cried Paolo, tossing up his 
 cap in the air. " I see it in her face : her young 
 eyes have caught something that my old ones had 
 passed over."" 
 
 «' Mother," said Dianora, " let us begone ; we 
 have no time to lose. If we would rescue these 
 men from death, we must journey all night, and 
 God will give us strength that we may arrive in 
 time to save the innocent. Look here ; this paper, 
 as you will see, sets forth, that by explicit circum- 
 stances the murder is proved to have been com- 
 mitted between the ninth hour and the striking of 
 the first quarter, at the distance of many leagues 
 from hence ; and you, my mother, cannot have 
 forgotten — for you noted it to me afterwards — that 
 when the first soldier entered here, he asked the 
 hour, and that you, looking at the clock, replied,
 
 THE GLOVE. 31 
 
 ' It is not yet nine.' And the same soldier, 
 when he had passed the threshold to depart, turned 
 round and said to me, who stood nearest to him, 
 ' Tell me once more the hour, my child, for I have 
 forgotten what the padrona said it was.' And 
 I looked again at the clock, and answered, ' It is 
 striking the half hour.' — ' Ah, then, (said he,) 
 we shall have enough to do, with whip and spur, 
 to reach home by midnight ; so foot to stirrup, 
 and let's be off.'" 
 
 " Dianora is right," said the widow, " I re- 
 member it well. And now, my child, let us 
 recommend ourselves to Heaven, and begin our 
 journey ; we are strong and used to fatigue, and 
 have a great cause in hand, which must not be 
 lost through fault of ours." Monaca then set some 
 refreshments before Paolo, who seasoned his meat 
 with regrets that his mule was too weary to be of 
 any use that night; which, it must in justice to 
 him be said, was more on account of his com- 
 panions than himself, for he was a good walker, 
 and no churl of his pains in a rightful cause. 
 
 Small time was lost in preparation, and long 
 before midnight the three were already some miles 
 upon their road. Paolo knew all the mountain
 
 32 THE GLOVE. 
 
 passes, and could have groped his way blindfolded; 
 but they had no darkness ; the moon shone all 
 night in the heavens, and when the first fires of 
 day kindled on the tops of the mountains, she was 
 still there in her pale loveliness. 
 
 For some hours they had walked on cheerily, 
 stopping only at a deserted hut, the door of which 
 stood open, for a short repose. As the morning 
 broke, Dianora's hopes, which had begun to droop, 
 revived again : the return of dayhght, the song 
 of early birds, the sight and fragrance of flowers, 
 seemed sureties of success ; even the trickle of the 
 small mountain-falls, which but a little before, 
 when night waned away greyly, seemed full of 
 loneliness and like a voice of grief, now came on 
 her ear with the freshness of a new-born sound, 
 breathing hope and promise. 
 
 But at length Monaca's strength gave way, and 
 though the mind helped out the body bravelv, yet 
 at last the weaker part yielded ; and sinking down 
 at the foot of a tree, she exclaimed, — " I can go no 
 farther. Alas! my feeble strength no longer seconds
 
 THE GLOVE. 33 
 
 my good intentions ; but hasten on, my Dianora; 
 there is no time to be lost, hasten ou with Paolo ; 
 leave me here to recover a little ; I shall speedily be 
 well again, and shall rejoin thee when my strength 
 returns." 
 
 *' Leave thee!" exclaimed Dianora, turning as 
 white as ashes ; " leave thee, my mother ! and in 
 this wild place alone ! to die, perhaps — to be mur- 
 dered ! O, my dear mother, ask it not of me. Paolo 
 will go, and we will stay here together."*^ 
 
 " No, my child," replied Monaca firmly ; " the 
 testimony of one, at least, of us is necessary. The 
 sun is already high in the heavens ; it must be seven 
 o'clock already, by the light; at ten the trial begins, 
 
 and there is no sign of the steeples of M in the 
 
 long distance. Speed thee, my child ; thy presence 
 of mind once before saved the lives of these falsely 
 accused men ; take courage and finish the good 
 work. I feel already better, and will soon follow 
 thee." But her voice grew fainter, as she spoke, 
 and her cheek paler. 
 
 "Holy and blessed Virgin direct me!" cried 
 Dianora, dropping on her knees beside her mother, 
 and in that moment of trial even her courage 
 failed. 
 
 c3
 
 34 THE GLOVE. 
 
 " Holloa !" cried Paolo suddenly ; *' holloa, 
 friend ! which way are you going?" 
 
 *' A league farther on the road to Triano,"" replied 
 a peasant, who, unseen by either Dianora or her 
 mother, was following his cart slowly along a narrow 
 lane, which seemed to fall into their path at the foot 
 of the mountain. The peasant stopped. 
 
 '* If you will give us the use of your cart to the 
 next town," cried Paolo, " we will reward you 
 handsomely." 
 
 The man desired nothing better than a good day's 
 work, without going out of his way for it ; so mak- 
 ing a short cut up the hill, he helped Paolo to carry 
 Monaca down to the spot where the cart was sta- 
 tioned, and deposit her in a comfortable corner. 
 Dianora then sprang in lightly, and Paolo having 
 placed himself beside her, they were soon jogging 
 on at a brisk pace along the road to M . 
 
 " Lord have mercy upon us !"" cried Paolo dole- 
 fully, as they passed under the walls of a monastery ; 
 " does not the great clock strike .f^" 
 
 Dianora, who had already counted the strokes 
 silently, replied: "Alas, it does ! But yonder is 
 the town ; all may not yet be over." 
 
 The town was however farther off than it seemed
 
 THE GLOVE. 35 
 
 to be ; another hour passed ; and fear, from being 
 questioning and communicative, had sunk into 
 silence ; but every thing has an end — even suspense, 
 and it was reached at last. But O, how cruel did 
 every little delay, every momentary obstruction 
 seem to their impatience ! How dread gained upon 
 them, as increasing crowds retarded their approach. 
 At length the streets were cleared, the mass of 
 people penetrated, the hall of justice gained, and 
 Monaca, restored to strength, stood with Dianora 
 by her side, and Paolo near to them, on the steps 
 of the trial chamber. 
 
 There was a fearful press, and a dead silence; 
 those who were behind raised themselves on the 
 points of their feet, to gain a peep over the heads 
 of the luckier ones who stood before them. The 
 stillness frightened Dianora; but presently there 
 was a reproving murmur growing loud and angry 
 as it rose and strengthened, and several persons 
 passed, saying, "They are judged."" 
 
 " Judged and condemned," said one, who strug- 
 gled to get out, "and to my thinking, most un- 
 justly." 
 
 " True," said another ; " but they would do 
 nothing for themselves. There they stood mute as
 
 36 THE GLOVE. 
 
 fishes ; nor could they in any way account for their 
 time on that same night when Ruberto saw them, 
 as he swears, enter the cell of the hermit." 
 
 " Ay, there was the rub, as Marco Mattei said ; 
 could they have done that, they had been saved. '"* 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Monaca, " make way, I be- 
 seech you, for those who come from afar to speak 
 for the innocent. Let us have room, good sirs : 
 we are here on no idle errand, but have full means 
 to prove the truth of that which we advance. If 
 there be justice here in Piedmont, let it not be de- 
 nied to us. Is it because that we are strangers and 
 unknown, that we should be deemed unworthy of 
 a hearing ? Has justice favourites ?'''' 
 
 The crowd gave way, and Monaca, followed by 
 her two companions, soon stood beside the judg- 
 ment-seat, and in full view of the prisoners ; who, 
 having received sentence of death, prepared to meet 
 their fate with the courage of Christians, and of 
 men strong in innocence. Monaca was the first to 
 speak. 
 
 " Hear me, my lord," she said. " These men are 
 guiltless." 
 
 "Woman!" returned the judge, interrupting 
 her sternly, " they have been lawfully condemned.
 
 THE GLOVE. 37 
 
 Seek not, by unavailing clamour, to turn their 
 minds from the high concerns which at this awful 
 moment should absorb them wholly. At noon they 
 die ; and you would idly bend their thoughts from 
 Heaven by your unwise conceits, uprooting the 
 staff of divine hope, to plant in its stead the 
 feeble reed of earthly delusion.*" 
 
 " Not so, my lord,**^ said Monaca respectfully, 
 but with firmness ; " that which I say is no delu- 
 sion. These men now before you are as guiltless of 
 the crime for which they are condemned to suffer, 
 as the child unborn ; and we are come — myself, my 
 daughter, and my neighbour Paolo Gabati — to tes- 
 tify by our most solemn oaths to their innocence, and 
 to swear upon this holy symbol,'' (pressing to her lips 
 a crucifix which was placed upon the table,) " that 
 on the eve of the festival of Saint Petronilla, and at 
 the very hour of nine, when the murder is proved 
 to have been committed, these cavaliers were in my 
 house, that house being in a village distant many 
 leagues from the spot on which the foul and grie- 
 vous deed of which they stand accused, was done." 
 
 " Words," said the judge gravely, and as if 
 touched by the earnestness of Monaca's appeal, and 
 the air of genuine dignity manifest in her deport-
 
 38 THE GLOVE. 
 
 ment, '^ are worth but little, unless strengthened by 
 proof. Here we have evidence so clear, as to be, 
 to all appearance, unanswerable ; and from it we 
 learn, that the prisoners were seen disguised in the 
 neighbourhood of the hermit's dwelling a few hours 
 before the perpetration of the crime ; and likewise 
 obtain proof that the deed was done by two men, 
 the one young and the other of middle age ; proof, 
 also, that two persons, to whose description the con- 
 demned exactly answer, were seen to enter the her- 
 mitage as the ninth hour struck ; and yet further 
 testimony, that the prisoners now before us were 
 observed by many, two days after the fatal one, 
 lurking in the caverns of the sea-shore, and finally 
 embarking at Montonotte in an infirm and ill-ma- 
 naged skiff, and at such imminent risk, that nothing 
 but a life at stake could have induced men of sound 
 mind to peril it. There all clue to their course 
 was lost, and for nearly three years nothing more 
 was heard of them ; when he who had observed 
 them hovering round the dwelling of the pious 
 Anselmo, on the morning of that day which closed 
 his mortal career, came again upon their traces; and 
 with the help of others, surprised, overpowered, and 
 gave them up to justice. And what have they alleged
 
 THE GLOVE. 39 
 
 in their behalf? Nothing! Has not truth a tongue ? 
 and yet, instead of boldly asserting their innocence, 
 at least by speech, as the tamest will do even on 
 light occasions when calumniated, they have con- 
 fined themselves to a blank and unrepeated denial, 
 and then taken refuge in the perversity of silence.'"* 
 " Say rather, signor," interrupted Monaca, " in 
 the dignity of innocence, which disdains to vindi- 
 cate itself. Hear me, my lord ; you are there to 
 administer justice, and I am here to speak truth."" 
 
 "And who are you that speak thus boldly?" 
 demanded the judge. 
 
 " A widow of poor fortune, but of unspotted 
 name, and whose testimony will be upheld, if need 
 there should be, by those among whom she has 
 lived for many years."*"* 
 " And your name?" 
 
 " Monaca Capaccio, the widow of Andrea." 
 " What ! the renowned lawyer of Pisa ?" 
 " The same." 
 
 " And the young girl who bears you company ?" 
 " Is his daughter. Hearing last night by our 
 neighbour Paolo Gabati, that the lives of these 
 strangers were in jeopardy, and knowing them inno- 
 cent, we have come on foot from our distant village 
 to speak the truth, which we are prepared to prove;
 
 40 THE GLOVE. 
 
 and to make solemn oath, that on the very night 
 and hour when the murder was committed, these 
 men were in my house, as is well known to our 
 companion Paolo Gabati, and also to four others 
 who had remarked them as they passed under his 
 gateway, and who are ready to testify to the same, 
 if time be allowed to bring them forward. He who 
 believed that he saw them enter the hermitage at the 
 ninth hour, must have been deceived by the dark- 
 ness; for that night there was no moon, and the 
 light of day had long passed away from the heavens. 
 The murderers, it would appear, carried no lantern, 
 neither did he who observed them ; how then could 
 he mark their features so closely as to recognise 
 them at once, after an absence of three years ? *" 
 
 Monaca paused as if for a reply, but the judge 
 answered by a question : — " Had these men been 
 known to you before that evening .''" 
 
 '' No, my lord.'' 
 
 " Being strangers, how came they to your house.?" 
 
 " For a temporary shelter.'"' 
 
 The question " Under what circumstances T'' 
 seemed inevitable, and Monaca shuddered inwardly ; 
 but the mind of the inquirer was pre-occupied by 
 another idea. " Did you on that evening remain 
 long in conversation with them ? "
 
 THE GLOVE. 41 
 
 " Not more than a few minutes." 
 
 " And you have never seen them since .^" 
 
 " Never, until this day."' 
 
 " Yet you, madam, have no hesitation in iden- 
 tifying the persons thus casually seen, with the 
 prisoners now before us ; though it would seem 
 that the means which so short an interview afforded 
 of fixing their features on your memory, were scarce- 
 ly more favourable than those which, when brought 
 forward by another witness, you called in question. 
 Search your mind well : have you no doubt exist- 
 ing as to their identity ?" 
 
 " No more than that the light which now beams 
 upon us is that of day," said Monaca, with solemn 
 energy. 
 
 " Madam," said the judge respectfully, and after 
 a moment's thought, " we will receive your testi- 
 mony with meet attention, giving due weight to the 
 name you bear ; but we have great strength of evi- 
 dence opposed to your mere word, and further proof 
 that these men were the actual persons who on the 
 vigil of Saint Petronilla visited your house, it would 
 seem that you have not." 
 
 " My lord," said Dianora timidly, " I have a 
 glove ;" and then drawing from her bosom the small
 
 42 THE GLOVE. 
 
 silken bag which she always carried about her, took 
 from it the treasure that for three whole years had 
 been enclosed within it. " I found this glove,"" she 
 continued, while her cheek grew red, and lier bright 
 eyes, cast on the ground, seemed to hide themselves 
 beneath their modest lids, " on the floor, after the 
 departure of these cavaliers from our house. Pro- 
 vidence, no doubt, inspired me to preserve it, that 
 it might serve as a witness for them." And when 
 she said this, she looked upwards, and an expression 
 almost celestial settled on her features. 
 
 " Francesco Forresti," said the judge, addressing 
 himself as if by instinct to the younger prisoner, 
 " describe the glove wliich you wore on that even- 
 ing, when the widow of Andrea Capaccio received 
 you (as she avers) into her house." 
 
 " I can do better than describe it, my lord," re- 
 plied the prisoner calmly ; '' here is the exact match 
 of that which you hold in your hand. I have borne 
 it always about me since the night on which I lost 
 its fellow." So speaking, the youth produced a 
 glove, the very counterpart of the one which Dia- 
 nora had taken from her bosom. 
 
 A shout of joy burst through the hall. Those 
 who were near, threw up their hats; others cried,
 
 THE GLOVE. 43 
 
 " It is the finger of Providence." Many would 
 have kissed the hands of the widow and her daugh- 
 ter; and while the old blessed them, the young 
 looked at Dianora, and some amongst them said, — 
 " It surely is an angel, sent from heaven; nothing 
 mortal ever looked as she does." In the mean 
 time, the judge put many questions to Monaca 
 and her companions, and receiving always the 
 same clear and collected answers without flaw or 
 prevarication, and having likewise found amongst 
 the persons gathered round, many honourable 
 vouchers for the unimpeachable veracity of the 
 lawyer's widow, gave orders that the prisoners 
 should be set at liberty, which was immediately 
 done; and while they looked round anxiously 
 for a sight of their deliverers, Monaca with her 
 daughter and their companion stole out through a 
 private passage, and hid themselves from the crowd 
 in the house of an honest tradesman, with whom 
 Paolo had sometimes lodged. 
 
 Another hour had scarcely passed, before a 
 person came to the door, who inquired for Monaca;
 
 44 THE GLOVE. 
 
 and having delivered into her hands a letter, sat 
 down within the porch to wait her answer. The 
 letter was from the elder cavalier, and thus, after 
 the accustomed greetings, it continued : — 
 
 " Twice have we owed to you, and to that fair 
 creature your most dear daughter, not only life, 
 but preservation from the ignominy of a felon's 
 death. It is now time that you should know for 
 whom your generous courage has been so nobly 
 exercised: to another, before making this all-in- 
 volving discovery, I should speak of secrecy; but 
 to one of your fine sense and high honour such 
 caution would be idle, if not offensive. I am that 
 Galeazzo di Monza, whom some call patriot and 
 others traitor ; who, feeling bitterly the degradation 
 of his country, risked all to rescue her from bond- 
 age, and failed in the attempt. For this, a price 
 is set upon my head, and I am hunted by the 
 minions of injustice like a beast of prey. For this 
 I was pursued, driven from my covert ; and while 
 the blood-hounds hung upon my very flanks, and 
 the death of the base seemed to me inevitable, then 
 were we rescued, sheltered, saved — by your intre- 
 pid benevolence, and the ready wit of your noble- 
 minded child.
 
 THE GLOVE. 45 
 
 " After nearly three years of melancholy exile, 
 exposed to the inflictions of pity, the obloquy of 
 ill success, a heart-felt claim — the desire of a dying 
 wife — brought me again near to my native country. 
 I was arrested on its threshold, and with my son, 
 whom devotion to the good cause had involved in 
 my ill fortune, dragged to prison under the hor- 
 rible imputation of murder. In this obscure spot 
 none know the Monza; and seeing this, I and 
 my son resolved to die unwhitened from the awful 
 accusation, rather than by declaring ourselves, 
 wilfully inculpate those, whose concurrence in our 
 views might have been thus, fatally for themselves, 
 demonstrated. Hence our stubborn silence, — as- 
 cribed, and not unnaturally, to guilt ; hence our 
 steady refusal to call in evidence to our innocence. 
 As yet curiosity — violently excited by immediate 
 events, has not taken breath to inquire who we 
 are ; but few hours will pass ere the cry will be — 
 ' If these men are not the murderers, who then 
 are they?' We must fly; but not without those 
 whose truth and courage have been to us as the 
 angePs hand that shut up the mouths of the lions. 
 
 " I am a plain soldier, and will speak frankly. 
 My son loves your daughter ; and, if my eyes de-
 
 46 THE GLOVE. 
 
 ceive me not, your daughter loves my son. Nor need 
 she blush to do so, for a nobler heart than his never 
 yet beat in mortal bosom. In his fine nature, the 
 rough spirit of his ancestors, though unsubdued, is 
 bettered into a gentler manHness ; he will protect 
 her with a soldier's arm, and love her with a lover"'s 
 heart, — a passionate heart, and already of proved 
 constancy. From that memorable evening, when 
 your Dianora's dawning beauty, acute wit, and most 
 becoming modesty, heightened my son's gratitude 
 into a feeling not often inspired by one of her tender 
 years, he has preserved that glove which found 
 to-day — so happily — its fellow, often saying : — 
 ' Should she chance to light upon the lost one, and 
 keep it in remembrance of an evening, not perhaps 
 unmarked in the calendar of her innocent remem- 
 brances, it may, if we ever meet again, make us 
 known to those, whose sense and spirit saved us 
 from destruction.' And now his sole hope is to make 
 her his wife, if she herself be willing, and that you, 
 respected lady, will consent to give her to a banish- 
 ed man. We are sure of an asylum in a free and 
 happy country, and of the means of honourable 
 existence in it ; but of small value will they be, un- 
 less you, madam, and your fair daughter consent to
 
 THE GLOVE. 47 
 
 share them with us. Your Dianora is fitted by her 
 courage and her constancy to be an exile's wife ; and 
 if there lives a man who would not find even the 
 grief of banishment assuaged by such fair society, 
 that man is not Ippolito di Monza. 
 
 " Having thus spoken freely, and with the full 
 hope that after having done so much for us, you 
 will not leave the good work unfinished, I will 
 add, that we are now in the monastery of the Santa 
 Croce, a mile from the city as you quit it by the 
 Pilgrim's Gate ; the prior is my old and devoted 
 friend, and if you, most honoured lady, will with 
 your daughter come as far as the entrance of the 
 town to meet those who, but for the dread of 
 awakening attention and the danger of consequent 
 discovery, would have been themselves the bearers 
 of their petition, we will conduct you where this 
 holy man will join their hands, whose hearts, or 
 I am much mistaken, have long been faithfully 
 united." 
 
 Few words will tell the sequel. Before many 
 hours had gone by, the blushing Dianora stood 
 beside Ippolito di Monza in the chapel of the Santa
 
 48 
 
 THE GLOVE. 
 
 Croce. At dusk on the same evening, the exiles, 
 and those two who were willingly bound up in fate 
 with them, were far on their way to that fair land, 
 which opens its gates to those who cannot live in an 
 enslaved one ; and Paolo Gabati, with a well-stored 
 purse tucked within his doublet, was jogging lei- 
 surely homewards on a sleek mule, which the prior 
 of Santa Croce had bestowed upon him with his 
 benison.
 
 THE 
 
 KING'S DAUGHTER,
 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 There was a bit of heaven in his room, — a sun -beam 
 to shine into a corner of his heart. 
 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 
 This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 
 
 Ran on the green sward : nothing she does, or seems, 
 
 But smacks of something greater than herself, 
 
 Too noble for this place. ,^. , , m i 
 
 ^ Winter's Tale. 
 
 There is something very taking in a mystery, — 
 so at least thought the inhabitants of Oriana, when 
 they congregated at the church-door, and forgot 
 even their macaroni to gossip over the only event 
 of romantic interest which had happened in the 
 village for many a day. 
 
 It was a very romantic village, too ; but scenes 
 and stories do not always go together, except in 
 the fancy of the poet, and the men of Oriana were 
 simple vine-dressers, who, less learned than the 
 Venetian gondolieri, had never heard of Tasso ; 
 
 D 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 and if in former times the shepherds had strolled 
 about with their lutes, or the peasants — like those 
 of Empoli*— chaunted the verses of Ariosto, they 
 had long since abandoned such high strains, for 
 the rude and sorrowful song with which alone the 
 fields and vineyards of Italy are now familiar. 
 
 In fact, they were honest husbandmen and 
 nothing more; with wives to match them, who 
 twisted up their hair with bodkins, and covered 
 their sleeves with bows, and their bosoms with 
 every possible insignia of the Catholic faith wrought 
 out of ivory, coral, silver, and sometimes gold ; 
 and when Sunday came, threw a white veil over all 
 and looked like the Marys and Elizabeths of the 
 old painters, who took nature as she presented 
 herself to them familiarly, and transplanted her at 
 once to their canvas, without giving her time to 
 curl her hair, or shake out her draperies. 
 
 Nothing amongst the people of Italy becomes 
 obsolete because it is antique, and both the men 
 and women of Oriana might have passed for the 
 models of those venerable or innocent groupes, 
 which the ancient limner could with cunning skill 
 throw out from his gilt ground or suspended per- 
 * Vide Montaigne.
 
 THE king's daughter. 53 
 
 spective. Their country, too, would have looked 
 well through one of those square openings in a 
 chamber, or colonnaded vestibule, which the Giottos 
 and Orcagnas, and their great disciples, delighted 
 in. For their sky was oftenest of a deep and yet 
 bright blue, and their trees — such as grew about 
 in their fields and vineyards, — sparingly placed, 
 but of stately and eastern aspect, so that two or 
 three together told like a whole grove of more 
 ordinary quality. But I had begun to say some- 
 thing of the good folks of Oriana, and want to say 
 something more; therefore, for the present, I shall 
 leave the place to itself — looking like a village in 
 Palestine, according to the idea of Raphael and 
 others — and perhaps return to it again in some 
 by-and-by moment. 
 
 According to the supposed standard of Italian 
 morals, the Orianites were black swans. Their 
 strong chamber, — for it could not be called a jail, 
 was always empty ; grass grew upon its very 
 threshold, nor was the eye offended by the barred 
 windows that make Italian cottages look like 
 prisons — recalling the idea of crime by their 
 defensive aspect. As few travellers visited this 
 unpretending spot, it was not worth the mother's
 
 54 THE king's daughter. 
 
 while to breed up her children to the begging pro- 
 fession, which is the general bent of the private 
 tuition system in Italian villages ; so when any 
 chance-sent wanderer did pass their doors, the 
 younkers merely looked at them through the long 
 sunburnt hair that fell into their eyes and half 
 blinded them, without thinking of bawling out, 
 " Carita, Ecellenza ! — Ecellenza, carita!" as is 
 usually done in more refined parts of the country, 
 capitals and all, — and not only by idle brats, but 
 by hale adults of both sexes. 
 
 But these good people had their weaknesses, like 
 the rest of mankind, and curiosity was (at the 
 period of which I write) decidedly one of them. 
 Indeed to such a height had it arrived, that the 
 very Sunday before that on which my story begins, 
 the curate had addressed his flock from the pulpit, 
 in a few words of reprehension delivered after the 
 sermon, telling them that though a desire to know 
 all good things was wise and praiseworthy, yet 
 that an idle yearning to pry into the affairs of 
 others was the sure sign of emptiness. 
 
 In the middle of the piazza, — every village in 
 Italy has its piazza, — stood a church, amazingly 
 fine without, being painted in all imaginable colours.
 
 THE king's daughter. 55 
 
 and having, moreover, a portico supported by 
 twisted columns of Giallo Antico, which seemed 
 to grow out of the backs of a row of dire and most 
 unholy chimera ; but within, — for truth must be 
 spoken, — neither in splendour or cleanliness did it 
 resemble St. Peter's at Rome, which is the lawn- 
 sleeve of ecclesiastical dignity, being the dressiest 
 thing in its way extant. 
 
 Perhaps I should not have used the word 
 chessy ; it is a frippery and unsubstantial word, 
 and not (I fear) suitable to the splendour and 
 importance, the magnitude and beauty, of that 
 prodigious temple, in whose shining niches we 
 almost look for the statue of the Olympian Jove, 
 or the Diana of Ephesus. In saying this, I do not 
 mean to decry the Hebrew pomp with which the 
 rites of Christianity are there wrought over ; but 
 I love the forest-architecture of the old Christian 
 churches, and prefer the long and hollow perspec- 
 tive of the interlaced arches to the house of gold, 
 or even — ^if it be not wrong to say so — to the 
 purple and scarlet, the " chapiters of silver, and 
 the pillars filletted with silver," of the tabernacle 
 of testimony itself. 
 
 Our church of Oriana was raw and gloomy, with
 
 56 THE king's daughtee. 
 
 something of a tawdry theatre about it, and nothing 
 of the high equipage of piety in which the churches 
 of Italy glorify. When such things are not sublime, 
 or at least magnificent, they are sure to be paltry, 
 and few things could be more so than the church 
 of San Panteleone. It smelt neither of myrrh or 
 aloes, nor of any thing else that had to do with 
 ivory palaces. Before the great door was hung, as 
 is the custom in finer places in Italy, a greasy mat; 
 and all the idle ones of the village used to sprawl, 
 or sit, or kneel before or behind it, from cock- 
 crow to nightfall ; when one of the holy officials, 
 or his deputy, made his appearance, swept off the 
 rabble with a fierce scowl, and locked up the sanc- 
 tuary till the next morning. 
 
 It happened, one evening, just at the Ave 
 Maria — the most poetical hour in the Italian 
 calendar, and the only one which reconciles an 
 unaccustomed ear to the fashion of counting the 
 day by four-and-twenty, — that a woman whose 
 black silk veil and dark mantle had nothing in 
 common with the white mezzaro and flaunting 
 jackets of the Orianites, stood within the porch of 
 the church, waiting for the hour of vespers. A 
 child was by her side, hidden under her long
 
 THE king's daughter. 5^ 
 
 mantle, — that is, as far as head and body went ; 
 for the slender legs and tiny feet, indifferently 
 shod in half worn-out sandals, were visible beneath 
 the ample garment. 
 
 At length the bell tolled, and the good folks, 
 pushing up to the high altar, would have kept off 
 all intruders, and especially the woman in the dark 
 mantle, for whom (being a stranger) they had 
 no toleration. Not that they lacked the virtue of 
 hospitality any more than others of their nation, 
 who, to speak fairly, are no churls, and seldom 
 wanting in kind ways and gentle services ; but 
 that a certain overlooking air, which might have 
 been put up with in one of their own folk, offended 
 them in an intruder. But she, little disposed to 
 consult their feelings, moved loftily through the 
 crowd ; and making her way, — not so much by 
 arms and elbows as by dignity of deportment, 
 placed herself at the very railing, and setting the 
 child on her knees before her, arranged herself 
 decorously for the work of prayer. But a gossip 
 who stood near to her, and whose place she had 
 usurped, frowned fiercely, and asked in a jeering 
 tone if the young monkey was a king's daughter, 
 that she should be set up, as it were, upon the altar ? 
 
 d3
 
 58 THE KING'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 To which the other answered gravely, "It may 
 be that thou hast said it,"" and straightway went to 
 work with her rosary, as if nothing had happened ; 
 but long before the pious women had finished the 
 long list of petitions which each had to make to 
 her own particular saint, the brown cloak and its 
 contents had vanished. 
 
 At length the church was cleared, the priest 
 unrobed, and the yellow-flowered vestment and 
 antique point-lace laid by for future occasions. 
 The curate, — a kind man as ever the sun shone 
 upon, took leave of his flock, with a good night to 
 one and a good wish to another, and turning up 
 the green path that led through the vineyards to 
 his cottage, fell into a reverie, which had probably 
 some project of benevolence or pious intention for 
 its subject. 
 
 Be that as it may, the good priest was no prophet, 
 and little thought of what awaited him at his 
 return ; or that under the lime-tree growing before 
 his door, he should see a child of three years old — 
 or thereabouts — fast asleep on a bed of wild thyme, 
 with one hand across its eyes and the other full 
 of flowers, which fell gently from its half-relaxed 
 fingers.
 
 THE king's daughter. 59 
 
 The curate recoiled in amazement ; then beckoned 
 his ancient housekeeper, the worthy Gioconda, — a 
 special soul and well fitted in a name, for never 
 had true piety and genuine benevolence worn a 
 more cheerful form : she immediately recognised 
 the child to be the same which the strange woman 
 had held under her long mantle, but the wonder 
 was, why it should be there. 
 
 In the midst of many conjectures, all ending 
 just where they had begun, the babe awoke ; and 
 opening a pair of large black eyes that had a 
 mixture of heaven and earth in them, called for its 
 mother, first in a tone of joy, then of terror, and 
 at last of agony, that quite unmanned the curate, 
 and brought the ready drops into the grey orbs 
 of the tender-hearted Gioconda. No mother was 
 however to be found, and the child remembered 
 nothing more than having been carried into the 
 church by her unnatural parent, — the woman of 
 the mantle, — who had probably taken means to 
 secure for her charge the blessing of a gentle 
 slumber. 
 
 It was now too late to seek further ; the child 
 was cold and hungry, so Gioconda took her in 
 her arms, held her before the brasier, warmed
 
 60 
 
 THE KINGS DAUGHTER. 
 
 her feet, listened to her patiently while she first 
 roared, then sobbed, and then frowned, pushing 
 out her lips, and refusing the food which she was 
 dying to eat ; till by dint of tenderness and good 
 humour the dame prevailed, and the froward thing 
 allowed itself to be comforted, partly by the figs 
 and minestra, and partly by the adroit consolations 
 of the worthy housekeeper. 
 
 At length came bed time, and with it a fresh 
 storm ; but at last sleep conquered, and Gioconda, 
 who already felt happy at having something younger 
 than herself to take care of, cheerfully began the 
 exercise of her new functions, and set about wrap- 
 ping up her charge as loving children do their first 
 bird, but with better success than usually attends 
 their cradling ; for the little girl was alive and 
 merry the next morning, whereas wool and flannel 
 generally terminate the poor bird's sufferings long 
 before day-break. 
 
 From that time the dignified gentlewoman in 
 the brown mantle was never heard of at Oriana ; 
 the child got used to its new friends, and they
 
 THE king's daughter. 61 
 
 became fondly attached to their new care. Father 
 Nicolas did think, at first, of placing her under the 
 care of some pious nuns in the neighbourhood ; 
 but Gioconda, who doated on the little creature, 
 quickly set him right as to his duties, and soon 
 convinced him, that a deposit entrusted to his care 
 by Providence, should not be carelessly made over to 
 another. And thus was Giulietta, — for so they had 
 made out her name to be, permanently installed 
 as pet and plaything of the curate's cottage. 
 
 It was evident from the child's manner, that 
 she had seen finer things than even the priest's 
 parlour, for nothing astonished her, not even the 
 Salutation, though magnificent in ultramarine and 
 scarlet, which hung over his easy chair ; nor yet 
 the chair itself, though covered with crimson lea- 
 ther flowered with gold, and not above forty years 
 in use. She complained, too, that the cup from 
 which she drank was thick and heavy; and was 
 once out of Gioconda's good graces for nearly five 
 minutes for saucily oversetting her breakfast, be- 
 cause the porringer in which it was offered to 
 her had some sooty marks upon it. It seemed, 
 too, as if she had been waited on by persons of
 
 62 THE king's daughter. 
 
 different countries, for she would often call au- 
 thoritatively, and in good Italian, for her dear 
 Assunta, and then gabble and cry for some other 
 nurse or playfellow in a rougher tongue. 
 
 Notwithstanding these indications of delicacy 
 and care, the clothes which she had worn on the 
 evening of the brown mantle apparition were of 
 the plainest kind, somewhat coarse, too, for so 
 dainty a lady's wear, and indicating nothing be- 
 yond decent mediocrity. Gioconda locked them 
 up carefully, regretting, while she did so, that 
 neither in their make or texture was there any 
 thing to confirm, even in the slightest degree, the 
 high notions which she loved to indulge on the 
 subject of Giulietta's descent, for her vanity would 
 have made a princess of her; but her heart gave 
 her a much dearer title, and having nothing else 
 particularly to attach itself to, settled its whole 
 hoard of affection upon the little god-send. Nor 
 was the curate, though less demonstrative, a wliit 
 behind hand with her in the work of love ; and so 
 betw^een them Giulietta was nursed and cherished 
 like a tender flower, — over cherished, perhaps, as 
 tender flowers sometimes are, — and then comes an
 
 63 
 
 unmannerly wind, and plays at scythes with their 
 unresisting blossoms. 
 
 In the village she went by the name of The 
 King's Daughter^ for the women had not forgotten 
 the answer which the stranger in the brown mantle 
 had given to the gossip's taunt ; but some, when 
 they saw her skip, and run, and vault, and make 
 nothing of leaps that would have scared half the 
 boys in the village, suggested that she — or rather 
 her parents — had belonged to some troop of ambu- 
 lating rope-dancers, an idea which seemed reason- 
 able enough to many, and was rather strengthened 
 by her possession of what seemed to these good 
 people the gift of tongues. 
 
 " It 's as clear as daylight,'' said one, who had 
 been to Milan in her youth. " I remember well 
 the tumbling folks that crossed the ferry with us, 
 and no two of them could speak the same tongue ; 
 one was a Bergamese, a gay varlet, with a black 
 eye and a bold forehead ; but his little wife was 
 fair, with golden locks, and talked in her throat, 
 so that none except her husband knew what she 
 was saying. They had a baby, too, which may, 
 for aught I knoAV, be this very one," — a may he
 
 64 THE king's daughter. 
 
 placed by most of the hearers amongst the pro- 
 babilities, though the passage of the ferry-boat 
 bore a date at least fifteen years prior to the birth 
 of Giulietta. But on this subject, faith was like 
 wax, — open to all impressions, and the discussion 
 usually closed with a rub at the mother, who (as 
 Maria Grazia, the flax-dresser, used to say) was 
 something like the huge ostrich bird that her 
 nephew had seen in foreign parts, — any one might 
 hatch her eggs. 
 
 It was an odd education that of Giulietta : the 
 priest had taught her to read, to learn her cate- 
 chism, to repeat her prayers, and to sing. He 
 was himself no mean musician, played on the bass 
 viol, loved Corelli, sang through his nose, but in 
 good tune, and had skill enough to instruct his 
 pupil to do better than he did himself. Giulietta 
 possessed a contralto of surpassing sweetness, — per- 
 haps no quality of voice is so touching as the 
 woman's tenor heard in its beauty ; there is a 
 spring in the clear and pure soprano that lifts up 
 the mind, — it seems to us like the voice of angels, 
 but of happy ones; while in the deeper tenor is a 
 clinging of the earthly heart, an outpouring of pro-
 
 THE king's daughter. 65 
 
 found and sorrowing tenderness, of human feeling, 
 that brings it down to the tone of sympathy. 
 There is something affectingly mysterious in such a 
 voice, it seems less like the natural one of woman, 
 than like another which grief has given her. 
 
 Giulietta's was of this beautiful kind ; there was 
 a mine of sadness in it, which the rich gaiety of 
 her character made doubly touching : and when 
 she sang for the good father those sacred melodies 
 he most delighted in, he would often say, that the 
 Miserere which he had heard in his youth in the 
 Pope's own chapel at Rome, was cold work to it. 
 The rest of her education was confided to Gio- 
 conda, who taught her to sew and spin, of each a 
 little, and to make herself useful about sundry 
 household matters. 
 
 I cannot take upon me to say that there was but 
 one opinion about her beauty ; on the contrary, 
 there certainly were dissentients. Some thought 
 her complexion too brown, and that her eyes were 
 too large, and her mouth, though opening finely, 
 a degree perhaps too wide ; others that her eye- 
 brows, though soft and regular, lacked of the even 
 arch, and did not exactly divide the forehead ; and
 
 66 THE king's daughter. 
 
 many, indeed all the young girls of Oriana, called 
 her too tall, at least by a hand. 
 
 There were some, however, and amongst them 
 Gioconda, who considered her as a perfect speci- 
 men of female loveliness. Her eyes, they said, were 
 like stars, and had the light of heaven in them ; 
 her lips were as fresh as rosebuds, her throat like 
 a swan''s, and her step fleet as that of the wild deer. 
 The curate himself was fond of saying that he 
 loved to read the book of innocence in Giulietta's 
 face, and that her sweet and unworldly aspect 
 made him think of those pure and pious virgins, 
 whose chaste looks have been known to disarm the 
 fury of the most ferocious animals. 
 
 But it little mattered who was right, or who was 
 wrong. Giulietta sewed or spun, ran wild in the 
 vineyards, or sang canticles in the church ; and 
 when she had set half the old women of the village 
 against her by her childish tricks, conciliated them 
 as speedily by her droll attempts at contrition, and 
 invincible good humour. 
 
 Three-fourths of the young men of Oriana, of 
 such I mean as dared to look so high, were her 
 devoted suitors. The intendant's son, the doctor''s
 
 THE king's daughter. 6^ 
 
 nephew, the young student who lodged with the 
 old German captain opposite to the church, and 
 some dozen others, improvised the praises of her 
 charms from such love-lays as they knew were not 
 likely to have made part of her studies, striking 
 their foreheads for the inspiration, which burst out 
 in the form of a sonnet of Petrarch, or a verse of 
 Tasso. Not that she ever looked their way, or 
 was guilty of civility to any one of them ; indeed, 
 the males of the village were very low in her good 
 graces, with the exception of Giacomo Pozzi, a 
 poor youth lame from his birth, and who sup- 
 ported a sick mother by his ingenuity. He had a 
 cunning hand, and made nets for the hair, and wove 
 chains of beads and other glittering things, with 
 which the lasses of Oriana decorated themselves 
 until they sparkled and shone like Our Lady of 
 Loretto herself. When Giulietta's fete-day came, 
 Giacomo never failed to present her with a net of 
 coloured silk, in which a few threads of gold were 
 mingled ; Giulietta paid back the gift by innume- 
 rable kindnesses, and often on gay occasions, when 
 the veil might be decently dispensed with, gathered 
 up her redundant hair within its slight confine-
 
 68 THE king's daughter. 
 
 ment, and twisting a few flowers into the meshes, 
 would wear it with a grace so becoming, that many 
 a court lady would have given her finest aigrette 
 and solitaire to have looked as she did in Gia- 
 como's handy work. 
 
 The curate saw that she was happy, and re- 
 joiced at it, but felt that it could not always go on 
 thus. He was growing old, and should he be 
 called away, what was to become of her ? She was 
 no more fit to be left alone in the world than a 
 new-born babe, and still less to be made a nun 
 of: this he could see with half an eye, though 
 none of the keenest in such matters. The natural 
 wish of his heart was to see her honourably and 
 happily married, but in hers there was no respon- 
 dent. In the mean time, offers poured in from all 
 quarters, for Giulietta was not only the handsomest 
 maiden in the whole country, but likewise a sort of 
 an heiress, for the curate was accounted rich, and 
 Gioconda too had her savings ; and, as she often 
 took care to observe, " neither chick nor child, no 
 one but Giulietta to come in for all." This subject 
 was often on the good father*'s lips, and he would 
 sometimes talk approvingly of the young farmer
 
 THE king's daughter. 69 
 
 who owned the fair land of milk and honey at 
 the other side of the vineyards, and whose teeming 
 fields and goodly kine never failed to call forth 
 Gioconda's admiration, as his harvest procession 
 did that of Father Nicolas. It was strictly clas- 
 sical, (he used to say,) waggons, oxen, and lading, 
 whether of ripe corn or of bursting grapes, and he 
 seldom saw it pass without a quotation from Virgil, 
 who, after the fathers of the church, (to whom, as 
 in duty bound, he gave the preference,) was his 
 favourite author. 
 
 He often talked (as I have said) of this good 
 youth, and of another still w^ealthier, whose father 
 had traded in pork in a town some miles distant 
 until his coffers overflowed, and then had made 
 himself lord of a naked-looking villa, or — as some 
 called it — castle, a little way out of the village. 
 The son had far outshot his father, as sons now- 
 adays are apt to do ; for he curled his whiskers 
 fiercely, had discarded lamVs wool, and tacked a 
 sable collar to his mantello ; disclaimed all know- 
 ledge of salsiccie or mortadelli, and even forswore 
 the very swine themselves, who had so often con- 
 tributed, with limbs and life, to bring about the
 
 70 THE king's daughter. 
 
 epoch of his present grandeur. But for the parish 
 register, he would have called himself Don, — Don 
 Camillo, and would have sworn by the blood of 
 his ancestors ; but Giulietta had no ancestors, at 
 least none that she knew of, so he did not lose 
 much in her opinion by being in the same pre- 
 dicament, but prodigiously by being a simpleton, 
 which she had good reason to know that he was. 
 
 In short, she would not hear of either. Diana 
 herself was not more obdurate, and far less con- 
 sistent ; and when the curate talked to her on such 
 subjects, she would laugh, or cry, snatch off his 
 cap and hang it en her own bright ringlets, or 
 kneel upon his footstool, and vow that she would 
 stay and nurse him all his life, whether he would 
 or not ; and then a gentle rebuke, and sometimes 
 a tear or two, ended the controversy. 
 
 But Gioconda was not so easily put off. When- 
 ever a wedding took place at Oriana, she was sure 
 to pout. It broke her heart, she said, to see that 
 Giulietta, who could pick and choose, suffered all 
 the young maidens of Oriana to go before her. It 
 was very well for children to run after butterflies, 
 and take off their shoes and stockings to dance in
 
 THE king's DAUGHTEE. 7^ 
 
 the running stream, (these were amongst Giulietta's 
 favourite amusements) ; but girls of eighteen should 
 think of settling themselves, and when rich suitors 
 came wooing to them, should not jeer, and stop 
 their ears, and run away as if the parish-beadle 
 was after them. 
 
 Do what one will, ' the hind feet of tlie stag 
 will never overtake the fore ones." Gioconda 
 thought this, or something like it, when she re- 
 flected on the prudent education she had given to 
 Giulietta, and how her wild nature still run a-head 
 of it. ••' Ah, (she would say,) blood is breeding, 
 and I fear poor Giulietta's mother was no storer 
 up of winter comforts. Well, people must be as 
 God makes them, and no doubt it is all for the 
 best, as he has so willed it ;'*' and then she would 
 bow her head devoutly, and grow gay again ; nor 
 was hope ever long absent — that hard-billed bird, 
 that finds picking every where. 
 
 "Hush, dear Gioconda,"" said Giulietta one day 
 that the provident housekeeper had been giving 
 her a lecture ; " you don't know what I dreamt of 
 last night."" 
 
 " Pr'ythee, child, hold thy peace ; thy dreams
 
 72 THE king's daughter. 
 
 are no better than fairy tales. Give me more 
 sense, and less invention."" 
 
 " Nay, vou are cross, dear mother ; but you 
 must hear me, nevertheless. Ah, now that I have 
 got hold of your hands, you cannot stop your ears 
 with your fingers." 
 
 " Well, if I must, I must ; but be brief, my 
 honey-bird, for it is time that I should draw my 
 cake from the oven, and set the table before the 
 father comes." 
 
 «' O, as for that, my dream is told in two words. 
 Last night, I thought — that is, I dreamt, of the 
 white-haired old lord in the fine coat, whom, I am 
 quite sure, I remember carrying me about in his 
 arms, though you, dear Gioconda, say it is impos- 
 sible, and that children of three years old have as 
 little memory as conscience; but whether it be, or be 
 not fancy, last night I walked with him in a garden 
 full of buds and flowers, — and in my dream I knew 
 the garden, I remembered it, — but how you frown 
 upon me, mother ; why do you look so angry ? " 
 
 " A pretty question truly," retorted the dame. 
 ''Why, art thou not fancying thyself the king\s 
 daughter ?"
 
 THE king's daughter. 7^ 
 
 " Or the rope dancer's," said Giulietta gravely, 
 and with a sudden blush. 
 
 " Heaven only knows ! ''"' replied Gioconda with 
 gentleness, for her wrath seldom lasted more than 
 a minute. " But be that as it may, thou shalt never 
 want a parent's care while I am here to love and 
 guard thee." 
 
 Not many days after this baby-dream of Giu- 
 lietta's, news came to the village of the approach 
 of a great prince, who was coming to live in the 
 neighbourhood ; and while the idlers were gossip- 
 ping about it, down came a host of fiddlers, scene- 
 painters, and other court mummers, who preceded 
 the great man. This prince, whose dominions were 
 at the other side of the Alps, and who had been 
 ordered by his physicians to try the renovating air 
 of the orange and lemon groves, that bloomed like 
 the sunny side of the apple at the back of his snow- 
 mountains, had lately made himself master of a fine 
 castle within bow-shot of Oriana, and came to take 
 possession of it, with the pomp and equipage which 
 suited his high station. 
 
 E
 
 74 . THE KINg'*S daughter. 
 
 The whole population turned out to stare at him 
 as he passed with his gallant falconers in green and 
 gold, and his handsome pages in blue and silver, 
 and the court ladies in fine carriages, and the cava- 
 liers on fine horses, and all the retinue of a pageant 
 till then unknown at Oriana, whose occasional 
 splendours had hitherto been supplied from the 
 resources of San Panteleone. But on that day, 
 the villagers were taught the difference between 
 Santa Lucia's tin crown and gilt paper stomacher, 
 and the real silver and gold, brocaded into the very 
 seams of the waiting gentlemen's garments. — What 
 that knowledge cost them is another question. 
 
 I have said that all ran out to see the procession, 
 and of course Giulietta with the rest : in a moment 
 she was perched on the top of a wall, and stood 
 clinging to a broken column with the shape and air 
 of one of those exquisite nymphs of antiquity who 
 visited poets in their dreams, and coquetted with 
 the pagan divinities. It chanced to be a hohday, 
 and the green net with its golden tracery was 
 placed somewhat upon one side of the head, while 
 a few fresh vine-leaves were twasted among the long 
 black tresses'that fell negligently from beneath it.
 
 THE king's daughter. ^5 
 
 Every one who has visited Italy knows, that 
 there is no lack of finery in the holiday-dress of an 
 Italian peasant, nor of taste either. Giulietta's black 
 velvet boddice was as fine as gold and silver thread 
 and Gioconda's handy work could make it ; no 
 girl, far or near, wore such fresh and fine white 
 sleeves, or such ample bows on her shoulders; 
 the short scarlet petticoat, too, was magnificently 
 bordered round with stripes of many colours, and 
 the narrow white silk apron richly fringed ; all, in 
 short, to the very shoe strings, was as effective as 
 the curate's indulgence, Gioconda's industry, and 
 Giulietta's taste could make it. 
 
 Just as the carriage in which the court ladies 
 were placed, came opposite to the wall where Giu- 
 lietta had perched herself, some trifling accident 
 impeded the procession. The fine vehicle drew up 
 close to her, and while she admired the ladies, and 
 the horses, and the liveries, and had not eyes enough 
 for all, the high dames were calling to their cava- 
 liers, and pointing their attention to the beautiful 
 peasant, who held fast by her column, and little 
 knew what fine things were said of her by the 
 Glorianas of the drawing-room. 
 
 E 2
 
 76 THE king's daughter. 
 
 Not so Gioconda, who, mounted upon a stone at 
 the bottom of the wall, soon saw which way the 
 eyes were turned, and tried to make known the 
 same by winks, nods, hems, coughs, and other 
 signs of acknowledged significancy. At length Giu- 
 lietta comprehended what Gioconda had long la- 
 boured to make her sensible of, and perceived, to 
 her utter dismay, that all the bright eyes and co- 
 operating glasses were turned upon her. In a mo- 
 ment her face, throat, bosom, w^ere covered with 
 blushes. She imagined herself an object of derision ; 
 and suddenly springing backwards from a height 
 which would have startled some of the gay eques- 
 trians who bent their bold gaze upon her, dashed, 
 like an Atalanta, through the bushes, and never 
 took breath till she found herself safely lodged 
 within the paternal shelter of the curate's arm- 
 chair. 
 
 It was a moment of wounded pride, — of mortifi- 
 cation such as a sensitive mind feels when suspi- 
 cious of being an object of ridicule; the sting is 
 poignant, the venom humiliating, but in young 
 minds — perhaps I should rather say in young vani- 
 ties, — there is a healthful property that heals by
 
 77 
 
 the first intention. Long before Gioconda had 
 returned home, probably before she had missed 
 Giulietta, the light-hearted maiden was sitting by 
 the well-side in the small garden which she called 
 her own, and out-singing the little birds who were 
 used to her music and never heeded it, except when 
 they grew ambitious, and stretching their pretty 
 throats would fain emulate the liquid melody of 
 her full and sweetly cadenced notes. 
 
 This well was her darling spot. Four pillars 
 supported its roof of vines, four healthy plants, of 
 deep green leaves and bright tube-like blossoms, 
 grew up from their base, and flung their lavish 
 garlands from one to the other. The rock behind 
 was matted with the close foliage and graceful 
 flowers of the caper, the open spaces bordered with 
 low growing things sweet of hue and scent, that 
 seemed worked into the earth ; roses grew high and 
 wild wherever they found support, and so did the 
 large white convolvulus that bound their sweet 
 boughs together. The well itself was of antique 
 form and hoary colouring ; water-plants had grown 
 upon its surface, and lichens curiously figured 
 the grey stone and its rude sculptures ; and as
 
 78 THE king's daughter. 
 
 one sat upon the rustic seat beside it, a verdant 
 pergola freshly carpeted with a narrow stripe of 
 grass, led the eye through its close vista to two 
 quaint flower-knots, thick set with sweets, and rich 
 in bloom and fragrance 
 
 Garden scenery in Italy, be its scale large 
 or diminutive, is, if not overrun by ruin and the 
 weeds that follow it, effacing symmetry and trail- 
 ing their lavish beauty over its unerring lines, 
 rarely otherwise than formal. These patches of 
 bright embroidery were like the rest ; but the eye 
 wandered over them, not unrefreshed, and dropped 
 into the gentle valley that gave its name to the 
 village, — the green valley whose meadows were 
 irrigated by unseen currents of clear water, fed by 
 a mountain-stream which the neighbourly Alps had 
 sent circling through their flowery herbage, — the 
 valley where the sun set, and the fresh chesnut 
 woods that grew upwards from its fields protracted 
 lovingly its last and most beautiful lights. 
 
 How sweet it was at evening, when the airy and 
 feathered trees that fringed the summits of the hills 
 showed the sunbeams through their gauzy leaves ; 
 for at that hour their solid texture seemed almost
 
 THE king's daughter. 79^ 
 
 transparent, and the yellow light came to the eye 
 as through a film ; while the quiet heaven and 
 the motionless earth beneath it were so clear, so 
 still, that the village dwellings looked as if they 
 were painted on the hills, and the hills upon the 
 heavens. 
 
 By the well-side (as I have already said) sat 
 Giulietta, when the housekeeper returned blazing, 
 agitated, and breathless, fanning herself and mo- 
 tioning to her charge, as she bustled towards the 
 pergola, and wondering to find her keeping com- 
 pany with the birds, and singing like one of them, 
 with the same happy but unelated look that she 
 had worn the evening before. 
 
 But all Gioconda's movements were lost (like 
 the nods and winks of the morning) on Giulietta, 
 whose head happened to be turned the other way ; 
 and while, exhausted more by emotion than bodily 
 fatigue, the good woman sat down to rest for a 
 moment on a bench at some distance from the well, 
 the sweet notes of her pet nightingale came down 
 to her through a screen of flowers, with the words 
 of a pleasant air that she loved to hear her sing 
 floating on them : —
 
 80 THE king's daughter. 
 
 GIULIETTA'S SONG. 
 
 Tell me, my pretty bird, where do you come from, 
 
 Who tied the azure thread round your bright neck ? 
 Is the green rose-bush your shelter, your lov'd home, 
 Or does your nest the red almond-tree deck ? 
 
 Blue is your soft breast. 
 
 Purple your bright crest. 
 And your wide wings are all crimson and gold : 
 
 Soft from your full throat 
 
 Gushes love's own note, 
 But your dark eye is both wayward and bold. 
 
 Tell me, my mocking bird, where are you come from, 
 
 Where is the bow'r you once cheer'd with j^our song ? 
 Is it for love, or for change, that you thus roam. 
 Gay bird, and idle one, floating along? 
 What scented island, 
 Palm -grove or gold strand, 
 Call'd you its glory, its joy, its plum*d king ? 
 Borne, like a light leaf. 
 O'er rocks and o'er reef. 
 Whence comes the perfume shook out from your wing ? 
 
 Tell me, my roving bird, where do you come from, 
 
 Where's the fair lady that made you so fine ? 
 Is she not pining all silent and lonesome. 
 
 While her gay beauty -bird fain would be mine ? 
 
 Gold threads and azure. 
 
 Love without measure. 
 All kinds of treasure were thine wouldst thou stay ; 
 
 But too much petting. 
 
 Brings on forgetting. 
 And this is the moral, my bird, of thy lay.
 
 VOCE. 
 
 PIANO 
 FORTE. 
 
 GIULIETT^'S SOJ^G, 
 
 Tell mc my piet_ty bird,where do you 
 
 r ^ ^ r 
 
 pn 
 
 ti I *. 
 
 Ffe^ 
 
 ^rrn-^-j^ 
 
 come from, Wh<j tied the azure thtead round yrxir bvii;ht 
 
 
 f 
 
 a 
 
 ^=~^- 
 
 t r r tr r i- t: r 
 
 1 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 ss 
 
 -r-r- 
 
 nerk? Is the ^ft-tn rest- bush yrmr sht-l^ter, your 
 
 ^ 
 
 SB 
 
 £=e=.=e 
 
 (g)'.ttA zS 
 
 iS 
 
 -►- r r |- p r ^ 
 
 fc=S: 
 
 r 
 
 r r 
 
 lovd home. Or does your nest the red :ilmond tree deck?
 
 i 
 
 bfcS 
 
 5j^^ 
 
 J J I J J-J 
 
 m 
 
 Blue is your soft breast, Purple your bright crest ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 =^==F 
 
 Wf& 
 
 m 
 
 E3 
 
 ! 
 
 ^F^=F 
 
 r^=r^ 
 
 r r -»- r r 
 
 '^^ 
 
 ^^ — *- 
 
 ^F^ 
 
 FH-i"^4^ 
 
 Aii'l your wide win^s are all crim_ son and ji;-old, 
 
 ys=^ 
 
 E3 
 
 -r-^ 
 
 I 
 
 ©•^^ 
 
 ?-^ 
 
 r r 
 
 f 
 
 r r 
 
 Soft from your ftill throat Gushes love''s own note, 
 
 tit* 
 
 f£ 
 
 H 
 
 £3 
 
 I 
 
 ^ + 
 
 F^ 
 
 5Fi- 
 
 ^=r-7^ 
 
 f^ 
 
 U 
 
 f '' '■ f 
 
 'ss-.^^ 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 ^^ ^ 
 
 Rut your dark eye is both wa^'ward and bold. 
 
 ^H 
 
 3l§^ 
 
 £ f* ^ E~~r r 
 
 f^ 
 
 -^ r
 
 THE king's daughter. 81 
 
 So warbled Giulietta; but Gioconda had other 
 things to think of besides beauty-birds. Her song 
 was a fairy tale, with all the necessary ingredients, 
 — from the young prince down to the gilt coach 
 and " pretty page/' — and her wonder was, that 
 Giulietta turned a deaf ear to it. 
 
 Nothing was talked of that night at the duke's 
 table but the beautiful villager. No matter what 
 had been thought of her large eyes and her long 
 eye-brows at Oriana ; at the castle they were 
 pronounced perfect, and to have a nearer view of 
 so fair a creature the young prince proposed that 
 the theatre should be immediately' put in order, 
 and what the French call tableaux got up for the 
 purpose of drawing her to the show, or if possible 
 making her an actor in it. In the mean time, an 
 emissary was despatched to the village to learn who 
 and what she was, and the Prince Rudolphe, who 
 was just twenty-two, and had not been what is 
 called in love above three times, mused himself to 
 sleep after a full hour's tossing, and dreamt till 
 morning of green nets and taffeta aprons. 
 
 e3
 
 82 THE king's daughter. 
 
 —II.— 
 
 Duke William of Herpsberg was a gracious 
 sovereign, whose dukedom afforded sufficient room 
 for three magnificent palaces, besides divers hunt- 
 ing-seats and pleasure-houses. Within his domi- 
 nions were three towns of some size, with hot 
 springs and theatres, redoutes and picture-galleries, 
 museums, public gardens, and perhaps as many 
 means of wasting time — or enjoying it, as mightier 
 sovereigns possess within their palmy capitals ; 
 and though a traveller may breakfast at one ex- 
 tremity of his dominions, and arrive in good time 
 for dinner at the other, yet there is enough upon 
 the road to amuse the idler, and delay the curious. 
 
 He was, in short, what strangers call a petty 
 prince, and his subjects a powerful — ^no, that is not 
 the word, — an enlightened sovereign, which in the 
 German residencies means sometimes, though not 
 always, (witness SaxeWeimar and others,) a prince 
 who loves and patronises music, boasts of his 
 orchestra, is politically influenced by the counsels 
 of his prime-minister, or high chamberlain's wife — 
 perhaps by the prima donna ; and if he be warlike, 
 looks to pinched waists and stuffed craws as infal-
 
 THE king's daughter. 83 
 
 lible indications of a martial spirit. Duke William 
 loved music, and did not altogether despise the 
 influence of beauty ; but he was a discreet man, 
 and more than that, a good one, with high sen- 
 timents of honour, much urbanity? and some 
 instruction, yet with little force of character, and 
 proud as German princes usually are before they 
 have dissolved into philanthropists, or learned the 
 lesson of philosophy which has lately forced its 
 way into the class-book of sovereigns. 
 
 The prince, his nephew, was a handsome youth — 
 magnificent the ladies said — with more of ardour 
 than of industry, better acquainted with Goethe 
 and Schiller than with Kantz and Leibnitz, but 
 frank and manly, with a charming indifference to 
 self, and a mind strongly influenced by certain 
 romantic tendencies, which led him to seek for 
 poetry in the homespun events of ordinary life, 
 and fancy it sometimes where nothing announced 
 to common eyes its probable existence. He had 
 this faculty, it was said, from his father, — certainly 
 not from his mother, the Princess Herminia. It 
 seemed indeed to have been born with him, for 
 though a wild, he had been a dreaming child, gay 
 and abstracted by turns ; and though manhood
 
 84 THE king's daughter. 
 
 found him pre-eminent in all the accomplishments 
 becoming his station, — brave, noble, gallant, and 
 sometimes giddy, yet the dreamy and idealizing 
 spirit was still there. He read little, mused less, 
 for what handsome young prince of twenty-two 
 has time to do either ? but though unfostered by 
 artificial means, it was always there, colouring the 
 common-place of life with its deep-drawn hues, 
 its inborn and marvellous radiance. His was a 
 delightful nature, kind, open, genial ; free to give, 
 careless of return, with a clear sound vision that 
 took in at once the beautiful whole, and overlooked 
 the vexatious minutiae which distract narrower 
 attentions, like a gallant vessel that cuts straight 
 through the broad waves, and throws the froth 
 behind her. 
 
 In nothing, unless it might be in beauty, (though 
 hers was of an entirely different character,) did 
 Rudolphe resemble his mother, who was the only 
 sister of the duke. The Princess Herminia was a 
 woman shrewdly organized, famed for her worldly 
 wisdom and court breeding, for her contempt of 
 low birth and indulgence for high vices, and above 
 all for her perfect and enduring beauty. At 
 forty-two she preserved the shape of a goddess.
 
 THE king's daughter. 85 
 
 and almost the freshness of a nymph ; her features 
 were absolutely faultless, her countenance passion- 
 less but sweet: it was an unchanging and some- 
 what studied sweetness, yet it passed on the mul- 
 titude, and when her beauty was spoken of, the 
 word celestial was in general requisition. 
 
 But I have brought her forward before her time, 
 for she was still at Herpsberg, being one of those 
 outwardly languid and placid natures who love to 
 drop into ready-made comforts, and to inhale the 
 perfume of flowers planted by other hands than 
 their own. When the chateau had assumed an 
 inhabited appearance, and the saloons were duly 
 impregnated with the true court odour ; when the 
 theatre had been gilt and draperied into elegance, 
 and the players were in readiness; then it was 
 presumed that the princess would take the reins of 
 government into her own hands, and dispense the 
 balm and honey of her favours among the minor 
 pleiades — the court constellations, who borrowed 
 whatever they had of lustre from her effulgence. 
 
 Gioconda never heard of a prince without fancy- 
 ing that he might perhaps be the father of Giulietta, 
 and it was not till she had carefully conned over 
 every page of Duke William's private history, which
 
 86 THE king's daughter. 
 
 the tenaciousness of memory, undiverted by other 
 incidents, had registered in the gossip's note-book, 
 and of which its possessors — the old servants and 
 hangers-on of the family — were ready circulators, 
 that she could bring herself to give up the wild 
 idea that had crossed her brain on hearing of his 
 arrival. Indeed, after having witnessed the admi- 
 ration with which the first view of Giulietta had 
 inspired him, nothing but instinct, the truth of 
 instinct, the miraculous power of instinct, was in 
 her head, or on her lips. 
 
 " Certainly,*" said she one day to the curate, 
 " the instinct of nature is marvellous. Children 
 have been enabled by it to point out the murderers 
 of their parents, and parents to recognise their 
 long-lost children.'' 
 
 ''Gioconda," replied the father gravely, "nothing 
 is impossible to an all-directing Providence, and 
 what we call instinct, is doubtless an instrument 
 of divine wisdom in the consummation of its high 
 designs; but such things baffle our dim scrutiny, 
 and obvious means and ends are the resting-places 
 on which ignorance willingly reposes. Here, how- 
 ever, is no question of internal evidence; but siujply, 
 as it seems to me, of admiration, naturally enough
 
 THE king's daughter. HJ 
 
 excited by the unexpected appearance of so fair a 
 maiden as our Giulietta." 
 
 "It may be so," replied Gioconda, "for it is not 
 every day's sun that brings to light such eyes as 
 hers are ; and as Duke William never had a child, 
 of course Giulietta cannot well be his. Well ! she 
 is worthy of a good father, and a fair mother too ; 
 but Heaven grant that none of those tumbling- 
 people, that fill up every cranny of the castle, may 
 claim her : holy Mary keep that trouble from us ! 
 It's odd enough, but whenever my head cools about 
 kings, and so on, these rambling vagabonds come 
 across my mind ; and I can't get the better of the 
 notion, that if she does not belong to the eagle, 
 she may to the jay, — and there ends my castle- 
 building." 
 
 " She probably belongs to neither," said the cu- 
 rate thoughtfully. "Some unhappy person," — 
 then, suddenly checking himself, he added, — " but 
 we are all in the dark, and our conjectures are at 
 best useless. Let us then be satisfied with the 
 blessing which Providence has given us in our dear 
 Giulietta, without prying into causes which are 
 (doubtless for wise reasons) hidden from us." 
 
 I am not quite sure that the curate's rebuke
 
 88 THE king's daughter. 
 
 would have silenced Gioconda, who was no great 
 respecter of persons, and moreover loved the last 
 word, had not the sight of two mounted cavaliers, 
 who turned their horses' heads towards Father 
 Nicolas's dwelling, given another direction to her 
 eloquence. 
 
 " Bless me ! " she cried, " if here are not two 
 gallants riding up through the vineyards. Look, 
 father : as I am a sinful woman, 'tis Prince Ru- 
 dolphe himself, — the duke's own nephew ! and no 
 doubt some other of the mighties that rides beside 
 him, — and I such a figure ! If I could but stick 
 on a breast-knot and a pair of clean sleeves, — and, 
 bless me ! no fresh flowers gathered to-day, and 
 you in your old night-gown, and an ounce of snuff 
 upon your collar ! Giulietta ! I say, Giulietta ! 
 Run quickly ; here comes the prince. Tie on your 
 flowered apron, and run the new bodkins — the silver 
 filigree — through your hair. O, if it had but been 
 Sunday, when we are all ranged and seemly, as be- 
 comes the priest's family, — but that's always the 
 way ; when we are in querpo none come, and now 
 this unlucky Friday ! Giulietta ! I say, Giulietta I 
 What a child it is, — deaf as a post, or out with the 
 birds, I warrant ye! "
 
 THE king's daughter. 89 
 
 But Giulietta,\vho had heard nothing of the bustle, 
 was slowly coming up a narrow grass path, hidden 
 from the windows of the curate's parlour by the 
 vines which grew about it, with a basket of grapes 
 on her head, and the every-day apron of black silk 
 gathered up in her hand, and filled with fresh roses. 
 
 " Here I am, dear mother," she said, as she 
 stepped in at the low parlour-window, " and here 
 are roses for you : are they not beautiful ? And 
 these hyacinths, — the duke himself has not finer. 
 But I shall ask Pietro to give me a root or two of 
 his tulips, for they get on better than mine." Then 
 seeing Gioconda looking terrified, she added, — 
 " What ! you think that the duke mayn't fancy it ? 
 Ah, dear Gioconda," — waving her hand archly — 
 " you know nothing of princes." 
 
 At this moment Rudolphe, who had entered the 
 room a moment before her, approached with one of 
 those compliments of every day wear, which cour- 
 tiers — even when they are thinkers too — are in the 
 habit of addressing to town grisettes or the fair 
 lawn-aproned abigails of the back staircase ; a 
 something about cheeks fresher than roses, enviable 
 and too highly-favoured tulips, and other gallan- 
 tries of the madrigal kind. But her thunderstruck
 
 90 THE king's daughter. 
 
 air at once arrested his fluent common-place ; and 
 before he could pick up the scattered pearls of his 
 discourse, or go from the cheek to the eye, or slip 
 in a word about Venus or her tire-women, Giulietta 
 had recovered from her fright, and re-assumed the 
 air of innocent dignity which was natural to her, 
 and which silenced the florid nothings of the young- 
 prince sooner and more eff*ectually than the frown 
 of a court beauty had ever done. 
 
 He was not, it is true, much used to frowns; and 
 when they were bent upon him, took them, much 
 as he did smiles — carelessly enough, as signs signi- 
 fying nothing, and convertible at will into tokens 
 of softer augury. But the modest blush with which 
 Giulietta turned from his intense gaze, and the 
 proud air of her averted head, whose fine upright 
 yet retreating position manifested — not the shame- 
 faced feeling of vulgar and easily overcome bashful- 
 ness, but the innate principle of modesty, awed the 
 young prince into respect, and almost into timidity. 
 He certainly attempted no more compliments that 
 evening ; his manners were affable and polite, with- 
 out being condescending. No handsome woman 
 ever forgives condescension, at least its outward 
 and visible signs ; the art of an adroit suitor is to
 
 THE king's daughter. 91 
 
 make her whom he admires feel that she is raised 
 to his level, not that he has lowered himself to hers. 
 Rudolphe's mission was to prepare the way for 
 Giulietta's visit to the castle, by inviting the curate, 
 on the part of the duke his uncle, to dinner on the 
 following day. It was a mark of deference for his 
 cloth, the good man thought, and so believed him- 
 self obliged to accept with respect an invitation, 
 which he would have joyfully declined had his code 
 of politeness furnished him with an excuse for so 
 doing. 
 
 At length he departed, leaving the most favour- 
 able impression on the minds of the simple trio : 
 the priest was gratified, Gioconda bewildered, and 
 Giulietta more pleased than she chose to appear ; 
 for disguise is twin-born with that first feeling of 
 preference which we call love, though it is only the 
 path that leads to it ; and she who had never feigned 
 before, and scarcely knew that she did so now, 
 found herself denying his undeniable beauty, dis- 
 puting the indisputable sweetness of his voice, and 
 spelling him backwards, as a witch is said to do a 
 Pater-noster ; until Gioconda, shocked at her want 
 of taste, flounced out of the room indignantly, little 
 thinking how flowers may bloom though the cold
 
 92 THE king's daughter. 
 
 snow covers them, as those who have gathered the 
 blue gentian in the dim valleys of the Alps, where 
 it gleams amidst tlie snows like a bright sapphire 
 shrined in silver, can testify. 
 
 To-morrow came at the usual time, and great 
 were the preparations made for the curate's toilette 
 by both his handmaids. It was perfect : never did 
 his mild and venerable figure appear to more ad- 
 vantage, and as he slowly ascended the hill which 
 led to the castle, Giulietta, who stood at the wicker 
 gate looking after liim, remarked in the pride of 
 her heart, that if good looks made bishops, he would 
 have been one long ago. 
 
 The duke received the priest — as a proud man, 
 and even an overbearing one, usually receives 
 another whose station is immeasurably beneath his 
 own, — with the most encouraging affability : it is 
 only against those who approach the great man's 
 level, that his quills rise. The ladies took their 
 tone from the duke, and were deliciously courte- 
 ous — quite good creatures, who talked with interest 
 of the crops, and the vintage, and the wants of the
 
 THE king's daughter. 93 
 
 church, until the simple curate, who had never 
 before come in contact with court ladies, felt as 
 much at his ease as if he had been listening to 
 Giulietta's gossip in his own parlour. 
 
 This is one of the secrets of high breeding ; 
 vulgar folks, who wish to make those whom they 
 consider as their inferiors comfortable, regularly 
 begin by showing their '"vantage ground' before 
 they venture to step from it. Such people cannot 
 afford to come down until they have proved their 
 right to the high seat, and then it is too late; for 
 proud spirits have had time to take offence, and 
 timid ones to take fright, and so their affability 
 goes for nothing, or something worse than nothing. 
 But indisputable persons do not vefiture, but 
 proffer urbanity, (I mean when it suits them to do 
 so,) certain that should their courteousness be mis- 
 understood or presumed upon, they have but to 
 intrench themselves an inch or two behind their 
 hereditary ramparts, and the poor intruders who 
 are left outside are soon made sensible of the dif- 
 ference between right arid sufferance. The dames 
 of the castle had a point to gain, and were charm- 
 ing ; and the simple soul, who had wisely de- 
 termined that Giulietta should never make her
 
 94 THE KlNG^S DATJGHTKR. 
 
 appearance amongst them, ended by promising to 
 present her to the excellent ladies on the following 
 day. 
 
 To be brief, she was presented ; and the ladies 
 were so charmed with her naivete, her ignorance, 
 and her costume, and the gentlemen with her 
 grace and beauty, that it was found impossible to 
 pass a day without her. Then came the discovery 
 of her voice, and of her wit, which was pronounced 
 admirable, and of her fine tact, a quality altogether 
 aristocratical, but natural in Giulietta as her bloom 
 or her gaiety. 
 
 " It is really extraordinary V exclaimed the old 
 Countess Valdemar, who dictated in the absence of 
 the Princess Herminia. "Where can this girl have 
 acquired such notions of good breeding ?" 
 
 " Probably from delicacy of feeling," said Ru- 
 dolphe, " from an innate sense of propriety." 
 
 "All that sounds well," returned the countess, 
 " but feeling will not teach forms." 
 
 Rudolphe, perhaps, thought otherwise. 
 
 "And how many worthy people," she continued, 
 " do we meet with, who think all sorts of right 
 things, and yet are for ever offending by coarseness 
 and impropriety ; while this girl — it is really mar-
 
 THE king's daughter. 95 
 
 vellous — says and does every thing that comes into 
 her head with a grace so charming, that all others 
 are turned by it.*" 
 
 " And the hands and feet ! '' exclaimed the old 
 Count Bulow, " les ewtremites fines ! Never did 
 satin slipper or soft glove enclose any thing more 
 delicately patrician."' 
 
 " It is an especial organization," returned the 
 countess, " a downright defiance to established 
 rules. Did you observe, this morning, when the 
 duke offered her the bouquet, which he had just 
 before refused to the Princess Constantia, how she 
 blushed and stepped back two paces in an attitude 
 of grateful denial ; and when the duke insisted, 
 how she took a single rose, and that the least 
 beautiful, and placed it in her bosom with the 
 expression of one who felt the distinction to be 
 unmerited, but who accepted it with respect — not 
 as a tribute, but as an act of kindness ? A com- 
 mon nature would have taught the duke his duty 
 by handing it over to the princess, or perhaps 
 have received it with conscious triumph ; but from 
 the turn which she gave to this delicate matter, it 
 seemed merely a mark of benevolence on his part, — 
 a finger held out to the humblest of the company
 
 96 THE king's daughter. 
 
 to raise her a little to the level of the rest. In 
 short, her tact is perfect, it is absolutely courtly.'' 
 
 Thus did Giulietta sail before the wind, the 
 general pet of the duke and the ladies, and the 
 rustic divinity of the courtiers : but what was she 
 to Rudolphe, and Rudolphe to her, before a few 
 short weeks had elapsed ? All and every thing. 
 And yet no words but those of common import 
 had passed between them ; no vows, no protesta- 
 tions; nothing but a look interpreted by sympathy, 
 or a word pronounced before others, a common 
 word, but translatable into eloquence with the 
 help of love's glossary. And thus had they settled 
 it all in their hearts ; and as Giulietta knew no- 
 thing of the distinctions of rank, and Rudolphe 
 thought nothing about them, they dreamt on, 
 rocking themselves in the soft cradle of their new- 
 born feelings, and forgetting that there might be a 
 future frowning on them in the distance. 
 
 Happy, happy hours of early love ! bright days 
 by which we guess of paradise ! new hearts and 
 fond ones ! What is the delirium of ambition, the 
 bubble of glory, to your dream of dreams.'^ How 
 quickly does the heart answer, — nothing! But 
 the dreamers — who count on an eternity of delight,
 
 THE king's daughter. 97 
 
 and little think how soon the present becomes the 
 past, — poor dupes! to whom the woods, the skies, 
 the flowers, tell tales of happiness which the world 
 refutes, — -coldly, perhaps cruelly, — but always too 
 late. 
 
 Just at this period, when the rugged earth 
 seemed in Giulietta's eyes to be covered with the 
 flowers of paradise, when a footstep in the gallery, 
 a sound under her window, a figure passing in the 
 distance, made heaven in her heart, arrived the 
 princess. Giulietta was at the castle, and it hap- 
 pened that her highness descended from her car- 
 riage just at the moment when the story of Clari, 
 thrown into living pictures, was about to be repre- 
 sented. Ever kind and gracious, she insisted that 
 no hindrance should be opposed to the performance 
 by her presence ; and as her benign wishes were as 
 absolute as the sternest commands, the curtain 
 rose as usual. Giulietta was the Clari, and though 
 she had never seen a theatrical representation, or 
 even a very clever picture, yet her fine natural 
 taste, correct perception, grace, and feeling, more 
 than made up for the want of early cultivation. 
 
 F
 
 98 THE king's daughter. 
 
 The princess expressed her approval in her own 
 beautiful calm way. She even went beyond it ; 
 and when Clari, faint and way-worn, reaches at 
 last the bourn of her mournful pilgrimage, and 
 kneeling before the home of her happy days 
 stretches out her arms towards it, exclaimed, 
 " How fine and sorrowful ! Nothing of the me- 
 chanism of grief, no solicitude of sympathy or 
 admiration ; all deep, careless, concentrated, as if 
 sorrow lived alone in the heart ! " And then she 
 looked as if she too had a heart, and smiled so 
 beautifully on Giulietta, that the poor maiden 
 could have almost knelt down and worshipped her. 
 
 That night Giulietta was to sleep at home, 
 which she now did but seldom ; for the great 
 ladies, having coaxed the curate to give up his 
 wise resolution of keeping her out of their way, 
 had little difficulty in prevaihng on him to spare 
 her to their frequent wishes. But it was Saturday 
 evening, and nothing, not even the desire of the 
 princess herself, could have induced her to pass 
 the Sunday away from the good father and her 
 dear Gioconda. 
 
 " And now that she is gone," said the fair and 
 placid Herminia, " tell me who is this beautiful,
 
 THE king's daughter. 99 
 
 singular creature ? She is certainly a new species. 
 I never saw any thing in the least like her ; no- 
 thing of the legitimate mint, nothing of the court 
 fac-similes, and yet so graceful, so piquante, that 
 one pardons her originality. Let her be sent for 
 to-morrow; she must be exceedingly amusing. But 
 who is she? Is she commandable ?" 
 
 " What !"" exclaimed the duke, "have you not 
 heard of the King's Daughter T** 
 
 "Or the rope-dancer's?" added the Princess 
 Constantia, with bitterness. 
 
 Her serene highness professed ignorance, and 
 half a dozen voices opened at once ; but the Coun- 
 tess Valdemar commanded silence, and placing 
 herself on a stool close to the sofa on which the 
 princess reclined, made her highness mistress in 
 five minutes of Giulietta's story. 
 
 The princess was surprised, and somewhat 
 shocked, and not a little vexed to have been be- 
 trayed into a waste of worse than unprofitable 
 admiration. She had supposed Giulietta the 
 daughter of some neighbouring noble, — a decayed 
 branch perhaps, but of an old tree ; she had even 
 read it in the patrician turn of her head. But a 
 chance bantling ! a something picked up under a 
 
 F 2
 
 100 THE king's daughter. 
 
 lime-tree ! It was well to see a creature of that 
 kind in her proper sphere, at a village festival, or 
 a Sunday merry-making, or to hear her sing in the 
 vestibule when their high mightinesses were at 
 table ; but to be brought into familiar contact with 
 any thing so ignoble, was not to be endured by a 
 princess of the house of Herpsberg. 
 
 " And yet,*" said Rudolphe, " even the house of 
 Herpsberg might be proud of possessing such a 
 jewel."' 
 
 The princess cast a rapid glance over the fea- 
 tures of her son, and something like a smile accom- 
 panied the quick inspection. When this illustrious 
 actress was violently agitated, she always smiled ; 
 she did so now, and her lips grew pale as they 
 lengthened ironically ; but it was only the spasm 
 of a moment, and before the eye could seize its 
 meaning, it had shifted to the benign expression 
 which habitually masked the workings of her 
 mind. 
 
 From the famous *' bouquet de plumes de coq 
 et de paon,*" down to the single quill of Mephis- 
 topheles, the bad spirits have always been addicted 
 to feathers. They are a significant ornament ; but 
 in the bright Herminia's obsequious circle, no eye
 
 THE KING''s daughter. 101 
 
 had leisure to remark the nervous quiver of her 
 highnesses travelling plume, or at least no tongue 
 made comment on it. 
 
 But who could comment, who could understand 
 her ? She seemed beyond the influence of human 
 passions, because she was beyond the detection of 
 human sagacity. She was ambitious, might be 
 jealous — false — vengeful; but the world did not 
 fathom it, none looked beyond the barrier of ap- 
 pearances, and that was starred with flowers of 
 a thousand hues. She had no sympathy but with 
 herself; her own pains, her own plots, her own 
 successes were felt, worked out, rejoiced in with 
 concentrated intenseness ; self was the live spot in 
 her heart, but with the feelings of others hers 
 held no kindred. 
 
 The fete was over, the lamps extinguished, the 
 maids of honour retired to their niches, the prince 
 to his window — it was a lover's moonlight, — from 
 which he could discern the tall chimnies of the 
 curate'^s cottage ; and the duke, whose custom it 
 was to read for an hour or so after he had dis-
 
 102 THE king's daughter. 
 
 missed his attendants, had enveloped himself in a 
 night-gown of Indian silk, and v/as seated thought- 
 fully, with some grave author before him, at a 
 table on which lights were burning brightly. 
 
 Towards midnight a German imagination al- 
 ways busies itself about supernatural concerns, — at 
 least it is so said. The duke was thinking of one 
 who did not appear at his bidding, though she had 
 long taken out her title to the shroud and cere- 
 ment, — and ghostly visitors (they say) will come if 
 called for, — when a gentle footstep was heard ap- 
 proaching along the gallery on which his apart- 
 ment opened. The duke listened: it passed on, 
 returned, stopped at the door of his chamber, 
 seemed to pause an instant, and then three low 
 knocks were slowly given against the panel of the 
 door. 
 
 The duke heard the mysterious number and 
 started. " Good God I"" he exclaimed, in a smo- 
 thered accent. The knock was repeated. " Enter,"" 
 said the duke, in a more confirmed tone, " even 
 
 though thou be '" The door opened while the 
 
 name was yet on his lips : it was the princess. 
 
 " I am come to talk with you, my brother," said 
 she, in a tone of gentle reproach, '« about the young
 
 THE king's daughter. 103 
 
 person who has been introduced — unguardedly as 
 it appears to me — into your society. But," she 
 added, with an air of surprise, " how scared you 
 look ! What, brother, did you fancy me a 
 ghost ? " 
 
 " I know not,*" replied the duke gravely, " what 
 I may have fancied ; my studies, as you see,*" and 
 he pointed to a large volume which lay unclasped 
 before him, " concern nothing of this world. This 
 is the eleventh of September ! " 
 
 The princess changed colour; but quickly re- 
 covering herself, took the duke's hand, and pressing 
 it within her own, said in a gentle voice, " Think 
 not of that, my William ; nor prayer, nor grief, 
 nor study, can recall the dead." 
 
 " It is for that I grieve," replied the duke. 
 " Could I by prayer, or grief, or study, bring that 
 back which you well remember, I might again be 
 happy." 
 
 " Speak not thus, my brother," said Herminia, 
 placing herself on a chair beside him, and putting 
 on that sweet smile that looked so heartfelt, " speak 
 not thus. Forget for a few moments the sad occu- 
 pation of your lonely hours, and give me your 
 attention in a matter which, as it touches not only
 
 104 THE king's daughter. 
 
 the affections of our hearts but the honour of our 
 house, should interest you deeply." 
 
 The duke leant forward in token of attention. 
 
 " I have chosen this hour," she continued, " as 
 being the only one in which we can confer together 
 unremarked. It is an unauthorized hour, — I know 
 it ; but from many observations which I have 
 made this evening, I feel that there is not a mo- 
 ment to be lost, if we would save a weak and 
 romantic boy from the danger of an absorbing 
 passion and its degrading, perhaps fatal results. 
 Giulietta — " 
 
 The duke started : the idea that the hereditary 
 prince should have conceived a passion for a pea- 
 sant girl, never once crossed his mind. His first 
 movement was to treat the suggestion with con- 
 tempt ; but he well knew his sister's keen dis- 
 cernment, and as she went on developing the 
 apparently slight, but to her mind strong grounds 
 on which her apprehensions were based, his mind 
 opened gradually to suspicion. 
 
 *' You may be right," he said, " for you are 
 rarely otherwise; yet it can only be a transient 
 homage paid to beauty ; a boyish fancy, such as 
 once led him to Prague in pursuit of La Romanelli."**
 
 THE king's daughter. 105 
 
 " La Romanelli ! '' repeated the princess. " O, 
 what a dream is yours ! Look at Giulietta, and 
 then say if she is fitted to be thus loved."" 
 
 " But," said the duke, " Rudolphe is proud ; 
 the blood of those more noble than the kings of 
 Europe runs through his veins. A man thus 
 born flies nobler game." 
 
 *' Not always," replied the princess with a 
 marked expression. 
 
 The duke looked displeased ; a shade gathered 
 on his brow. " Not that," he said, " not that — 
 speak not of that," and his voice was stern and 
 agitated. 
 
 " I did but speak, dear brother," returned Her- 
 minia, in her most soothing tone, " to justify my 
 fears. Forgive me, if I have said too much ; for- 
 give a mother whose heart trembles for the safety 
 of her child. You, too, must see the danger, — 
 the probable consequences." 
 " Allowed : but the remedy .?" 
 " Immediate separation : Rudolphe must depart, 
 and speedily. In this enervating country, where 
 the very air breathes poetry and passion, a soul 
 like Rudolphe's easily forgets the claims of society 
 in the intoxication of romance ; and that peasant 
 
 f3
 
 106 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 beauty who, under a northern sky, would look raw 
 and frost-bitten, catches the rich colouring of her 
 climate, and becomes identified, in his imagination, 
 with the beautiful nature in the midst of which he 
 first beheld her. The girl," she added, forgetting 
 what she had just said, "is nothing remarkable; 
 but she twists flowers in her hair, and wears san- 
 dals, and contrives to look classical in the slight 
 drapery and graceful veil, which is all that the cli- 
 mate requires. Our country girls of Herpsberg, 
 in their thick coatings of drugget, are not divini- 
 ties ; and Rudolphe fancies Giulietta one, because, 
 though in the same class of life, she is so unlike 
 them." 
 
 " True, sister," replied the duke, after a mo- 
 ments thought, " you reason wisely ; and though 
 the girl appears to me to be singularly beautiful, 
 and to have something in her air and manner which 
 though unpatented may well be called noble, yet — " 
 
 "All that you say, brother," interrupted the 
 princess, "goes to strengthen my argument. The 
 more beautiful she is, the more is she dangerous ; 
 and the flexibility of a southern capacity, its power 
 of seeming, its quick perception of advantages, its 
 instinct of artifice, — you frown, you think me
 
 THE king's daughter. 107 
 
 harsh : — well, then, suppose her all that she ap- 
 pears to be, all that you believe her, it is but ad- 
 mitting, but placing in a stronger point of view, 
 the absolute necessity of immediate separation. 
 You find her fair — " 
 
 " Yes," interrupted the duke earnestly, " fair 
 almost as yourself, and of a conduct so engaging, 
 that I, to whom Providence has denied the bless- 
 ing of offspring, cannot behold her without wishing 
 that Heaven had given me such a daughter." 
 
 Here the conversation took a melancholy turn, 
 and the princess, playing adroitly on the excited 
 feelings and enfeebled mind of her brother, pro- 
 cured his consent to the departure of her son, and 
 even a command that Rudolphe should set out for 
 a distant country on the following week. 
 
 The Sunday passed, and Giulietta made her ap- 
 pearance, as she had promised to do, at the castle. 
 The duke received her with a sort of assumed cold- 
 ness, through which individual admiration broke 
 out at intervals. The princess was in her mood of 
 dignity, all the aristocracy of her nature was in
 
 108 THE king's daughter. 
 
 action ; and taking a false view of the character of 
 her son, (the most dexterous overshoot the mark 
 sometimes,) she unwisely imagined, that to weak- 
 en his attachment, she should begin by lowering 
 its object. Nice tacticians have often employed 
 this mode of attack with success ; but applied to 
 Rudolphe, it failed completely. 
 
 Love is the Palestine of the young imagination* 
 the Holy Land of the new heart, which it feels 
 itself bound to protect against the assaults of those 
 fierce Saracens, Pride and Power ; and every 
 attempt at invasion endears the contended ground, 
 and animates the valour which defends it. 
 
 Giulietta perceived at once, that she was not 
 greeted with the usual smiles and courtesies. The 
 princess coldly turned her back upon her, with a 
 look which said as plainly as words could have 
 done, " What does she do here ?''"' The acquiescent 
 ladies followed the bright example, and, I am 
 ashamed to say, so did the men also. The Princess 
 Constantia became purple with the animating sen- 
 sation of gratified malice ; others would have pitied 
 Giulietta had she looked sneakingly, or been hu- 
 miliated into ugliness : but as her embarrassment 
 increased, her colour brightened, her quivering lip
 
 THE king's daughter 109 
 
 grew redder, and she became so insufferably beau- 
 tiful, that a tacit agreement to look her down 
 seemed spontaneously formed, and put in action 
 with the most pitiless celerity. 
 
 The duke was evidently distressed ; he tried to 
 laugh, to talk loud, to appear occupied with those 
 around him; he wished to have, at least, looked 
 kindly on Giulietta ; but his sister's eyes pursued 
 him, — her calm blue eyes, that never looked more 
 soft and skyey than at that moment. O, those 
 eyes ! those eyes ! that borrow the language of 
 heaven, and utter curses in it : the terrible ones, 
 that boldly look daggers while the hands use them, 
 are honester, safer, better, — out and out better, 
 than those false orbs ; their light is like the eternal 
 day which at certain seasons prevails in northern 
 latitudes ; the sun is always there, even when we 
 feel that it ought to be night, and its light seeming 
 unnatural, becomes hideous. 
 
 The duke felt this for the first time, but had 
 not strength to rebel against the tyranny of habit. 
 He looked away from Giulietta ; she observed his 
 embarrassment, guessed its cause, reflected for a 
 moment, asked herself rapidly if she had in any 
 way given reason for just offence, found no touch
 
 110 THE king's daughter. 
 
 of consciousness, and crossing the room with a dig- 
 nified but modest air, had just reached the door, 
 when Rudolphe, starting from the spot to which he 
 had a moment before seemed rooted, approached 
 her respectfully, and, in the very teeth of the 
 sneering circle, would have conducted her from the 
 apartment. His eyes sparkled with rage and indig- 
 nation ; she raised hers gratefully but proudly to 
 him, inclined her head to signify a refusal which he 
 saw it was useless to oppose, and then passing 
 through the vestibule and the private door of the 
 flower-garden, which opened only to favourites, 
 fled like the invisible wind, and was out of sight 
 in a moment. 
 
 No sooner had Giulietta quitted the castle, than 
 the duke's conscience smote him bitterly. He felt 
 ashamed of the pitiful scene in which he had been 
 made an actor ; and but for his dignity, which he 
 rarely forgot, would himself have followed Giu- 
 lietta. He even went so far as almost to commend 
 Rudolphe openly, when, on being requested by a 
 message from his mother to join her evening circle, 
 he refused verbally, and with the brief excuse that 
 he had other engagements. 
 
 The scene was obviously a failure, an impolitic
 
 THE KING S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Ill 
 
 invention ; the prince was already a lover, and his 
 mother's unkindness to Giulietta at once converted 
 him into a champion. She had invested him (very 
 unintentionally) with the spurs ; and before he had 
 retired to rest that night, he had vowed a vow — a 
 lover's vow — which, whether he kept or not, time 
 will discover. 
 
 But as it was not the fashion of Herpsberg to 
 mutiny openly, at least against the commands of 
 the duke, the royal mandate continued still in force, 
 and Rudolphe prepared to obey it, if not with 
 cheerfulness, yet with some show of resignation. 
 For he loved and respected his uncle even in (what 
 he called) his prejudices ; and fearing them less 
 since he had either found, or fancied, that they 
 were counterpoised by the tenderness which the 
 duke felt for GiuHetta, soon brought himself to 
 believe that they might be conquered — if not by a 
 single blow, perhaps by an effort of perseverance. 
 
 Nothing seems unattainable to youth and love. 
 Hope was the lever by which Rudolphe was to 
 turn his world, to upset hereditary pride and 
 habitual stateliness, break through the fixed-bay- 
 onets of ancestry and rank, and stand before the 
 seat of pigmy sovereignty — always relentless and
 
 112 THE king's daughter. 
 
 proud in proportion to its littleness — demanding 
 honour for a bride without crest or quarters, and 
 obtaining it. 
 
 And with this hope, which, wild and altogether 
 visionary as it seemed, he had contrived by the 
 power of love's alchymy to transfuse into the heart 
 of Giulietta, he departed, attended by a gallant 
 suite for the court of Petersburgh. And the duke 
 and the princess, the cavaliers and the ladies, and 
 all the train of contributors to the festivities of the 
 castle, re-crossed the Alps, and left the village 
 of Oriana once more to its loneliness, — loneliness 
 made known for the first time to its inhabitants by 
 the power of contrast. 
 
 Every one had their regrets : the young girls 
 regretted the attentions of the gentlemen in green 
 and gold, or blue and silver; the youths, who 
 idled about the castle, their share of the sports and 
 flesh-pots ; the old crones the daily bread of their 
 gossippings; and all, the bustle and excitement 
 which had become an article of necessity to their 
 vacant minds. 
 
 But how did Giulietta support the change ? Did 
 she too regret the past, — the velvet sofas, perfumed 
 saloons, and admiring glances ? O no ! her ex-
 
 THE king's daughter. 113 
 
 perience had been quick and cruel, but effectual. 
 She had but one regret, one recollection ; the rest 
 had vanished like a dream, leaving behind it that 
 kind of unconnected impression which clings about 
 us for a moment as we start from sleep, and then 
 fades into the chaos of the unremembered past. 
 Hers was a fine and lofty spirit, and instead of 
 brooding over the insult which had been offered to 
 her, she gathered up her offended feelings into one 
 strong emotion of contempt for the offenders, and 
 then forgot them altogether : as we shake off a 
 reptile which annoys though it cannot hurt us, and 
 then seeing its insignificance, laugh at ourselves 
 for having been disturbed by so impotent an 
 enemy. 
 
 But that one regret, — how deep and strong it 
 was ! It was for Rudolphe — and the fear that 
 sprung up with it — the fear lest some one fairer 
 and finer should enthral him. O, that indeed 
 was wretchedness ! 
 
 It was true that he had vowed — but lovers'* vows 
 (so had Gioconda told her) were but idle make- 
 weights — and even sworn, and looked like Apollo, 
 the best of all the gods, while he did so ; yet what 
 (she often thought) was the bare memory of her
 
 114 THE king's daughter. 
 
 poor charms against the present influence of the 
 fair court ladies with whom Rudolphe was now to 
 live? And then her birth, and unaccomplished 
 mind, — and so she went on, until she had thought 
 herself into fancying that he had loved her as 
 children do blackberries, which they throw away 
 when the grapes ripen, wondering how they could 
 have relished things so homely. 
 
 — III.— 
 
 Rudolphe arrived at St. Petersburgh when the 
 ground was covered with snow and the ladies with 
 furs, and as he inhaled the close odour of the 
 Russian stove, thought of the flowery turf and 
 genial sunshine of Oriana. It is true that he was 
 not unused to this odour, for stoves were in vogue 
 at Herpsberg; but he had fallen in love at the 
 sunny side of the Alps, which made all the differ- 
 ence. Had it been in Greenland, his enamoured 
 fancy would doubtless have dwelt lovingly on 
 crystal caves, and cataracts frozen in their gush 
 and hanging in long icicles like the beard of a 
 polar giant : he would have likened the eyes of his
 
 THE king's daughter. 115 
 
 beloved to the Aurora Borealis, and her step to the 
 bound of the rein-deer: but, as it vv^s, his imagi- 
 nation would hold no commerce but with nightin- 
 gales and roses, blossoming myrtles and orange 
 buds; his dreams had neither fog or smoke in 
 them ; they were all bright daylight dreams, which 
 by the by these * phantasms of sleep' rarely are. 
 In dreams the sun seldom shines, — not that we 
 miss it, or find our pleasant fancies a whit less 
 splendid, or less cheerful, because of the veiled 
 light which seems to fall through a curtain of thin 
 gauze upon them. 
 
 In short, Rudolphe's heart was too full of 
 summer associations to accommodate itself to the 
 snow and ice of Petersburgh. Booted and furred 
 ladies were to him seriously disagreeable ; and 
 though many would have risked catching cold for 
 his sake, had they known his private opinion, yet 
 he never made an effort to better the matter, and 
 contented himself with musing on aprons full of 
 roses, and green nets with threads of gold and vine- 
 leaves woven into them. 
 
 There lived at this period in St. Petersburgh, a 
 Countess Czernikoff, who was said to have played 
 some odd part in her youth ; but who now, as
 
 116 
 
 THE KING S DAUGHTE] 
 
 report went, had wrapped up herself and her sins 
 in the mantle of devotion. She had been in her 
 early days — no one exactly knew what ; but in 
 maturer years had suddenly made her appearance 
 in the Russian capital, proclaiming herself the 
 widow of the Austrian General Luckner, and making 
 much display of a tall easy person, and a wonderful 
 pair of eyes. She was then, perhaps, about forty, 
 but called herself thirty-five, and when lit up, at 
 night, might have passed for less upon the um'ni- 
 tiated ; but the skilled talked of the services of a 
 blonde marmotte which she used to knot under her 
 chin with the most negligent grace imaginable, 
 therewith concealing (as the envious would have 
 it) all that Time had stolen from the firm contour 
 of the cheek and throat. 
 
 Be that as it may, the old Count Czernikoff, 
 who thought her a bud because he had some twenty 
 or thirty years the start of her, became enamoured 
 of her beauty, and touched by a certain expression 
 of melancholy which sometimes cast a sudden shade 
 over her countenance, even in those moments when 
 the spirit of conquest was most in action. Consci- 
 ous that he had no time to lose, he wooed and won 
 her ; and having enjoyed for about six months the
 
 THE king's daughter. 117 
 
 glory of so bright a triumph, considerately slipped 
 out of the world, leaving his fair wife to the enjoy- 
 ment of a vast fortune and an honourable name. 
 
 Some tie of friendship, or convenience, had 
 once united this lady and the Princess Herminia ; 
 but all correspondence had long ceased between 
 them. It was by chance that Rudolphe heard of 
 her existence ; and some rumour of her having once 
 been a favourite of his mother's reaching him in the 
 same way, he conceived it necessary to perform the 
 ceremony of a visit. 
 
 She had grown old, and knew it — an unfortunate 
 discovery sometimes, so far at least as the temper 
 is concerned; but the countess had strength of 
 mind enough to forget that her eyes had served for 
 other purposes than that of seeing with, and was 
 content to obscure their remaining lustre by sub- 
 mitting to the necessity of spectacles. 
 
 Fame had reported her to Rudolphe as an austere 
 and crabbed devotee, and he saw with surprise a 
 lady who, living apart from the world, still pre- 
 served its most refined and courtly habits, a coun- 
 tenance not so much habitually gracious as capable 
 of being so occasionally, and in the eyes a look that 
 had not yet done with life, and that came and
 
 118 THE king's daughter. 
 
 went fitfully, depicting in its lights and shadows 
 the -^vorkings of a passionate, noble, but perhaps 
 ill-regulated mind. In short, a person the very 
 reverse of his mother in every respect, the polish 
 of high breeding alone excepted; and when he 
 added to the disparity of character that of years, 
 his wonder was awakened that any thing like 
 friendship should have existed between two per- 
 sons so entirely dissimilar. 
 
 A closer intimacy with the Countess CzernikofF, 
 disclosed to Rudolphe many shades of character 
 which he had not at first remarked ; and amongst 
 others, the embers of a vast ambition, and an 
 imagination still ardent, and susceptible of being 
 worked upon by expert means. She often talked 
 of the Princess Herminia as one to whose kindness 
 she stood much indebted ; and yet at times there 
 was something in her look and manner that seemed 
 at variance with the grateful warmth which her 
 lips expressed ; it was as if the recollection of the 
 princess'*s favour was connected in her mind with 
 other reminiscences of a less pleasing character. 
 
 It chanced, one evening, that Rudolphe — whose 
 thoughts were always in the bowers of Oriana — 
 spoke of Italy, and suddenly asked the countess
 
 THE king's daughter. 119 
 
 if she had ever been there. That evening she wore 
 no spectacles, and the odd expression of her eyes 
 when she answered, — " Yes ; but so long ago that 
 I have almost forgotten it," struck him at the mo- 
 ment as something singular. " How is it possible," 
 he continued, " that a person of your fine and 
 sensitive mind can willingly shiver amidst this 
 veiled nature, when you have a recollection, 
 however vague, of that lovely land, — that land of 
 beautiful thoughts and gracious images .f^" 
 
 " I do not remember it sunnily," she replied, 
 " and as we grow old, we are disposed to take root 
 and vegetate wherever fate has planted us." 
 
 " I could quarrel with fate," said the prince, 
 " for not having planted you at Oriana." 
 
 " At Oriana !" exclaimed the countess unguard- 
 edly. " What do you know of Oriana.^" 
 
 " A great deal. My uncle has a castle in the 
 neighbourhood." 
 
 " And your mother— does she visit it?" 
 
 " She has done so." 
 
 " Good heavens, how strange ! " 
 
 " But it did not please her," continued Ru- 
 dolphe, warmed into communicativeness by an in- 
 ward feeling which seemed to push him forward.
 
 120 THE king's daughter. 
 
 " There was one in its vicinity whom you would 
 have dearly loved ; but my mother took her in 
 abhorrence.'' 
 
 " Who was she.'^" asked the countess eagerly. 
 
 " May I tell you all V said Rudolphe, in great 
 agitation ; "may I speak to you of Giulietta.?" 
 
 " Giulietta ! What — she whom the priest dis- 
 covered at his door ?" 
 
 " How ! "" exclaimed the prince, starting up and 
 seizing the hands of the countess ; " you know her 
 then?" 
 
 '' Not now," she replied in a tone of deep embar- 
 rassment, " not now." 
 
 " But you have known her ? Tell me, I conjure 
 you, who and what she is — not what she seems, of 
 that my heart assures me. Have pity on me, for 
 the love of Heaven ! and if you know more of my 
 Giulietta than has already come to light, on my 
 knees I beseech you to disclose it to me." 
 
 The countess stepped back a pace or two, and 
 exclaimed, — " Your mother !" 
 
 " My most unkind mother ! " echoed Rudolphe. 
 
 " And most unsearchable ! " said the countess 
 solemnly. And then retreating into an adjoining 
 chamber, appeared no more for the evening.
 
 THE king's daughter. 121 
 
 Rudolphe never saw Madame CzernikofF after 
 that night. It was in vain that he haunted her 
 door ; it was rigorously closed against him. She 
 was ill, or absent, or occupied, but always invisible ; 
 yet still he lingered round her walls, watching 
 every shadow that flitted by, listening to every 
 sound as if life or death were in it, and submitting 
 to the rude repulses of the domestics, who were 
 weary of seeing him, and of repeating the denial 
 to which they were strictly enjoined. Thus were 
 weeks passed in vain attempts to procure an inter- 
 view with her who seemed to hold the thread of his 
 destiny, when in the midst of the most cruel per- 
 plexities came a letter from the Princess Herminia, 
 urging his departure from St. Petersburgh, where it 
 seemed to her that he had loitered too long, for he 
 had much to see, she said ; and so, having traced a 
 plan of more extended travel, she counselled him to 
 set off without delay for Moscow, where her old 
 friend Prince Paul Petrovitch would do the ho- 
 nours of the ancient capital to his young guest. 
 
 Rudolphe obeyed, — perhaps because he felt that 
 to remain was useless, and hoped that by his absence 
 the countess might be thrown more off her guard. 
 So quitting Petersburgh with the decided intention
 
 122 THE king's daughter. 
 
 of returning speedily, surprising her, and wresting 
 the important secret, either by stratagem or per- 
 suasion, from her too close keeping, he arrived at 
 Moscow, where high festivities, cordial greetings, 
 and most gracious smiles awaited him. But he 
 spied stratagem in every proffered service, and a 
 design in every hospitable arrangement ; and when 
 the young and beautiful Countess Volonsky smiled 
 upon him, he saw in her only the agent of a 
 plot formed to allure him from his allegiance to 
 Giulietta. 
 
 Perhaps he was not wrong, — at least one less 
 versed than he was in such matters might have had 
 suspicions, for never did beauty so disdainful lavish 
 itself so carelessly. Wherever Rudolphe was, there 
 was she also, solicitous to obtain even a passing 
 word ; her colour heightening, if he turned towards 
 her, and her fine eyes sparkling with delight when 
 by her grace and vivacity she succeeded in extort- 
 ing a languid smile, or unfrequent compliment. 
 
 It was probable that his reserve had piqued her 
 into the exercise of all her powers, for fair ladies 
 despise easy conquests, will go far to obtain a diffi- 
 cult victory, and then — soft souls ! — have their own 
 way of abusing it. Be this as it may, certain it
 
 THE king's daughter. 123 
 
 was, that what had been begun in vanity, was ob- 
 viously taking the colouring of passion ; and while 
 he became every day colder and more repulsive, she 
 grew more earnest and pursuing, throwing herself 
 in his way with the thoughtlessness of a creature to 
 whose rank and beauty every thing was sure to be 
 forgiven, and who well knew that by one look she 
 could win back the indulgence of those who were 
 most disposed to frown upon her. Not that it ever 
 entered into her calculations to study the opinion 
 of others, or care whether people frowned or 
 smiled, — could any one frown upon her ? She 
 thought not, — that is, if she thought at all about 
 the matter; and with this certainty of pleasing, 
 came that happy careless confidence which ensures 
 success, and is at once cause and effect. 
 
 But in the great attack she failed, for the more 
 demonstrative grew the fair countess, the more did 
 Rudolphe shrink back and hide himself, like those 
 ungrateful flowers which shut themselves up and 
 will not prosper while the sun shines on them. The 
 truth was, that every overture of the charming 
 Volonsky came upon his heart — no, it did not go 
 so far, — upon his fancy then, like a bolt of ice, 
 freezing up every particle of warm feeling, and 
 
 G 2
 
 124 THK king's daughter. 
 
 forcing back his offended imagination to seek 
 repose in the contemplation of Giulietta's pure 
 and vestal image, — so true it is that real love is 
 absolutely exclusive, and suffers nothing in the 
 absence of the object loved but its remembrance. 
 Another week, and Rudolphe was on his road to 
 Petersburg!!, retracing his steps so hastily, that 
 none guessed that he had quitted Moscow. 
 
 The night was wild and dreary ; the winds roar- 
 ed, and the forest creaked so fearfully, that the 
 horses which drew the prince's carriage suddenly 
 stopped, shuddering and plunging as if possessed, 
 while the servants stood aghast, asserting that some- 
 thing had strode across the road and grinned at 
 them. It was the shadow of a tree, whose branches 
 swayed backwards and forwards with a wild doleful 
 sound, while the lightning glared through its split 
 trunk ; but fear had converted it into the spectre 
 huntsman, or wicked spirit of the desert. Rudolphe 
 paused, and looked round for an asylum ; a lone 
 and uninhabited shed stood not far off ; with some 
 difficulty the horses were secured in a sheltered
 
 THE king's daughter. 125 
 
 corner, and the travellers struck a light, and 
 entered the hovel. 
 
 Rudolphe had scarcely taken possession of a 
 pitchy nook, separated from another by a partition 
 of gaping planks carelessly put together, when the 
 rattling of wheels and the clamour of voices an- 
 nounced the arrival of other travellers, whom the 
 fury of the tempest had driven to the same poor 
 shelter. A moment after the dim niche beside him 
 appeared to be occupied ; and when the first bustle 
 had subsided, he heard the voice of a man address- 
 ing himself to some one, who, from the tone and 
 manner of the speaker, was evidently a female, and 
 his superior in rank. Having no desire to listen to 
 a conversation in which he was not meant to be a 
 participator, Rudolphe rose to withdraw to a more 
 remote corner ; when a voice, too familiar to his 
 ear to be mistaken, said, as if in answer to the one 
 who had spoken first, — " You are right ; she is 
 less pliant than I once thought her, but distress 
 promises much which prosperity refuses to per- 
 form : the Countess CzernikofF is no longer Bertha. 
 And then her romantic interest for Giulietta, her 
 admiration of the boy's foolish passion and strange 
 forgetfulness of the distinction of ranks."
 
 126 THE king's daughter. 
 
 "But after all, she has no proof of Giulietta^s 
 birth,'' observed the first speaker. 
 
 " Nor would disclose it, if she had," returned 
 the other voice. " She was ambitious, proud, poor : 
 willingly making sacrifices to promote her personal 
 views, but incapable of what she called dishonour. 
 Has she not shunned the prince, in whose interest 
 her heart is lodged, lest by look or word she should 
 betray the secret partially entrusted to her keeping.'^ 
 But a little of her history, and you will better 
 know the stufl' she is made of. 
 
 " A sad adventure in early life closed the paternal 
 door against her : a long and miserable experience 
 followed. At length, chance threw her in my way : 
 she was still handsome, distressed in circumstances, 
 cast out from society, and devoured by ambition. 
 Conscious of possessing talents, and eager to find 
 means of displaying them, she seemed an engine 
 made expressly for my use, and at first appeared 
 to lend herself willingly to my purposes. I ven- 
 tured a little farther, but it would not do. All 
 that courage, contempt of danger, and inviolable 
 secrecy could achieve, I felt that I could reckon 
 on, nor was she at all insensible to the advantages 
 which were to be reaped by compliance ; but
 
 THE king's daughter. 127 
 
 whatever she weakly considered as implicating her 
 honour, — a thing never really but when publicly 
 involved, — she rejected proudly. For her half 
 services, she was repaid by an honourable marriage 
 with old General Luckner, and an admission into 
 that class of society from which she had been long 
 excluded. Conjectures she has, of course, indulged 
 in, but has never been able to ascertain whether 
 they were or were not based on truth. Had I 
 confided in her, she would have kept my secret, 
 and refused me her assistance. — But here is the 
 letter which I received from her yesterday, and 
 which hastened my departure from Petersburgh. 
 Her letters seem my destiny ; one hurried me from 
 Herpsberg, the other sends me on to Moscow. 
 The presence of Madame Grovenstein prevented 
 me from communicating to you the contents of that 
 
 which Bertha sent to me from her retreat at ; 
 
 but now that we are alone, listen and you will see 
 at once how far she may be counted on." 
 
 The words *' we are alone" struck on the con- 
 science of Rudolphe. He hesitated whether to stop 
 or to retreat ; but he already knew too much to 
 leave the rest unknown, when on that rest depended 
 all that he prized in existence. To fly, would be
 
 128 THE king's daughter. 
 
 to throw away the only clue to the mystery of 
 Giulietta's birth which might ever present itself. 
 Had he a right to do so ? He thought not, but 
 cared not to examine the point too nicely. That 
 his mother was deeply and questionably interested 
 in this strange business was evident; and thoughts 
 too frightful for shape or utterance passed like 
 nameless and unformed monsters through the 
 chaos of his mind. 
 
 He staid : perhaps he was wrong, — I seek not to 
 justify — I only recount. He staid ; and, placed in 
 total darkness close to the partition, saw through 
 its wide chinks the Princess Herminia, who drew a 
 letter from her bosom, while one whom he recog- 
 nised as her confidential creature — or, as he was 
 called, secretary — stood opposite to her, his obse- 
 quious eyes fixed anxiously on those bright orbs, 
 whose portentous calm he had been long accus- 
 tomed to translate tremblingly. Her face was sin- 
 gularly pale, but her brow untroubled ; and with 
 the beautiful fingers of her right hand, she seemed 
 to trace characters on the plank which, placed 
 between them, served the purposes of a table. 
 
 A lamp burned on it. The princess remained 
 for a few moments buried in thought ; then opened
 
 THE king's daughter. 129 
 
 the paper, and running over two or three sentences 
 rautteringly, cleared her voice with a gentle hem, 
 and read in a calm tone what follows : — 
 
 " Never, never can what I owe to you be for- 
 gotten ! It was you who drew me out from the 
 living tomb, within which the errors of my youth 
 seemed to have buried me for ever. When left 
 alone with guilt, and shame, and sorrow, — asking 
 for death, yet daring not to seek it, — you stood 
 before me in all the glory of power, and youth, 
 and unparalleled beauty, — you came to me like the 
 angel of mercy, — to me ! — a wretch abandoned 
 by the good, and yet not wretch enough to have 
 forgotten their lost companionship ! 
 
 " Noble and beloved lady, judge what my heart, 
 which has not grown old with its more perishable 
 investment, feels towards you ! Ask for my life, 
 it is yours; use it as you will, it shall be joyfully 
 employed, or yielded for your service. One thing 
 alone I cannot do, nor would it avail your high- 
 ness if I could. Never will another image efface 
 that of Giulietta. Prince Rudolphe's is not a 
 common heart : had it been, this humble maiden, 
 obscure and unprotected, would have inspired a 
 far other sentiment than that profound and all 
 
 g3
 
 130 THE king's daughter. 
 
 absorbing one, which finds in the recollection of 
 the past a safeguard against the temptation of the 
 present. Pardon me, madam, when I say that your 
 highness misconceives the character of your son. 
 The habitual intimacy which deadens penetration 
 has — in this one instance alone — perhaps impeded 
 the exercise of your usually perfect judgment. 
 Prince Rudolphe will resist the allurements of the 
 Countess Volonsky, all beautiful though she may 
 be, and will repel with equal firmness any attempt 
 which may be made to misrepresent Giulietta. His 
 confidence in her is perfect and unchangeable. It 
 is not a blind belief in vows and promises, but a 
 firm faith in truth and principle : in his eyes she 
 is the living symbol of purity, and all others seem 
 but painted semblances. And then have not you, 
 madam, even you yourself said, that he who loved 
 Giulietta would never love another ? Pardon my 
 boldness, but if she be — as I have sometimes ima- 
 gined — the child of an honourable though concealed 
 marriage, and without other stain upon her birth 
 than that which the rigour of fate has cast upon it, 
 why should she — fair, wise, and virtuous as she 
 is — ^be condemned to so unmeet a destiny ? Your 
 highness has said that her mien became her birth. 
 
 \
 
 THE king's DAUGHTEE. 131 
 
 Forgive me if I say, perhaps too daringly, that it 
 should be a cause beyond imagining powerful 
 which could induce or justify concealment, when 
 that concealment deprives an innocent person of 
 her just distinctions, and consigns her to what the 
 world calls obloquy. 
 
 " My heart dies within me, when T think of 
 what that cause may be. Fitz-Gortzen ! — but no, 
 no ; that is too horrible ! Yet you, madam, once 
 and without seeming aware of it, did drop some 
 words that seemed to say as much ; his race was 
 high and powerful, but his crimes left no name for 
 his offspring. I know — all know of your divine 
 compassion for the wretched woman who accompa- 
 nied him in his flight : might not your pure mind 
 have found a gratification congenial to its nature in 
 rescuing their child from the contagion of crime ? 
 But I will not dwell upon this too terrible solution 
 of a mystery, which I feel that I ought not to dis- 
 cover while it is your wish to conceal it from me. 
 Perhaps I have already gone too far : forgive me, 
 princess, and believe that she who risks offending 
 by her words, would freely serve you with her life. 
 Command me to the death in all but one thing : 
 never can I consent to become accessory to any act
 
 132 THE king's daughter. 
 
 which may prevent Giulietta from retrieving that 
 which she has unwilfully lost ; never can I become 
 her enemy. When your highness placed her a 
 helpless infant in my arms, my heart yearned to- 
 wards her. How beautiful she was, and how I 
 loved her ! She was the idol, too, of that excellent 
 man whose honourable name I bore, the charm and 
 plaything of his old age. When death withdrew him 
 from us, you, madam, can bear witness to the grief 
 with which (yielding to your highness''s commands) 
 I separated myself from her: but you had intimated 
 the necessity of absolute concealment, and my 
 province was to obey. I chose the protection of 
 one who had loved me in the days of my innocence, 
 — a good and pious man, under whose virtuous 
 roof I knew she would be safe and cherished, — and 
 then left her with a pang as sharp as that which 
 the body feels when the soul is separated from it. 
 
 " I remember well the evening, — it ^was at the 
 close of May. I see the sky as it looked then, and 
 smell the sweet southern air as it then breathed 
 upon us. We knelt before the high altar, and the 
 good priest looked at me ; but he knew me not in 
 the mean disguise in which I was enveloped. Years 
 too, and sorrow — but all this is foreign to my sub-
 
 THE king's daughter. 133 
 
 ject. Since that evening I have never seen Giuli- 
 etta ; but I know how good and pure, and bright 
 and beautiful she must be. Ask not, madam, of a 
 grateful heart that to which it cannot — ought not 
 to accede. But if the true light has at all broken 
 in upon me, if the terrible name of Count Frederich 
 Gortzen be indeed the obstacle which opposes itself 
 to Giulietta'*s better fortune, then would I respect- 
 fully counsel your highness to proceed immediately 
 to Moscow ; for I have reason to know, through 
 one who has anxiously observed Prince Rudolphe, 
 that his intention is to quit that city speedily, and 
 then perhaps the clue to his immediate movements 
 may be altogether lost, and with it the means of 
 preventing a marriage, which, if my poor Giulietta 
 be indeed the daughter of Count Gortzen, ought 
 never — under any circumstances — to take place. 
 
 " I anticipate, yet not fearfully, your highnesses 
 indignation, should my boldness be misconstrued. 
 I say not fearfully, because I feel that I am ready 
 to devote my life to you, and that your noble 
 nature cannot long misunderstand the feelings by 
 which I am actuated. Ask of me any thing which 
 human courage can perform; I am ready, — so that 
 it be not to wound the heart, or impugn the fame
 
 134 THE king's daughter. 
 
 of one whom I have blessed as she lay beside me 
 sleeping, and whom my heart still loves as fondly 
 as when I last pressed my lips to hers, and wetted 
 her forehead with my tears." 
 
 " You see,'' said the princess, smiling ironically, 
 " that nothing reasonable can be expected from 
 these heroics, and that to drop all intercourse with 
 Madame CzernikofF is the safest plan which we can 
 adopt. I have sounded her sufficiently, and find 
 that her gratitude, as she calls it, refuses to bear 
 arms. The counsel is however good. If my son 
 quits Moscow privately, it will be to return to 
 Herpsberg: this we must prevent. How little did 
 I think, when I urged him to visit Petersburgh, 
 that it was inhabited by Bertha, — I had so long 
 lost sight of her. From a similar oversight has 
 arisen all the anxiety caused by our fatal visit to 
 Oriana. Contented to have disengaged myself from 
 Giulietta, and knowing that she was safe, I felt my 
 conscience at rest, and her existence had almost 
 slid out of my memory." 
 
 Here the princess raised her eyes to those of her 
 acquiescent auditor, and in their soft expression 
 Rudolphe thought he read a meaning almost Sa- 
 tanic, " But," she continued, " when I heard her
 
 THE king's daughter. 135 
 
 story, the description of the woman in the brown 
 mantle, the name of Father Nicolas, of whom 
 Bertha had often spoken as being the only person 
 to whom she would willingly entrust Giulietta, 
 regretting at the same time that she was ignorant 
 of his abode, — an instant light broke upon me ; and 
 when the next day she returned to the castle, her 
 air, her smile, the movement of her hands, her 
 peculiar way of saying ' the duke,' all brought 
 with them that intimate conviction which amounts 
 to certainty. Weak woman that I am ! Worlds 
 would I have given to have disunited them : yet 
 did I uninquiringly send him here — here, to this 
 odious Russia, where alone he could have found a 
 thread to hold by. But I am here too, (she ex- 
 claimed triumphantly,) and in time, I trust. I 
 did not stop long to ponder on the news of 
 Bertha's friendship for him ; and though the suc- 
 cess of my plans should involve even the life of 
 Rudolphe, no earthly power shall turn me from 
 my purpose. I will not be defeated — I have sworn 
 it. And now for Moscow. The night clears, the 
 tempest has abated, we may proceed in safety ; see 
 that all be ready, and lose no minutes of a time 
 so precious."
 
 136 THK king's daughter. 
 
 The obedient servitor retired ; the princess's 
 women entered, wrapped their august mistress in 
 rich furs, and in a few minutes all had vanished. 
 Rudolphe remained like one awakened from a 
 fearful dream, whose distorted imagery had melted 
 into air, but left behind it that vague and fathom- 
 less obscurity which the shrinking spirit dares not 
 penetrate. An awful idea took possession of his 
 mind : Giulietta — lie tried to hide it from himself, 
 but the evidence was frightfully strong, or fear 
 made it seem so; it pressed upon his soul, it spoke 
 in through his closed ears, — Giulietta v.as the 
 daughter of a felon ! of one who had abused the 
 gifts of nature and of fortune to hideous purposes ! 
 of one who, steeped in guilt, hesitated not to lure 
 the wife of his brother from her home, and going 
 on from crime to crime, became in his last moments 
 a public spectacle to shouting crowds, who forgot 
 their ordinary sympathy with crime in its retri- 
 butive moments, to rejoice that he — the great cap- 
 tain of the band of human blood-hounds — was 
 made extinct. But day dawned, and the necessity 
 of immediate decision roused him from his ter- 
 rible musings. He started on his feet ; and shaking 
 off the incubus which had hung upon him, rushed
 
 THE king's DAUGHTEIl. 137 
 
 out of the hut, and was speedily on the road to 
 Petersburgh. 
 
 But it was not his intention to remain there 
 long ; all that the Countess CzernikofF could tell 
 him, he already knew. His design was to hasten 
 back to Herpsberg, crave a private interview of 
 the duke his uncle, and then disclose all that he 
 had learned of Giulietta's story. He did so. The 
 duke listened at first incredulously, but as proofs 
 thickened, with manifest astonishment. For some 
 moments after the prince had ceased speaking, he 
 seemed buried in thought, when suddenly starting 
 up, he exclaimed, — 
 
 " It cannot be. 'Tis nothing more than a false 
 light liung out to mislead a credulous, because a 
 grateful woman. And yet (he added, after another 
 pause,) it was once said that your mother loved 
 that Gortzen — would even have married him ; but 
 it was not true. He was a fiend, with the elo- 
 quence and beauty of a god ; and there may have 
 been a time when Herminia's vanity was flattered 
 by his homage, but nothing more. True, she 
 showed pity to the wretched woman who fled with 
 him, and who died, if I remember right, in the 
 convent of Saint Elizabeth, at Gratz : but it was
 
 138 
 
 one of your mother's public works of charity, 
 one of those acts which have angelled her with 
 the multitude. A secret mercy, such as that of 
 rescuing the child of Gortz from the heritage 
 of obloquy, without noise, without fame, without 
 witnesses, is not upon her gilt and lettered regis- 
 ter of good works." 
 
 The duke paused a moment, then said, " Think 
 you that your mother knows who was her neigh- 
 bour in the hut.?" 
 " I think not." 
 
 "And yet her attendants were likely to have 
 learned it from yours, when that foul night 
 brought them together.?" 
 
 " Impossible. The men who drove me were 
 peasants, ignorant alike of my name or quality. 
 Wishing for secrecy, I had taken with me but 
 one domestic, and he a true one, — my faithful 
 Gaspar, who, knowing my desire, kept out of 
 sight till the princess had departed." 
 
 " It is well. But to return to Count Frederich : 
 as to your mother's having loved him in his brighter 
 days, it was an idle rumour. I know Herminia 
 well, am no stranger to her vast ambition, to the 
 great resources of her giant mind, — why must I
 
 THE king's daughter. 139 
 
 say, to her capacity for evil. The volcano whose 
 surface is covered with snow, is the true emblem 
 of your mother's soul ; but no love, no tenderness, 
 no errors of the heart : her habitual firmness never 
 was broken in upon by an emotion even of transient 
 weakness. I knew her once kind, ardent, and 
 sincere in friendship : I owe her much for it, but 
 love never even occupied her imagination." Ru- 
 dolphe listened in intense agitation, but spoke not, 
 and the duke continued : " Your father was the 
 handsomest cavalier of his day. Many a proud 
 heart beat for him, many a young cheek flushed at 
 his approach ; he loved your mother to idolatry, 
 and she loved him — after her fashion — better 
 perhaps than any thing, except her ambition ; 
 but not as you — as I myself have been beloved."" 
 
 A shade — it was of recollection— passed across 
 the features of the duke. Speaking rapidly, as if 
 to shake off some painful thought, he said, " But 
 who is this Countess Czernikoff.? By what name 
 did she pass here at Herpsberg ?**' 
 
 *^ She was called Bertha." 
 
 " Bertha !" exclaimed the duke, "did you say 
 Bertha ? Ah, I remember well the time, when 
 one to whom I could refuse nothing spoke to me
 
 140 THE king's daughter. 
 
 of her. It was just then — just then — but dates, 
 you have no dates ?" 
 
 " None that are exphcit," repHed Rudolphe, 
 whose emotion almost choked his utterance ; " but 
 it would be easy. We might — Giulietta is nine- 
 teen, as well as can be judged: it is now fifteen 
 years since Bertha — " 
 
 "Hush!" interrupted the duke, in an awful 
 tone, and starting up suddenly. " Do you hear 
 nothing.?" 
 
 " Nothing," said the prince, surprised. 
 
 " What ! not footsteps : nothing that moves 
 across that shadowy gallery .?" 
 
 " I hear nothing but the sound of our voices." 
 
 " Our voices ! Hers was a voice from heaven, 
 an angel's voice ! " Then advancing his head as if 
 in the attitude of listening, " Is it not sweet, (he 
 said,) sweet but mournful ! she never sings gaily 
 now." Then turning to Rudolphe, with a look 
 which sunk into his heart, " She is in heaven ! 
 but now and then they let her come to bless me ; 
 I should die else." 
 
 Rudolphe shuddered : he had never heard of 
 the sorrows which had shaken his uncle''s reason, 
 nor of the mental aberration under which he some-
 
 THE KlNG^S DAUGHTER. 141 
 
 times laboured when thought glanced backwards. 
 " You tremble, boy/' the duke continued. '* Ah ! 
 does she frighten you ? It is the shroud that 
 makes her look so ghastly." And then, with wild 
 and terrifying gaiety, he whispered, " She wore 
 court dresses once; but the worms are bad com- 
 panions and spoil beauty. But see ! she quits 
 me ; she glides from my arms ! O, my beloved ! 
 my Isolina, leave me not thus ! Ah ! the hour is 
 come. Hold the lamp low : they will not see thee. 
 On tip-toe, my love, and knock gently. O God ! 
 to part is dreadful !'" — and then he sunk back, as 
 if exhausted by the violence of his emotions. 
 
 Rudolphe remained motionless, penetrated to the 
 quick by the subduing spectacle before him, and 
 doubtinp; whether or not to call for assistance ; but 
 the duke, after remaining some time motionless, 
 rose slowly, and pressing the prince's hand, said, 
 with a melancholy but composed air, " It is all 
 over now; fear nothing:" then passed with a feeble 
 step into his chamber, and in a few moments Ru- 
 dolphe heard him summon the confidential servant 
 who attended habitually upon him.
 
 142 iHii king's daughter. 
 
 —IV.— 
 
 But while these scenes were taking place at 
 Herpsberg, how passed the hours in the curate's 
 cottage at Oriana ? Alas ! but gloomily. Hope 
 had supported Giulietta in the first days of ab- 
 sence ; but days had lengthened into months, and 
 expectation had ended in disappointment. 
 
 When Rudolphe left the castle, he had with 
 difficulty obtained Father Nicolas's leave to write 
 to him, provided he did so only once, and then 
 merely to give assurance of his safe arrival at the 
 place of his destination ; for the good man, though 
 he knew nothing of the world, and saw no reason 
 why his Giulietta should not be a fitting bride for 
 the first prince in the land, had still too much 
 innate delicacy not to be sensible that to encourage 
 rebellion or clandestine intercourse was, under any 
 circumstances, unworthy both of his principles and 
 calling. But compassion for Rudolphe's deep de- 
 spair, and for Giulietta's speechless sorrow, softened 
 him into a certain extent of compliance ; a com- 
 pliance not however trespassed on. No letter came 
 — the skilful Herminia took care of that — no word 
 of love, sent by a passing messenger; no other
 
 THE king's daughter. 143 
 
 news than that which spreading from the servants 
 still remaining at the castle to the village, and 
 from thence to the curate's dwelling, quickly found 
 its way to Giulietta''s ear, and let her know, too 
 soon and surely, that Rudolphe was at Peters- 
 hurgh. 
 
 At Petersburgh ! so many hundred miles away, 
 and not one word : and yet he could not be false, 
 she knew he could not ; for had he not said that he 
 could never love another? And then his eyes ! 
 if ever eyes spoke truth his did : it was Gioconda 
 that reckoned upon the eyes, for Giulietta had 
 never dared to spell them. But time passed on, 
 and the chilly autumn evenings came, muffling 
 themselves in clouds as if to bear her sad heart 
 company ; and then she would sit while daylight 
 held, gazing on a map which was always before 
 her, and tracing the road from her Alps to the far- 
 off Petersburgh ; or wander through the vineyards 
 until she came within sight of the castle turrets, 
 and then sit down and look upon them, till night 
 came and she could look no longer. 
 
 On one of these still, grey evenings, three min- 
 strel boys were grouped upon the patch of green 
 sward before the curate's door, singing their wild
 
 144 THE king's daughter. 
 
 ballads to such as would listen to them, and 
 hoping to gather a few baiochis to help them on 
 their journey over the mountain to the gold and 
 diamond country, which they were told lay at the 
 other side of it. 
 
 Their verse was rude, and their music no bet- 
 ter ; but the children of the village had gathered 
 'round, and were opening their great black eyes, 
 as if they heard through them, to take in the 
 rough melody. Giulietta too was there, sitting 
 on a stone, and listening with the rest to the sad 
 legend of " The Forsworn Knight," as the boys 
 had christened their ditty, which ran thus : — 
 
 THE FORSWORN KNIGHT. 
 
 Down in the valley, beneath the green hill, 
 There sits a lone maiden beside the cold rill ; 
 And as it flows by her, her moaning she makes, 
 And thus to the birds that fly round her she speaks : 
 " Come, neighbour nightingale, sing me to rest, 
 For heavy 's the sorrow that sits on my breast." 
 
 The leaves fly about her, the birds warble near, 
 
 The rill gushes over, and so does the tear; 
 
 But the knight 's in his castle and hears not her sigh. 
 
 As she calls to the bird that is hovering nigh, 
 
 " Come, neighbour nightingale, sing me to rest, 
 
 For heavy 's the sorrow that sits on my breast."
 
 THE king's daughter. 145 
 
 The time had long passed since the knight, riding on 
 With a hawk on his hand, like a king on his throne, 
 Heard. a voice that sang blythely beside the lone rill. 
 While the bright sun was sinking, the light winds were still, 
 " Sing, neighbour nightingale, (so went the lay,) 
 I could list to thy sweet note the whole summer's day.' 
 
 The knight checked his courser, who, pawing the ground, 
 Alarm'd the shy maiden : her eye glanced around ; 
 Then up on her light feet, and oft" like the wind, 
 Leaving garland, and sheep-hook, and distaff* behind : 
 And still neighbour nightingale sang on above, 
 His carol of sadness, his legend of love. 
 
 But the knight, did he linger ? O, no ! he is gone, 
 "Like the roe o'er the mountain, thecloud that's wind-blown; 
 And now by the side of the cold rill they walk. 
 While alike are forgotten the sheep and the hawk. 
 And lone neighbour nightingale sings on the tree, 
 But nothing for him, or his sweet song, cares she. 
 
 And so hand in hand through the valley they rov'd, 
 And she listen'd and smil'd, while he swore that he loved: 
 And he talked of rich robes, and of diamonds and gold ; 
 And tales of great lords and poor maidens he told ; 
 While the nightingale seemed to have borrow'd the throat 
 Of the skylark, so sunny and gay was its note. 
 
 But the knight 's in his castle, and so is his bride, 
 And the maiden 's alone by the svillen rill's side : 
 There is music, and feasting, and joy in the halls, 
 And without there's a sweet voice that plaintively calls, 
 " Come, neighbour nightingale, sing me to rest. 
 For heavy 's the sorrow that sits on my breast." 
 
 H
 
 146 THE KINg'^S daughter. 
 
 " Let us come in,'' said Giulietta ; " their music 
 saddens me." 
 
 " Ay, by my troth,'' said Gioconda, " and well 
 it may. Why, ye whining varlets, do ye think 
 that people are made of stone, that ye come here 
 with your maid's tragedy to keep us awake o'nights, 
 thinking of broken hearts, and making screech-owls 
 of our nightingales ? Have ye nothing pleasant 
 in the way of a psalm, or a genteel canzonetta, 
 or a—" 
 
 " Lord love your heart ! fair lady," interrupted 
 the elder boy, " have we pleasant songs ? Ay, and 
 canticles and merry ballads for the vine-dressers. 
 But, holy St. Damien, who pays for them ? No ; 
 when w^e are gay, none think we are hungry : 'tis 
 ' The Wounded Knight,' or ' The Dead Lady,' 
 that brings in the soldi. But we have many 
 besides ; such as ' Love's Looking-glass,' — « The 
 Virgin's Chaplet,' — ' The Seven Bright Queens,' — 
 < The Shepherd's Star,' and ' Saint Diana's Gar- 
 ment ;' to say nothing of the story of the Count 
 Gonzaga's wife, and how Barbarossa the pirate 
 would have carried her off out of her burning castle. 
 Then there's ' The Ringdove.' Come, Toni Mochi, 
 let's tune up 'the Ringdove;' 'tis a sooth and
 
 THE king's daughter. 147 
 
 loving ballad for a fair gentlewoman's ear, and 
 you shall hear how Toni coos — ay, like any dove 
 in the forest." 
 
 But Giulietta and her friend had disappeared, 
 and Toni was left to coo for the rabble. 
 
 " Hadst thou been better, dearest,"" said Gio- 
 conda, " it might have been pleasant enough to 
 have heard how the tyrant burned the lady 
 in her castle." But Giulietta's mind was many 
 hundred miles away, and neither the woes of the 
 fair Gonzaga, nor Gioconda's insinuation, reached 
 her ear. 
 
 Poor Giulietta ! thine was entirely a woman's 
 heart. It had no joy but in the exercise of its 
 affections ; it was nothing in itself, but love made 
 it every thing, and as it was the source and life- 
 spring of thy happiness, so was it also of thy 
 sorrow. The winter passes rapidly in Italy; it 
 has but time to lay its cold hand upon the flowers, 
 when the sun comes and warms them asfain into 
 freshness. But the heart ! — 
 
 It was past and gone, the winter : the air was 
 soft, the sky blue and sunny, and one could see the 
 
 h2
 
 148 THE king's daughter. 
 
 blossoms deepen and the buds expand, while the 
 eye watched their progress. In ardent climates, 
 the bud which peeped out yesterday, is to-day in 
 the maturity of its beauty : the developement of 
 nature is, perhaps, too rapid ; it anticipates the 
 hopes and wishes in which the heart loves to in- 
 dulge : we miss the delicious awakening of nature, 
 and the sweet delay with which we love to see her 
 unfold her treasures. But it is of the heart, and 
 not of the seasons that my story speaks, and for 
 Giulietta there came no spring. She could not see 
 the flowers burst, the berries ripen, or hear the 
 early song of the birds without thinking that the 
 bloom, the perfume, the music of nature would 
 return for her no more; that the next spring 
 would cover her grave with blossoms, and the first 
 nightingale chaunt her early dirge. 
 
 It was in this mood, when every thing but her- 
 self was gay, that she wandered out into the fields, 
 remembering how gay she too had been when the 
 last spring-flowers had blossomed, and how cold and 
 chill her heart might be before they came again ; 
 when suddenly she found herself beside the wall 
 where, perched like a wood-nymph, she had been 
 first seen by Rudolphe. The broken column was
 
 THE king's daughter. 149 
 
 still there ; but a rose-tree, which had wound itself 
 round it, had fallen with a portion of the marble, 
 and lay amongst the scattered fragments and over- 
 running lichens at its base. 
 
 "And I, too," said Giulietta, smiling mourn- 
 fully, " I clung too fondly to the prop which my 
 poor heart trusted in. I was like that rose." 
 
 " Talk not thus, Giulietta," said Gioconda, on 
 whose arm she leant, " and above all look not thus : 
 you are enough to break one's heart with your 
 fancies. You like that rose, trodden under foot 
 and withered ! No, truly ; we shall live to tell the 
 prince another story. But here comes Marco Pro- 
 C0I05 the princess's right-hand man : it is not a little 
 that has brought him down to Oriana. Let's talk 
 with him, and learn what news he brings." Then 
 wiping away the tears which were fast gathering in 
 the corners of her eyes, she accosted him with a 
 few words of inquiry as to the health of the good 
 duke and the Lady Herminia his mistress. 
 
 The servitor was communicative, and having 
 greeted Gioconda with civility and Giulietta with 
 respect, ran on about the excellent duke, who, he 
 rejoiced to say, grew gayer and younger every day, 
 and his gracious mistress, who was well, and in
 
 150 THE king's daughter. 
 
 Russia with her son. Then starting off with the 
 most natural air imaginable, as if his tongue had 
 slipped its cables before he was aware, " But we 
 shall soon have them all back again, (said he,) and 
 I promise you we shall make your bells ring and 
 your hearts beat joyfully, for my young master will 
 bring down his bride. He is going to be married, 
 you know, — or perhaps you don''t know — to the 
 great Polish beauty, the Princess Volonsky, own 
 niece to the empress, and heaven knows what else 
 besides. It's all settled, and I have come down 
 just to set things going a little. But here I am 
 loitering, whilst a score of people wait for me 
 yonder. Farewell, ladies; we shall have gay 
 doings ere the maize ripens." 
 
 ''Married!" exclaimed Giulietta, turning as 
 pale as death. 
 
 " Married, indeed ! " echoed Gioconda in another 
 tone ; " they will never make me believe that. O 
 no ; if he be false, there is no truth in the Gospel. 
 I would as soon believe that holy St. Dominick 
 had picked up his rosary at a huckster's stall. No, 
 no ; he'll none of their outlandish ladies, who would 
 as lieve kneel down to Diana as to St. Peter himself. 
 And if he has played us false," added she, bridling
 
 THE king's daughter. 151 
 
 up, while the blood mounted to her forehead, " it is 
 not because this year's grapes fail, that we should 
 never have wine in our cellars. Cheer up, my 
 pretty dove, and bless thy stars, that if thou art 
 not the prince's wife, neither art thou his mother's 
 daughter. She would have killed thee, my blos- 
 som, with her pride and her coldness, or worn out 
 thy heart ; and then turned thee adrift, like a dried 
 husk, or a superannuated tire-woman." 
 
 They were now on the threshold of their cottage, 
 and Giulietta, who had listened in silence, or had 
 not perhaps heard Gioconda's consolations, leant 
 against the porch and looked back towards the hills 
 that rose above the castle. Her whole soul was in 
 her eyes, and never did lips pronounce a sadder, a 
 more eloquent adieu. " Come in, my child," said 
 Gioconda, who had entered first, " and let's be 
 cheerful. We'll show the great folks how little we 
 care for their scorn ; we'll let them see that we can 
 hold our heads as high as the best of them." But 
 as she turned her eyes triumphantly on Giulietta, 
 her cheek whitened, her voice faltered : there was 
 no scorn, no pride, no elation in the face she 
 looked upon ; nothing was there but the absorbed 
 expression of overwhelming sorrow.
 
 152 THE KIXG^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 It is curious to remark how affection refines the 
 mind, and how acute and delicate a rough nature 
 will become under its influence. Gioconda spoke 
 not another word ; but passing her arm round 
 Giulietta's waist, supported her to a seat, and 
 pressed her hands with a look so fond and heart- 
 felt, that the poor thing wept, and was a little 
 comforted to see how one heart, at least, still 
 loved her. 
 
 Father Nicolas had been up in the bills to speak 
 on some matters relative to his church with the 
 abbot of a neighbouring monastery, and returning 
 through the vineyards, had overtaken some labour- 
 ers who were on their way home after their day's 
 work at the castle. As they trudged along, they 
 indulged gaily in the anticipation of light tasks 
 and heavy pay for the summer, forestalling the 
 epithalamium in their joyous carols, which all 
 turned upon the marriage of the young prince 
 and the fine Polish lady ; and it was thus that 
 the report, so swiftly propagated, came to the ear 
 of the good curate. 
 
 This excellent man whose philosophy was of a
 
 THE king's daughter. 153 
 
 mild and indulgent character,— it was the philoso- 
 phy of a Christian, — had never severely frowned 
 upon or discouraged Giulietta's hopes ; yet he had 
 some notion, unverified it was true by experience, 
 that flashy words were not always sterling coin, 
 and that princes might not think faith-breaking 
 quite so heinous a crime as the good folks of the 
 valley would have it to be. 
 
 His clear and simple mind, uninfluenced by the 
 caprices of temper which inflated or depressed 
 Gioconda's spirits and obscured her judgment, saw 
 at once that if this report was true, Giulietta's hap- 
 piness was gone for ever. He had not always been 
 a priest, and though none at Oriana were acquaint- 
 ed with his story, for he was from some distant 
 place, yet somehow, all who knew him thought it 
 must be one of suff'ering. There was in his cha- 
 racter a mercifulness to others, which might have 
 come from having known injustice, and a consider- 
 ate feeling for the weakness of human nature, which 
 is usually the true mark of pure and elevated piety. 
 He counselled, comforted, reproved with gentle- 
 ness, but never judged. Whether he had felt in 
 his own experience that the destiny of man is difli- 
 cult, whether he had himself struggled against the 
 
 H 3
 
 154< THE king's daughter, 
 
 temptations which assail the youthful heart, and 
 being aware of their strength, had learned to pity 
 those who were exposed to the same combats, I 
 know not ; but there was a mine of tenderness 
 in his nature which spread out its veins through 
 the soil, with which the severity of self-denial, 
 and the abnegations enjoined by the church, had 
 covered it. 
 
 The mirth of the labourers was heaviness to the 
 priest. " If it should be true, (thought he,) what 
 will become of Giulietta ? and O, the grief to see 
 her young hopes quenched in sorrow ! I will 
 go back again to the monastery ; if it be as these 
 men say, the abbot must be the first to know it."" 
 Then turning back into the path through which 
 he had just passed, he retraced his steps up 
 into the hills. 
 
 When he had reached the green platform before 
 the entrance of the convent, the sun was sinking 
 into its gorgeous bed, from whose golden mass 
 some few bright clouds had strayed out more 
 widely, taking the form of islands shining on the 
 blue bosom of the heavens. The priest looked up 
 reverentially : " Who knows (said he, speaking 
 inwardly,) but those luminous clouds which float
 
 155 
 
 abroad and light up the heavens with their beauty, 
 may bear with them the purified spirits appointed 
 to watch over man — the spirits of the just made 
 perfect ? We are permitted to hope that such are 
 our guardians : sweet and consoHng thought, by 
 which we are linked to immortality ! Thou art 
 perhaps there," he said, speaking aloud, as he 
 looked upwards to a bright cloud which had taken 
 the form of a mountain, with a lonely shore and a 
 wide blue lake below it, " thou art perhaps there, 
 — watching from thy abode of blessedness the old 
 in years and grief, but not in memory." 
 
 A tear gathered in his eye; he was doubtless 
 thinking of some dear lost friend, of some thorny 
 passage of his younger days, — but I never heard 
 his story. We have all had episodes in the long 
 narratives of our household lives, which might be 
 worked into something romantic. Father Nicolas, 
 perhaps, had had his. But whatever may have 
 been the thought that crossed his mind, it was 
 evident that his piety reproved it; for in an 
 accent which seemed as if it would atone by its 
 humility for some movement of presumption, he 
 added, " But no, I am not worthy of so high 
 a grace."
 
 156 THE king's daughter. 
 
 The vesper-bell had tolled, and the monks were 
 congregated at prayer within the chapel. The 
 curate entered and knelt with them : his previous 
 meditations though combined with images of earth, 
 had sublimed his soul into that high devotional 
 feeling which lifts it above the views, and wrongs, 
 and disappointments of this world. He rose up 
 from his knees more full of resignation than of 
 hope, and prepared, as he thought, to hearken with 
 calmness to all which the abbot might have to com- 
 municate. But when he heard his worst fears 
 confirmed, and a passage read from a letter of the 
 Princess Herminia in which she herself informed 
 the monk — as a mark of the respect she bore him — 
 of her son''s approaching marriage, his heart grew 
 cold, and it seemed to him as if he listened to the 
 death-warrant of his poor Giulietta. 
 
 He descended the hill; the flower-bells were 
 closed, the air still and balmy, — it was the hour 
 that he loved ; but the fragrance and fresh beauty 
 of the peach and almond blossoms saddened his 
 soul. The young corn put forth its tender green ; 
 he looked at it, and said in his heart, " The harvest 
 is blighted : the budding ear will never ripen into 
 gold !*" — It was of Giulietta he thought.
 
 THE king's daughter. 15^ 
 
 As he approached his cottage, he saw Gioconda 
 at the door making signs to him to hasten. They 
 say that the messengers of evil fly, but the poor 
 curate had no mind to make good the proverb, and 
 it was not until she had called to him more than 
 once in a voice to which he well knew it was useless 
 to turn a deaf ear, that he quickened his pace and 
 entered his dwelling ; — not as happy men return to 
 their homes after the business of the day is over, 
 but with a foreboding heart, and countenance of 
 evil augury. 
 
 " O, you are here at last," cried Gioconda, in a 
 scolding tone. " Well, better late than never.'' 
 Then suddenly softening, " O, father, such sad 
 news as we have heard ! He is false — he is for- 
 sworn ; who could have thought it ! " 
 
 " I know it all," interrupted the curate. " But 
 Giulietta, how does she — ^" 
 
 " Bear it, you would ask, — how does she bear it ? 
 Like one who had never known grief before. O 
 master ! I would that you had been here. She is 
 asleep now ; I have given her a little of the infusion 
 that I made for Giacomo's mother, and there she 
 lies like a lily snapped in two, or the cistus that 
 sheds its leaves when the sun has forsaken it."
 
 158 THE king's daughter. 
 
 Grief made Gioconda eloquent ; Bossuet might 
 have borrowed from her, as she stood before the 
 curate pouring out the fears of -which her heart 
 was full, and describing the speechless agony of 
 Giuhetta, — her mute and motionless despair. 
 
 " I could have wished she had spoken," said the 
 father. " The grief that finds words, may waste 
 itself; but that which has no utterance, turns 
 inwards, and consumes the heart. But get thee to 
 bed, Gioconda ; thou hast need of rest. I will pray 
 for our poot child : He who is sight to the blind, 
 and strength to the weary, can alone comfort her. 
 Man may forsake those who trust in him, but the 
 Lord will not. ' Doubtless thou art our father," 
 he added, in a tone rising into fervour as he 
 spoke, ' though Abraham be ignorant of us, and 
 Israel acknowledge us not.** " 
 
 Gioconda quitted the room, praying inwardly ; 
 and having established herself in an arm-chair by 
 the bedside of Giulietta, who (thanks to the drug) 
 still slept profoundly, watched her through the 
 longest and most melancholy night it had ever 
 been her lot to pass. 
 
 Towards morning fatigue overcame her, and 
 when Giulietta awoke from her deep but unrefresh-
 
 THE king's daughter. 159 
 
 ing sleep, the first object on which her eyes rested 
 was her fond nurse, still dressed as she had been 
 the day before, and bearing in her fallen features 
 the traces of her anxious and sorrowful vigil. Giu- 
 lietta started. A confused sensation of evil, a 
 weight of undefined wretchedness hung upon her ; 
 she pressed her hands on her eyes, and tried to 
 piece together the links which lay about broken 
 and disjointed in her memory : suddenly the scat- 
 tered fragments took shape and semblance, and the 
 frightful truth stood all at once bef^e her. 
 
 We, who are no longer young, and who are 
 moreover philosophers, are apt to think lightly of 
 the griefs which tear new hearts in pieces, yet they 
 are not the less real for our indifference ; and when 
 Giulietta raised herself upon her hand, and thought 
 of what the past had promised, and how it had 
 vanished into nothing, leaving the lone and dreary 
 present without a ray of light upon it, save only 
 the sad one which fell from the torch of memory, 
 perhaps the condemned wretch who awaits in terror 
 and in solitude the final moment, feels less than 
 she did. 
 
 There are things to which the heart and even 
 the reason cannot reconcile itself. Can either un-
 
 160 THE king's daughter. 
 
 derstand the riddle of inconstancy ? — sudden incon- 
 stancy, without an antecedent feeling, or at least 
 the sign of one ? to be loved one moment — tenderly 
 and exclusively loved, and to be forgotten, or 
 thought of with indifference the next? to know 
 that we are as nothing to the heart that once adored 
 us, though we cannot believe it ?— for conviction 
 comes more slowly than certainly, and it is long 
 before we can fancy words uttered to another, which 
 seemed to have been made for us alone. 
 
 But nothing could entirely, or for any length of 
 time, obscure the sweetness of Giulietta's nature, 
 not even the egotism of grief ; and when Gioconda 
 awoke, she had already risen, and was preparing 
 the curate"'s breakfast, with a pale cheek it is true, 
 and a heavy lid, but with a calmness which had 
 more of heroism in it than met the eye. On her 
 lips there was a gentle smile, and in her heart the 
 firm resolution to hide the wound that festered 
 there from those who could not behold her sorrow 
 without becoming intense partakers in it. 
 
 Not so Gioconda, who having learnt from Father 
 Nicolas the sad result of his inquiries, could not 
 restrain her grief, but continued squeezing Giuli- 
 etta's hands and looking in her face ; and when she
 
 THE king's DAUGHTEK. 161 
 
 would have said, " My child, be comforted,'' burst 
 into tears, and sobbed upon the shoulder of her 
 whom she would have consoled. 
 
 " Patience, dear mother," said Giulietta, " all 
 will yet be well, (but tears would come into her 
 eyes as she spoke). If he has forgotten me, you 
 will never do so : I was too aspiring, and Heaven 
 has punished me for my vain presumption. And 
 yet I do not think it was ambition, for had he been 
 obscure and humble, he would not have been the 
 less above all mankind in my eyes." 
 
 " Think no more of him, my Giulietta," said the 
 curate, who had entered while the women were 
 talking together ; " he is unworthy of your pure 
 and noble heart." 
 
 "Unworthy, perhaps," said Giulietta, "by his 
 faithlessness ; but in all else — O, how above all 
 others!" 
 
 " He !" ejaculated Gioconda; " I wish I had the 
 killing of him. I promise you it would be no 
 sudden death. I should take good care to prolong 
 his torments; he must be more supple than an eel 
 to slide out of my frying-pan." And so she would 
 have run on ; but the sweet Giulietta put her slen- 
 der fingers before her lips and smiled on her so
 
 162 THE KING'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 gently, that she was silent before the curate — who 
 had })egun to denounce in a tone of severe repro- 
 bation her unchristian-like sentiments — had got 
 half-way to the marrow of his discourse. 
 
 Duke William rose early in the morning after 
 the strange scene which had taken place between 
 himself and Rudolphe, and opening a window that 
 looked towards the Alps, stood before it in the 
 attitude of deep meditation. Something seemed 
 to pass before him, for he extended his arms — but 
 it was gone. He looked up to the blue and glisten- 
 ing heaven, and then around on the fair aspect of 
 awakening nature; and while he gazed, the troubled 
 expression of his brow seemed to soften into calm- 
 ness. If there be a moment beyond all others, in 
 which the soul opens to receive those divine im- 
 pressions which lift it up from earth and teach it 
 its affinity with heaven, it is in the early morning, 
 when the sun returns in its glory to fulfil the 
 promise of its setting, and spread light and heat 
 over the face of the heavens ; chasing away the 
 cold clouds that linger after night itself has fled.
 
 THE king's daughter. 163 
 
 with its deeds and its darkness, before the open eye 
 of day. Blessed and beautiful sun ! — thy light 
 awakens all that is fairest and most enchanting in 
 nature, all that is best in life, — the song of birds, 
 the breath of flowers, the hopes of man ! The 
 parched heart, to which the lingering hours of 
 night have brought nothing but anguish or de- 
 spair, revives again when the morning sun breaks 
 out ; and smiling at the phantoms which the 
 bugbear darkness had rendered so formidable, 
 imbibes the dewy freshness of morning, and opens 
 to peace as flowers do to the sunbeams. 
 
 Even the duke, — and yet the scar in his heart 
 was neither slight or curable, — even he felt the 
 supremacy of nature ; and the warm breath which 
 stirred into life the myriads of unnamed ephemera 
 who fill the air with their brief exuberance, kindled 
 within him something that he would have called 
 hope, had one so often deceived dared to look into 
 futurity. 
 
 He descended by a private staircase into a garden, 
 and passing before the windows of Rudolphe's 
 apartment, which opened on a long terrace shaded 
 by lime-trees, tapped gently : the prince understood 
 the signal and instantly joined his uncle. The duke
 
 164 THE king's daughter. 
 
 was calm, and more than usually accessible ; nor 
 was there any thing in his appearance which could 
 have betrayed the secret wanderings of his mind. 
 He greeted Rudolphe affectionately, and as they 
 walked together talking of the air, the sky, the 
 blossoms ; of nature's bounties to man, and man's 
 recklessness and abuse of her fair gifts, they came 
 abruptly upon a lonely forest-path, into which 
 the duke suddenly struck, and was followed by 
 Rudolphe. 
 
 When they had proceeded some way in silence, 
 the duke stopped, saying " We will talk here ; the 
 place is solitary, and suits our purpose." 
 
 *• It is strange," said the prince, looking round, 
 " from my boyish days this forest has been my 
 haunt; it was my joy to explore its deep and tangled 
 recesses, to drive the wild boar from its lair, and 
 surprise the wolf in its fastnesses ; yet this path, 
 these rocks, this fountain, are all new to me." 
 
 "None visit this spot but me," replied the duke, 
 in a low and solemn voice ; *' the door through 
 which you passed without observing it, opens only 
 to my hand." 
 
 Rudolphe advanced into the centre of what 
 appeared to be a natural opening in the forest.
 
 THE king's daughter. 165 
 
 enclosed in a wild way by rocks, through whose 
 fissures trees of all growth and colouring seemed 
 to have forced their way. A basin, scooped in the 
 rock, received the silent waters of some unseen 
 spring ; a pale light gleamed on its surface through 
 the overhanging boughs. The spot was lonely, — 
 melancholy perhaps, from its stillness and shut- 
 in remote air ; yet the grass was , fresh and the 
 water clear, and there were flowers too, wild pinks 
 .and violets, and the blue harebell, and thornless 
 alpine rose that asks no sunshine, but like the 
 human bud, blooms every where. 
 
 A jutting rock afforded a seat ; the duke reposed 
 a moment, sunk in thought, and then, as if awaking 
 from a trance, said, " I have tried to lure the birds 
 here, but they will not come. Years ago, one of 
 foreign plumage and unknown song found its way 
 over the rocks, and seemed to take to the spot and 
 luxuriate in it ; but it comes no more.*" 
 
 " And yet,'' said Rudolphe, " there is nothing 
 in this sweet and quiet spot that should scare 
 away the forest warblers." 
 
 " Nothing !" exclaimed the duke ; " but we are 
 come here to talk of other things, matters of high 
 import to us both : sit down and listen to that
 
 166 THE king's daughter. 
 
 which I am going to reveal to you. Giulietta is 
 
 not the daughter of Count Frederich Gortzen ; 
 
 of that I have a deep and intimate conviction, — 
 
 nay more, proof undeniable. Whose, then, can 
 
 she be.?" 
 
 " Some one, doubtless, in whom the princess — 
 
 But I dare not glance that \vay." 
 
 " What think you," cried the duke, his eye 
 
 kindling, " if I prove her to be — " 
 
 " O, nothing base!" exclaimed Rudolphe, in 
 
 violent agitation. 
 
 " Mine own ! The age, the date, the name of 
 Bertha ; your mother's sudden coldness and guilty 
 terrors; the living testimony of air and feature, 
 all form a mass of evidence which we must lose no 
 time in verifying. But first you must be made 
 acquainted with a story of the past, — a mournful 
 one, of which I w^ould not willingly, yet must be 
 the narrator. 
 
 It matters not how or where I first beheld her ; 
 she came to me like destiny — unlooked for, un- 
 thought of. I saw the danger, and would have 
 fled ; but she stood beside it, and I remained 
 immoveable. Young men are apt to vaunt the 
 beauty of their mistresses. I never did so ; she was
 
 THE king's daughter. 167 
 
 too lovely for the painting of mere words. Your 
 mother saw her in her early freshness, and knows — 
 for she has felt it — how cold and speechless was 
 her own boasted splendour, when opposed to the 
 young radiance of my gentle Isolina. Giulietta 
 resembles her in the tone of her voice, her eyes, 
 her smile, and the nymph-like turn of her head : I 
 thought so when I first saw her, — I feel it now. 
 
 " I loved once, and for ever ; never other love 
 had touched my heart ; but I was high and proud, 
 standing within the circle of dominion, but paled 
 out from that of happiness ; and she was only wise, 
 and innocent, and beautiful. She fled from me, 
 and then I found that princes have hearts like 
 other men. I followed her, but it was long before 
 I discovered the retreat in which she had buried 
 herself; I drew her from it, and she consented to 
 become my wife in secret. 
 
 " I will not speak of that dream of happiness, — 
 I cannot dwell on it, — I never could believe it real. 
 None knew of our union but my sister ; nor she, 
 until important reasons rendered the communi- 
 cation necessary. I then believed her such as she 
 seemed to be, and told her all ; but I have since 
 thought that she dropped cunning poison into my
 
 168 
 
 THE KINGS DAUGHTER. 
 
 wife''s ear, and made her feel more acutely, than 
 in her unbounded love she would otherwise have 
 done, the uncertainty of her position. As the 
 time approached when I expected that she would 
 bless me with the name of father, her melancholy 
 increased; and though she never uttered a word 
 either of expostulation or reproach, yet when any 
 thing fell out in conversation which touched upon 
 the fragile tenour of woman's fame, or the usual 
 sad result of concealed marriages — the entailed 
 dishonour which became the melancholy birthright 
 of the offspring of such inauspicious unions, her 
 lip would quiver and her cheek whiten, as if every 
 word had a dagger in it. 
 
 " Wretch that I was ! I saw this, saw the slow 
 hectic of the heart consuming her young beauty, 
 yet listened to the paltry pride which, fostered by 
 Herminia's skilful management, spread its vile tares 
 amongst the better seeds of tenderness and honour. 
 And yet, man never loved as I did ; even while 
 the wicked arrogance of my nature was in its most 
 insane force, I still had moments of compunction, 
 moments when I. felt sensible of the iniquitous 
 feebleness of my conduct, and resolved to atone for 
 it. And then — though I could see that her sweet
 
 THE king's daughter. 169 
 
 gaiety was gone, and that her cheek grew thin and 
 hollow, yet never did the idea of danger present 
 itself to my mind, (I speak this in truth, not in 
 extenuation, — my crime admits of none) ; besides, 
 the means of reparation seemed always in my 
 power, and though I weakly delayed the period, 
 yet did I always mean to do my Isolina pubhc 
 justice. It is thus that we unwisely reason, count- 
 ing upon the time that waits not for us, but is gone 
 with all its promises, ere our tardy determination 
 can half come up with it. 
 
 " It was the eleventh of September : there was 
 a ball at court, and Isolina, who usually shunned 
 such scenes, was obliged to be present at it, the 
 place she held necessitating her attendance on the 
 princess who that night made her first public 
 appearance since the death of your father, killed, 
 as you know, at the hunting of a boar in this same 
 forest. Herminia rejoiced to enter again into the 
 world ; but too adroit to manifest a questionable 
 feeling, had given to her dress the brilliancy which 
 she repressed in her eyes, and was serenely or 
 mournfully beautiful, as suited the occasion. A 
 host of worshippers, who thronged to bask again 
 in the sunshine from which they had been so long
 
 170 THE king's daughter. 
 
 excluded, encircled her chair, nor were suitors of 
 lofty pretensions wanting amongst them ; but while 
 she seemed to listen to their homage, her eyes 
 sought those of the Archduke Albert, who stood 
 apart from the crowd in rapt though obvious admi- 
 ration — but not of her. A few years before this 
 period, Duke Albert had admired your mother, as 
 gallant men naturally do ladies of distinguished 
 beauty ; and once at Vienna, when the Polish 
 Princess Alexina de Radzivil was talked of as the 
 finest woman in Europe, observed that he who 
 thought her so could never have seen the Princess 
 Herminia of Herpsberg. These words of praise, 
 carried back to my sister, sunk deep into her 
 memory ; and when the archduke, after a lapse of 
 some years, revisited Herpsberg, she felt that she 
 had not forgotten them. Again at liberty, and 
 perhaps more beautiful than when he had first seen 
 her, the projects of aggrandizement, which circum- 
 stances had suspended, instantly quickened into 
 action, and she entered the ball-room with the fixed 
 determination of advancing, by every means with 
 which nature and occasion had furnished her, bv 
 the power of charms hitherto deemed irresistible, 
 and of skill which knew how to turn a chance into
 
 THE king's DAtJGHTER. I7I 
 
 a certainty, the dream of her ambition, — a close 
 alliance with the house of Austria. 
 
 "But behind Herminia stood one whose 
 beauty threw even hers into shadow ; and no 
 sooner had the archduke looked on Isolina, than 
 he seemed no longer to recollect the presence of 
 the princess. And yet she was not what she had 
 been but a little while before ; it was another, but 
 less dazzling kind of loveliness. Her eyes were full 
 of melancholy sweetness, but they no longer spar- 
 kled with that innocent radiance which I believed 
 to be peculiar to them until I saw Giulietta's ; and 
 the bright hectic that flushed her cheek but ill 
 supplied the place of the charming bloom which 
 anxiety had stolen from it. If a smile of obliged 
 courtesy played for an instant on her beautifully 
 chiselled lips, it seemed to have no business there, 
 and quickly passed away like those sudden lights 
 in the heavens that look out through darkness, and 
 are the next moment shrouded in it. Her shape, 
 too, was enveloped in a rich shawl, which the 
 princess permitted her to wear under the pretext 
 of indisposition ; yet even thus changed and con- 
 cealed, her extraordinary beauty broke out through 
 the cloud that overhung it, and inspired the arch-
 
 1^2 THE KING^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 duke with a sentiment of admiration which he took 
 no pains to conceal. 
 
 " The princess was visibly hurt, but smiled, as 
 was her custom when any thing particularly dis- 
 turbed her. I saw her a moment after withdraw 
 from the circle, and speak for an instant with the 
 Countess Walstetten, her most trusted friend. She 
 then passed on with a soft word to her favourites, 
 or a gracious movement to the general crowd, and 
 was soon engaged in conversation in another saloon. 
 Meanwhile, the archduke approached Isolina, and 
 having caused himself to be presented by the 
 Countess Walstetten, who stood near, entered into 
 conversation with her in an earnest tone, obviously 
 expressive of the profound impression which her 
 exceeding loveliness had made upon him. 
 
 " ' But,** (said the countess, who was one of the 
 privileged, and said every thing that suited her 
 purpose, without ever appearing to have one,) 
 * you do not tell us what your indisposition is, — 
 has it not a name ? Every one asks why you 
 wear that frightful shawl, and hide yourself when 
 any one looks at you."* Then in a whisper, audi- 
 ble to those who stood near, — ' Really, my dear, 
 you ought to dance, were it only to refute the
 
 THE king's daughter. i'JS 
 
 abominable stories which the envious circulate. 
 Do you know, they actually say that you are 
 dying for Werner ; and some add, have positively 
 married him ! Only think, child — a dancer ! what 
 ineffable disgrace ! ' 
 
 " 1 was engaged in conversation with Field- 
 Marshal Munck while all this was passing, and 
 neither heard nor saw any thing : but I learned 
 afterwards, that on hearing the name of Werner, 
 Isolina started up in horror, and shaking off in- 
 dignantly the hand by which the countess held 
 her while she uttered her perfidious pleasantry, 
 rushed out of the ball-room. Those who saw 
 her pass, were terrified by the frightful paleness 
 of her cheek and the strange look in her eyes, so 
 bright and awful (as they said) that some followed 
 her in fear. Others would have assisted her, but 
 she pushed them away, and had just reached the 
 entrance of the princess's apartment, when life 
 seemed to quiver within her; she sprang upwards 
 with a strong convulsive moment, and then dropped 
 down senseless. 
 
 " Some minutes afterwards confused reports of 
 illness, of danger, reached my ear, coupled with the 
 name of Isolina. I hurried from the ball, and
 
 174 THE king's daughter. 
 
 glided through a passage, only known to myself, 
 to the chamber of my beloved. They told me that 
 she lived, though still insensible, and that in the 
 first moment of returning sensation my presence 
 might be fatal to her. Herminia was there, and the 
 Countess Walstetten, who knelt beside the couch 
 of Isolina. It was Herminia who spoke to me, but 
 not until she had forced me from the chamber. I 
 would have staid, but she insisted roughly, talking 
 of fright and danger. I retired to an adjoining 
 cabinet, where she left me for a little while, but 
 soon returned, saying that Isolina had recovered 
 her senses, and entreated me to retire to my apart- 
 ment ; that knowing I had gone to rest, she should 
 feel more tranquil. The crisis (my sister added) 
 was past, sleep was already overcoming her, and 
 the physician pledged his life for her safety, if she 
 was suffered to remain in perfect repose. 
 
 " I knelt down before the closed door, and fan- 
 cied that I heard her breathing gently ; my heart 
 blessed and prayed for her. My sister continued 
 to entreat me ; ' If she should hear you sigh, (she 
 said,) she will know that it is you, and her agita- 
 tion will destroy her.** I submitted. Herminia 
 promised to come to me when Isolina was com-
 
 THE king's daughter. 175 
 
 posed enough to see me with safety ; she was her- 
 self greatly agitated, and as she closed the door, 
 saying, 'Have courage, I shall bring you back 
 good news," the sound of her voice frightened me. 
 
 " For some time, a profound silence seemed to 
 reign within the palace ; hours, I believe, passed, 
 but I know not. I threw myself on a couch, but 
 could not remain there a moment ; I rose and paced 
 the chamber ; motion seemed to allay the tumult 
 of my soul. I dared not think of danger, and yet 
 it stood like a giant before me; I would have 
 passed it, but it filled up every avenue. ' Good 
 God ! (I cried) why does this horrible phantom 
 threaten me? My sister said there was no dan- 
 ger,' and at the word danger, my whole frame 
 shuddered. Suddenly, a light gleamed on the 
 opposite wall ; my window was open, 1 looked out ; 
 it came from the Countess Walstetten's apartment, 
 which was above mine. I heard sounds, and saw 
 shadows flitting ; my anguish rose almost to mad- 
 ness. I would have rushed through the gallery, 
 but there stood the princess, pale as a shroud. 
 
 " ' Not this way,' she cried, seizing my hands 
 and forcing me back to my chamber, ' not now. 
 You will kill her if she sees you thus.'
 
 1^6 THE king's daughter. 
 
 " ' Kill her !' I exclaimed, with a dreadful fore- 
 boding, ' is she not dead ? ' 
 
 " Herminia took my hands, and kneeling before 
 me, burst into a passion of tears. She would have 
 talked of comfort, but I thrust her from me ; she 
 started up, and seized me boldly. I knew not 
 what I did ; I would have killed her in my rage, 
 but her physician entered, and saved her from 
 the violence of a wretch phrensied with grief and 
 terror. 
 
 " It is needless to dwell on the protracted agony, 
 the mental bereavement, and still more deadly 
 consciousness that followed. Herminia patched 
 up — I know not what— some fabricated tale which 
 concealed my real situation from the public eye, 
 and told a story of my Isolina's death so feasibly 
 devised, that all believed it. Her discreet reserve 
 and virtuous dignity had so set her above sus- 
 picion, that the most profligate ribald of the court 
 would have felt shame at blending her pure name 
 with the idea of dishonour. For me, too, as I 
 now believe, Herminia exercised her prompt in- 
 vention, wickedly prompt in this cruel instance. 
 On that dreadful night my Isolina gave birth to a 
 daughter ; so far the princess, compelled by cir-
 
 THE king's daughter. 177 
 
 cumstances needless to detail, acknowledged ; but 
 the child, she solemnly averred, lived but a few 
 minutes. This tale, propped up by others which 
 served to give it colouring, I entirely believed, 
 having then an unbounded confidence in my sister, 
 which many things have since tended to weaken ; 
 though until your disclosure, the idea of her 
 having injured me so cruelly never crossed my 
 mind. Since then I have put together various 
 circumstances to which I had never before given 
 weight, and the result is the profound conviction 
 that Giulietta is my daughter. 
 
 " And now to prove it, (continued the duke 
 rapidly, perceiving that Rudolphe would have spo- 
 ken). No interruption — I know what you would 
 say ; you cannot believe your mother so deep in 
 guilt. Your scruples do you honour ; but if Giu- 
 lietta be not the daughter of Isolina, whose then is 
 she ? Most certainly Herminia's ! and then how 
 much blacker every way the sin, how much more 
 criminal the abandonment ! " The prince shud- 
 dered, and the duke, after a moment's pause, con- 
 tinued, " I well remember the death of the physi- 
 cian — he, I mean, who was there on that terrible 
 night — and how your mother, in whose household 
 
 I 3
 
 178 THE king's daughter. 
 
 he had long been, visited him in his last momentSj 
 and remained by his bedside till all was over. I 
 thought the act a pious one, but now believe it to 
 have been dictated more by dread of a disclosure 
 than by Christian charity. Be that as it may, 
 proofs enough remain without having recourse to 
 doubtful evidence. 
 
 " At the time when my Isolina was torn from 
 me, there was a woman in the service of the 
 princess, whose errors and whose beauty had 
 acquired for her a painful celebrity. Herminia 
 had discovered this person in a state of utter 
 destitution ; had pitied, protected, and finally 
 -placed her near her person. Bertha, — for so she 
 was called, her real name I never knew, — devoted 
 herself with all the energy of a passionate and 
 grateful nature to your mother, who seemed to 
 take pleasure in bringing her forward ; but im- 
 mediately after the fatal event of which I have 
 just now given you the melancholy details, she 
 disappeared, and never again returned to Herps- 
 berg. It was known that she had married Gene- 
 ral Luckner, and supposed that the princess's 
 wishes had influenced the veteran's choice ; but 
 nothing more was heard of her.
 
 THE king's daughter. 179 
 
 " Compare this disappearance and its date with 
 the contents — as you have repeated them to me — 
 of her letter to the princess, in which she refers 
 directly to the circumstance of her having deposited 
 with the curate of Oriana the child whom Hermi- 
 nia herself had a few years before consigned, in 
 the helplessness of infancy, to her care. Compare 
 these things together, and weigh them well ; your 
 mother's fear of discovery, and her evident convic- 
 tion that Giulietta is that child. Is it not as if 
 the dead spoke? And look," continued he, taking 
 something from his bosom, '' look at these eyes ; 
 have they not been saved from death to testify to the 
 truth ? Is it not Providence that allows the soul 
 of a mother to speak through them, bearing sacred 
 and irrefutable witness to the identity of her child?" 
 
 Rudolphe received with reverence the small case 
 which contained the feeble type of Isolina's beauty. 
 " It w^ould seem to me, (said the duke, as he gave 
 it to him,) that other proof is needless." 
 
 " Proof ! " exclaimed Rudolphe, gazing on the 
 portrait ; " why this is proof ! and strong as a 
 voucher from another world. It is the finger on the 
 wall, the star in the heavens ! — but what motive — " 
 
 " O, we shall find that too," interrupted the
 
 180 THE king's daughter. 
 
 duke, " and without digging deeply. From infor- 
 mation which I received after we separated last 
 night, I have reason to think that your mother is 
 aware of your discovery. Her proud soul, im- 
 patient of humiliation, bolsters itself with false 
 hopes ; but concealment will not long be possible, 
 and then how full, how terrible will be her punish- 
 ment ! — disgrace to a mind nurtured by homage 
 little short of adoration, or the solitude of a convent 
 to one who has never known the solace of religion ! " 
 
 " Full indeed !*" said Rudolphe deeply affected; 
 "and I devoutly hope expiatory!" And as he 
 said this, he felt how terrible it is to sit in judg- 
 ment on the actions of a parent. 
 
 " And now," said the duke, " let us return to 
 the palace. But I see that your mother's shame 
 tugs at your heart : true, you are her son, but I — 
 her victim." 
 
 " And I !" thought Rudolphe, but was silent. 
 
 " Let us begone," urged the duke impatiently. 
 " I have arrangements to make which require 
 dispatch. In an hour I shall expect you in the 
 chamber where we met last night." 
 
 Rudolphe bowed, and rose to follow his uncle ; 
 but the duke stopped short, and pointing to a nar-
 
 DAUGHTER. 181 
 
 row stripe of grass, over which a lonely cypress 
 threw its shadow, " She is there ! " he said, with 
 an Expression of profound grief; " she, who was so 
 young and beautiful ! I raised no monument to 
 her memory ; she was an enemy to pomp, and loved 
 the garniture of nature. And this spot — it was 
 her favourite ; often have we sat together under 
 that tree, and she has sung to me with that 
 voice of love and sweetness which never other 
 mortal had, and talked of her far-off home, and of 
 the dead who w^ere in heaven, and, as she believed, 
 watched over us. I dare not think of the contrast ; 
 I dare not look beneath that turf, — the horrible 
 process of mortality frightens me ; but I look up- 
 wards ; I see her in the heavens ; even now But 
 
 of this no more. Farewell, my wife ! dearest and 
 best beloved, farewell ! Plead for me in heaven. 
 When I return, I will bring with me our daughter 
 to pray upon thy grave, and thou wilt bless her 
 from the hollow of the tomb. Farewell, my love !" 
 again he repeated, and kneeling on the turf, kissed 
 it fervently ; then rising slowly up, quitted the 
 melancholy spot, and hastened to hide himself in 
 the recesses of his palace.
 
 182 THE king's daughter. 
 
 No doubt remained on the mind of the duke, but 
 he desired to have his proofs confirmed beyond the 
 possibility of dispute by the testimony of the 
 Countess Walstetten, whose retreat he soon disco- 
 vered. A severe illness had totally destroyed her 
 beauty ; her wit had gone out of fashion, and she 
 had long been the forgotten inhabitant of a retired 
 house in a remote quarter of the city, remembered 
 only by the princess, who dared not forget her. 
 The duke visited her in secret, and partly by the 
 authority of station, strengthened by a threat of 
 public exposure, and partly by working on a 
 mind not entirely hardened, obtained the desired 
 confession. 
 
 She was the sole depositary of Herminia's secret, 
 (the physician was but half informed,) the only one 
 to whom the princess had disclosed her hatred for 
 Isolina, and the indignation which boiled in her 
 veins at the idea that the pure current of her 
 brother''s blood should be contaminated by an 
 obscure alliance. She had nursed her hatred till 
 it had become vengeance, whose constant fuel was 
 the allowed pre-eminence of Isolina's beauty. 
 
 Good minds cannot conceive such things, they 
 have no sympathies with such hateful feelings ;
 
 THE king's DAUGHTEll. 183 
 
 y^t, I fear, they are not sufficiently out of the 
 course of nature to be altogether without respon- 
 dents. The princess looked upon Isolina as an 
 intruder, who had stepped before her in the race, 
 and been adjudged the wreath woven for herself; 
 its consecration was " To the most beautiful," and 
 another had presumed — not to seize — but worse, 
 to wear it, without valuing, or even being sensible 
 of its possession. Thus were the two great springs 
 by which Herminia's mind was worked, — pride of 
 birth and vanity of beauty, brought into action ; 
 and well knowing that should the duke's attach- 
 ment continue, he would sooner or later avow his 
 marriage with Isolina, she had tried many means 
 to separate them, or at least weaken their mutual 
 affection. None had succeeded: the duke's love 
 was stronger than his pride, and Isolina, though 
 intensely sensible of the disgrace of secrecy and 
 abashed into wretchedness, loved on. But it was 
 only at the moment of her death that the idea of 
 concealing the infant, and thus at once putting an 
 end to a romance which had lasted far too long for 
 the patience of the princess, suggested itself to her 
 angry mind, unconciliated even by the aspect of 
 death ; for though tears burst from her eyes, and
 
 184} THE king's daughter, 
 
 terror at the duke^s despair whitened her cheek, 
 there was no sorrow — -no compunction. 
 
 Perhaps some interest for her son might have 
 hastened her determination ; of that she spoke not, 
 but it was taken and executed at once. She felt that 
 no time was to be lost ; her knowledge of the duke^s 
 character made her well aware, that should he 
 know himself to be a father, the first act of his 
 justice and despair would be to acknowledge his 
 marriage and his child. The Countess Walstetten 
 introduced Bertha into her own apartment, where 
 the infant was given up to her care, with a solemn 
 charge of secrecy, and an order to withdraw imme- 
 diately from Herpsberg. She did so, and in the 
 retreat assigned her became known to General 
 Luckner, a retired officer of honourable reputation; 
 who partly from attachment, and partly in obedi- 
 ence to the princess's wishes, soon after married her. 
 He died when Giulietta was little more than three 
 years old, and Herminia dreading that Bertha's 
 tenderness for the child might at some future period 
 be the means of divulging her secret, insisted on a 
 total separation. 
 
 Bertha obeyed, and the princess soon received 
 the assurance of her having quitted the country, 
 
 ■ii^^
 
 THE king's daughter. 185 
 
 after having first deposited her charge in safe and 
 honourable hands. Herminia, glad to shake off all 
 responsibility and to get rid of a harassing recol- 
 lection, inquired no farther ; and the lofty-minded 
 Bertha, not knowing that she had been made 
 participator in a crime which her soul would have 
 abhorred, kept the secret religiously, sacrificing 
 to a strong feeling of gratitude, the sole tie which 
 could have renewed life within her worn-out heart. 
 
 It was on a bright and balmy evening, when 
 nature held high festival, when the woods still 
 rang with the exulting song of the birds, and the 
 flowers which had budded the day before spread 
 out the rich exuberance of their full-blown beauty, 
 that a cavalcade was seen through the broad- 
 leaved chestnuts descending the Italian side of the 
 Alps, holding their way gaily, sometimes with 
 unsafe speed, at others with enforced, but ill- 
 brooked caution, along one of those winding roads 
 which the labour of man has shaped and convolved 
 as if in opposition to the divine negligence of
 
 186 THE king's daughter. 
 
 nature. On they came like gallant hunters, leaving 
 their courtly equipages far behind ; the sun shining 
 above their heads, and the ground mantling into 
 beauty beneath their feet, as they left the cold 
 north behind them and came down into the sunny 
 Eden of Italy. Of Italy ! the very sound has 
 beauty in it; my senses cheat me if there be not 
 something in the aspect of that antique land akin 
 to what the gifted dream of paradise. Perhaps — 
 for I am fanciful, and apt to look at things through 
 the prism of the imagination — that others may not 
 feel as I do, when, having passed the stony ravines of 
 the Alps, the soft and perfumed air blows upon me, 
 and I see the marks of southern vegetation coming 
 at intervals, as the weeds and berries floated towards 
 the vessel of Columbus, giving the cheering promise 
 of the looked-for land, — then does my heart dilate, 
 and if I do not speak poetry, at least I feel it. 
 
 But Rudolphe was too deeply in love, and Duke 
 William too happily absorbed, to care for nature, 
 though she stood before them in her best attire, 
 craving the favour of a look, which neither had 
 leisure to bestow upon her. The reveries of a 
 lover, who after a constrained and tedious absence 
 touches on the moment of reunion with the mistress
 
 THE king's DAUGHTEK. 187 
 
 of his heart, are no longer vague. He dreams of 
 positive and immediate happiness, and the scenes 
 which nurse the visions of the absent, the solitude 
 whose repose awakens memory, or the sunshine 
 whose brightness creates hope, are alike unnoticed. 
 
 It was the hour of amber clouds and long 
 shadows, when turning round an abrupt corner, 
 our travellers caught a view of the spire of Oriana. 
 I shall say nothing of beating hearts — it is a subject 
 that I always treat clumsily; nor yet of longing 
 eyes, for the same reason. Rudolphe took off his 
 hunter''s cap, and holding it as a screen against the 
 long rays of the setting sun, looked into the dis- 
 tance. The duke looked forward too, but thought- 
 fully ; in the young mind hope and certainty are 
 one, but the old know the interval which separates 
 them, and dread it. 
 
 It had been known at Oriana on the preceding 
 evening, that the young prince was coming to 
 fulfil his vows to Giulietta. He had written her 
 a letter of love, the pith of which Gioconda had 
 communicated under the seal of secrecy to all the 
 village; and those who saw Giulietta's pale cheek 
 blush and brighten when his coming was spoken 
 of, thought what a quick balm was love, when
 
 188 THE king's daughter. 
 
 hope was mixed with it; better than that of 
 Gilead — or Mecca either ; but of the last the 
 Orianites knew nothing. Even in her wildest 
 moments Giulietta had been a universal favourite 
 in the village, because — as the good folks never 
 failed to observe — her heart was better than her 
 head. But in her sorrowful ones, she had become 
 an object of the warmest interest ; not a tongue in 
 the valley that had not reviled the prince — the 
 forsworn prince, — who had deserted, and, as they 
 never failed to add in the spirit of idle exaggeration, 
 killed the sweetest maiden that ever the sun of 
 Oriana shone upon. But now the tide had turned ; 
 and changing like the barbarians of Melita, he 
 whom they had believed a murderer, became in 
 their wild minds a god ! It was who should be 
 the first to hail the good prince, to bid him welcome 
 and take him news of his beloved ; and so, that 
 none might seem wanting in allegiance, it was 
 agreed to make an idle day of it, and that all 
 should march off in procession to meet the duke 
 and his nephew, and bring them to Oriana in the 
 best kind of tri\imph they could get up, taken as 
 they were at a pinch. 
 
 In Italy, a show, be it what it may, is usually
 
 THE KTNCx''s DAUGHTER. 189 
 
 effective, the regalia of nature is so fine and fete- 
 like ; and then the good taste of the people, who 
 turn every thing into picture, just as nature does 
 with their vineyards, and sometimes with their old 
 walls, unseemly things in other countries, but there 
 warmed into life by the vegetable beauty which 
 clings and clusters about them. 
 
 Giacomo Pozzi, the lame boy, and his infirm 
 mother, were, except three or four old bedridden 
 folks, the only members of the community left 
 behind in the village : the plague could not have 
 cleared it more effectually. There were no beadles 
 at Oriana; but if there had been, a legion of 
 them could not have regulated the obstreperous 
 curiosity, the joy, the excitement of the good 
 people, who all marched out determined to see 
 the whole affair from beginning to end. And as- 
 suredly there was enough to make wiser heads than 
 theirs wonder. A prince of the house of Herpsberg 
 coming to claim the hand of a village maiden ! and 
 witli the sanction of the duke — the proud duke ! 
 who would fain have made companions of the stars, 
 nothing on earth being good enough for him. 
 
 " Truly," said Gioconda, shrewdly enough, " he 
 must well know who our Giulietta is. Think ye
 
 190 THE king's daughter. 
 
 that he would give his nephew to the handsomest 
 lass in Christendom, if he believed her of no bet- 
 ter blood than the vine-dressers' of our village? 
 No, verily. And who knows, after all, but the 
 King's Daughter may be nearer the mark than we 
 fancied ? who knows — " here the large lacquered 
 fan was spread confidentially before the face, sti- 
 fling a communication of which nothing but the 
 words " archduke, emperor,'' were audible. 
 
 Giulietta sat on a bench at her door, and watched 
 the procession. As it faded from her sight her 
 cheek grew pale, and her eyes filled with tears ; 
 the excitement had been too much for her, and as 
 the first fever of joy subsided, the weakness of 
 nature became visible. 
 
 " You tremble," said Gioconda. " Dearest love, 
 look up. We must have no tears, no pale cheeks, 
 when the prince comes. If he should find thee 
 changed — ^" 
 
 "Fear it not," interrupted Giulietta; ''he will 
 always think more kindly of me than I deserve. 
 And now, dear mother, let us come in ; my heart 
 beats teazingly. I would lie down awhile. Nay, 
 do not look frightened ; joy does not kill. To- 
 morrow Rudolphe will be here, and we shall sit
 
 THE king's daughter. 191 
 
 together on this bench, and admire the bright 
 heavens. The past will then seem as a dream." 
 
 " And an ugly one enough it has been," said 
 Gioconda. 
 
 " Ay, but the future," said Giulietta ; and they 
 entered together into the cottage. 
 
 Nothing so much offends profound feeling as 
 publicity. The well-meant pageant displeased the 
 duke and annoyed Rudolphe ; but both were too 
 happy to be severe, and so received the good peo- 
 ple of Oriana with well-assumed cordiality. But 
 when the procession had arrived within the gates 
 of the castle, they both contrived to slip away 
 droitly, and taking a short road to the curate's 
 dwelling, were within a few paces of it before 
 the musicians, who formed the van, had arranged 
 themselves in the great court for the performance 
 of some wonderful symphony got up for the 
 occasion. 
 
 It was already evening, and the amber clouds 
 had turned to grey, when the well-known porch, 
 with its thick roof of jessamine, and its tracery of 
 leaves and tendrils embedded into the slight pilas-
 
 192 THE king's daughter. 
 
 ters, appeared before the travellers. But there 
 were red streaks yet in the west, and the light 
 emitted from them played on the casements of the 
 cottage, giving it the air of being gaily illumi- 
 nated. 
 
 Our cavaliers entered — first the curate's study : 
 it was vacant. Then the small parlour, which 
 Giulietta used to call her own : the window was 
 open ; there was some unfinished work upon a 
 table, and some fresh-gathered flowers, but no- 
 thing living. 
 
 " They have walked out,"" said Rudolphe; " the 
 evening is so beautiful."" 
 
 " Doubtless,"" said the duke. " And yet at such 
 
 a moment But I hear a sound; there are voices 
 
 in the garden chamber."" 
 
 "Voices?"""* repeated Rudolphe, advancing ra- 
 pidly. " Thank God ! I did not like this stillness, 
 this sullen welcome."" 
 
 " It is the priest," said the duke. " He repeats 
 his breviary." The impatient Rudolphe advanced 
 a step beyond his uncle, and pushing open the 
 door— entered. 
 
 I have begun this story, and so I must go on 
 with it. I wish I had not. I knew and loved
 
 THE king's daughter. 193 
 
 Giulietta, and now, alas ! it is left to me to de- 
 scribe the interior of that garden chamber, where 
 her faithful lover, and he who longed to press her 
 to a father's heart, stood like two death-struck 
 wretches on the threshold. Where shall I begin ? 
 
 She was there, Giulietta — or what had once been 
 her, — for the beautiful soul was gone ! There, 
 pure and pale as monumental marble, and cold as 
 death ! her long hair parted on her calm fair fore- 
 head, her hands gently clasped, and in her bosom 
 some violets still fresh, gathered by herself an hour 
 or two before when she talked of that morrow — 
 never to come for her ! 
 
 There she lay — the old priest reading from a 
 book of prayers, while tears rolled slowly through 
 the channels which time and sorrow had furrowed 
 in his cheeks, — it is dreadful to see the aged weep ; 
 and beside the bed sat Gioconda, her head buried 
 in her knees, her hands clenched across her fore- 
 head, in the attitude of utter desolation ; while 
 more distant, and as if afraid to intrude on grief 
 more sacred than their own, were Giacomo Pozzi 
 and his sick mother, — the woman on her knees, and 
 the son with his face pressed against the window, 
 weeping bitterly.
 
 194 
 
 THE KIXG S DAUGHTER. 
 
 '' So soon ! " exclaimed the priest, as the door 
 opened. " Good sirs — "' 
 
 " Be comforted," he would have said, but the 
 words stuck in his throat; and losing all command, 
 he sobbed aloud. 
 
 It needed but a sound to unlock the sluices of 
 Gioconda's grief; she started up, her white hair, 
 from which in her first despair she had torn the 
 head-clotlis, hanging on her shoulders. 
 
 '* Lord have mercy on us !" she cried, " what a 
 sight is this ! But she cannot be dead ; a moment 
 since she spoke to me. Dead ! Giulietta dead ! O 
 no, she is too young to die. I said it was but a 
 trance ; I knew it. I told the father so ; but he is 
 old and fearful. See how he weeps — but how 
 silent you are all ! Speak to me, my child, my 
 Giulietta!" and then in a whispering tone, "Ru- 
 dolphe is come ; the prince is here, — give him thy 
 hand. O God ! how cold it is. My child ! my 
 love ! you do not speak to me !"" Then, as if the 
 dreadful truth had come for the first time upon her, 
 she uttered a horrible shriek, her eves rolled, and 
 she— a simple peasant woman — looked in the great- 
 ness of her grief Hke the crowned Hecuba, the 
 mother of a dead race of princes.
 
 THE king's daughter. 195 
 
 But Rudolphe ! what was all other grief to his ? 
 Faint and feeble words ; and the drying up of life, 
 the entire, certain, utter hopelessness — how shall I 
 paint it ? Not at all — not at all. There are feel- 
 ings for which no outward sign either of speech or 
 colouring has been yet invented. Poor wretch, 
 who was so full hope ! 
 
 The duke had advanced a few paces into the 
 room, and there stood motionless as marble; a 
 deadly paleness on his brow, and in his eyes a 
 strange fixedness, a stony glare, as if the life had 
 left them. Suddenly the sound of music was heard, 
 and the trampling of light feet, and the shouts of 
 a rejoicing crowd. The duke started. 
 
 " Let us pass," he said, in a low whisper, " let 
 us pass. The ball opens. Who is that with the 
 princess ? Sir, she is my wife, — you smile : I swear 
 it on the honour of a knight. I have a daughter 
 too, exceeding fair as they say. Duke Albert 
 loves her — but that's a secret, my sister's secret 
 some one said. How soundly the young lady 
 sleeps ; good sir, stop the music, — it may awaken 
 her. I thought she was my daughter ; but they 
 say not, now ; they took her mother from me, — my 
 Isolina ! Reverend sir, I thank thee for the offer : 
 
 k2
 
 196 
 
 THE KING S DAUGHTER. 
 
 let US begone ! " — and he passed rapidly from the 
 room, beckoning to the astonished priest, who 
 followed him. 
 
 From the hour in which the fair corse of Giuli- 
 etta was committed to the earth, Rudolphe seemed 
 to have vanished from it ; till then he had watched 
 beside the bed of death, and when the grave was 
 opened, he was there. But when they sought him, 
 he was gone — and none knew whither.
 
 THE ROC'S EGG
 
 lii'^i J l^ifelb
 
 THE ROC'S EGG. 
 
 It was my fortune, commune to all age, 
 To love a ladye faire of great degree, 
 The which was born of noble parentage, 
 And iset in highest seat of dignitee, 
 Yet seemed no less to love, than loved to be. 
 
 Fairie Queen. 
 
 O place and greatness, millions of false eyes 
 
 Are stuck upon thee ! 
 
 Measure for Measure. 
 
 " Your hall," said the false Fatima to the illus- 
 trious Badroulbadour, " is nothing without the 
 roc's egg hung up in the centre." 
 
 " And life," cried Harry Grey, " is nothing 
 without honour." 
 
 " Or honours," said his simpler-minded brother. 
 
 " As you will," replied Harry carelessly. Six 
 hours afterwards he had left his native town many 
 miles behind, and was rattling away on the top of 
 the Durham stage along the high road to London.
 
 200 THE ROC^S EGG. 
 
 At this period the ancient capital of the county 
 Palatine was very striking, with something like a 
 highland glen in the middle of it, now perhaps 
 built upon, like that once green dell vulgarly 
 . called the dry ditch of Edinburgh, which I am 
 told, for " my eyes have not seen it," has been 
 wrested from the washer and bleacher-women, and 
 being given over to man, smokes away like the 
 other quarters of auld Reekie. 
 
 Besides this glen, which was a beautiful feature, 
 Durham had (and no doubt has still) among its 
 settings off, the grand cathedral air, the pur- 
 ple and scarlet, prince-bishop, and lord-cardinal 
 odour, almost beyond any other of the old and 
 high ecclesiastical cities of England, whose his- 
 torical records are bound up with those of the 
 church by a golden girdle, on which Pomp has 
 engraved the words " Power and Glory," and 
 Piety those of " Fortitude and Sacrifice," — and 
 " Glory " too, — but in other characters. 
 
 But of its beauty, or its dignity, Harry took no 
 note; and though his eyes were moist when he 
 saw the chimneys of his father's house disappear 
 behind a round hill, up which he had often clam- 
 bered in his childhood, yet his plans — for he flat-
 
 THE roc's egg. 201 
 
 tered himself he had plans — soon dried up the 
 home drops, and effaced the home recollections. 
 And yet, — but I must get more into order, or I 
 shall never arrive at the end of my story. 
 
 Harry Grey was the second son of a worthy 
 man, of sound sense and a rare heart, himself the 
 sixth male offspring of a poor clergyman, who 
 thought it a white day when he chanced to stum- 
 ble on an old schoolfellow reputably established 
 as a draper in Durham, who offered to take his 
 son Henry into his house and bring him up to 
 his trade without requiring the customary remu- 
 neration. Henry Grey was grateful and diligent, 
 and the old man took to him as if he had been his 
 son. He was amiable and handsome, and the old 
 man's daughter, Miriam, soon showed, with the 
 innocence of a young heart which had not learned 
 to disguise its feelings, that she shared in her 
 father's kindly dispositions towards him. In short, 
 things took the usual course, and the master's 
 daughter became the partner's wife. 
 
 Miriam Grey was a charming creature : the 
 epithet is hackneyed, but she really deserved it. 
 She had so much beauty and natural good breed- 
 ing, that her name was often cited in circles far 
 
 K 3
 
 202 THE roc's egg. 
 
 above the quiet one in which she moved ; and 
 when the belles of Durham were the subject of a 
 stranger's inquiry, " O, you should see the dra- 
 per's wife," was always sure to be the answer. 
 
 But Miriam thought little about the effect of 
 her charms : her heart was as pure and beautiful 
 as her face. She loved her husband, idolized her 
 children, called her duties her enjoyments, and felt 
 that they were so ; and though in idea she some- 
 times wandered into a more poetical world than 
 that in which she habitually moved, — for there was 
 a touch of romance in her character, — yet virtually 
 she never strayed either in heart or person from 
 the home circle which her presence blest, and her 
 example benefited. 
 
 But even Miriam was not perfect, — alas ! who 
 is.? Simple in her habits, bounded in her desires, 
 where she herself was alone concerned, yet for her 
 children she felt something, — in short, she was 
 ambitious. I have said that her personal wishes 
 never strayed beyond the precincts of her garden, 
 or her fire-side, for the tincture of romance before 
 alluded to was merely a gentle indulgence of the 
 mind, that left behind it neither desires nor regrets. 
 Indeed, she believed herself to possess more of the
 
 THE roc's egg. 203 
 
 settings-off of life than she merited, — but for her 
 sons ! It would have been vain to have said, 
 " What can you reasonably desire for your chil- 
 dren beyond that happiness which you yourself 
 possess ?" Glories of all colours danced before her 
 eyes when she mused on their future destiny, and 
 the idea that the happy lot, which with heart-felt 
 gratitude she acknowledged hers to be, should be 
 theirs also, pained her more than she dared to 
 acknowledge even to herself. 
 
 What a fountain of tenderness is a mother's 
 heart ! Scorched, shrunk, dried up though it may 
 be by misfortune and sorrow, still the spring of 
 maternal love gushes out freshly. Our children 
 are to us love, hope, memory ; they absorb the 
 present, form our future, and are the links which 
 unite us with the past. A woman's life seems to 
 date from the time that she becomes a mother ; 
 and yet it is then that she ceases to live for her- 
 self, — that her soul passes, like that of the dervish 
 in the Arabian tale, into the body of another. O 
 mystery of tenderness, that outlives all v/hich kills 
 other affections ! — absence, time, ingratitude, even 
 the disgrace of its object, — all, every thing ! Lovers 
 and friends may hate those whom they have adored
 
 204 THE IIOC'S EGG. 
 
 and confided in, — they do hate them sometimes ; 
 but a mother cannot hate her child, even her guilty 
 prosperous child ; for the guilty and unfortunate 
 one comes like the prodigal home at once to the 
 heart, which while it has followed the course of 
 error may have wept blood, but not gall. 
 
 A reader of story-books having advanced thus 
 far in mine, would here naturally enough exclaim, 
 "What a digression! and without purport, too; no 
 carrying on of the plot, no bearing on the subject." 
 Alas ! it is all true ; and if the day of ' gentle 
 readers'" had not passed away, I should address 
 him (or her) pithily. But as appeals of this kind 
 are no longer in fashion, I can only say with 
 Cervantes, or it may be Sterne, for I am not sure 
 which, that " my pen governs me, not I it," 
 
 But to return to the point from which we started. 
 Miriam had two sons : the eldest, William, was 
 frank and gentle, and while yet a child had shown 
 a marked preference for a country life and the 
 soft beauties of pastoral scenery. His delight was 
 in bible lore ; the lone valleys, the tents and cedars 
 of the patriarchs, had charmed his infant fancy, 
 and made him view the loveliness of nature as 
 something holy, and the shepherd-life of Israel's
 
 • THE KOC'S EGG. 205 
 
 sires as the one in which the bounties of Pro- 
 vidence had been earliest and most beautifully 
 manifested. He preferred the Book of Ruth even 
 to the " Wonderful Lamp ; " and when his mother 
 gave him Thomson's Seasons, had soon doubled 
 down all the happy pictures of rural life which were 
 in accordance with his particular turn of mind. 
 
 Harry Grey, the younger brother, read Thom- 
 son too; but neither the sheep- shearing, nor the 
 hay-making, nor even the gleaning, with " the 
 lovely young Lavinia'' herself in the midst of it, 
 interested his fancy ; while Hampton Court, and 
 Sheen, " delightful Sheen,"' and 
 
 "Clermont's terrac'd heights, and Esher's groves," 
 
 and all the courtly scenery of Richmond Park, 
 the pure Thames, and the right royal Windsor, 
 heated his imagination and made him long to 
 breathe their perfumed atmosphere. 
 
 His gentle mother would often scatter seeds in 
 the too ready soil ; and when his father sometimes 
 reproved the soaring fancies of the boy, would 
 say with a sweet half-exulting smile, " You will 
 have no difficulty, my love, in doing as you like 
 with William ; but you will never make a draper
 
 206 THE roc's egg. 
 
 of Harry." To which prediction the kind and 
 good man usually assented with a forced smile, 
 for it was not in his excellent nature to pain his 
 Miriam even by a judicious dissent, when it might 
 seem like an opposing feeling. 
 
 And so they grew up, not rough and smooth 
 like the two renowned sons of the Emperor of 
 Greece, Orson and Valentine, — but the one calm 
 and wise, the other wild and ardent. One strong 
 sentiment united them in feeling, — the sentiment 
 of affectionate respect which they felt for both 
 their parents, and which softened into tender ad- 
 miration when they looked at their fond mother. 
 
 But Miriam died — as we all must; only she 
 went before her time, and so left the image of 
 her sweetness and beauty, as it was in its early 
 freshness, in the memories of her husband and 
 her children. 
 
 Children seldom know what their mothers have 
 been ; they forget the fair face that hung over 
 them in infancy ; another has effaced it, with the 
 cares of the world, and perhaps the disappoint- 
 ments of the heart, written on it. The gentle, 
 happy caresses of a young mother are changed — 
 in some for the anxieties of a guardian, in others
 
 THE roc's egg. 207 
 
 for the vigilance of a sentinel ; and the counsels 
 of experience, even when enforced with mildness 
 and judgment, want the charm with which youth 
 binds up its rhetoric. 
 
 To stubborn minds the tenderest tutelage seems 
 arbitrary ; while there are others so beautifully 
 constructed, that a wish, rather indicated than 
 expressed, suffices for their guidance. It was thus 
 that Miriam''s children felt ; theirs was the educa- 
 tion of love, and they would have seen in their 
 mother's wrinkles, had she lived to wear them, 
 only a more sacred call upon their hearts : they 
 would have always loved her, and the feeling of 
 abiding tenderness would have been refined into 
 a holier sentiment, as they beheld the links of life 
 slowly relaxing, and the space of time which they 
 had yet to pass together lessening to a point. 
 
 As it was, they both grieved deeply for her 
 loss — deeply and lastingly, — but with this differ- 
 ence ; William struggled with his sorrow that he 
 might comfort his father, but Harry cherished 
 his, and would mix up with it recollections of his 
 mother's beauty and high-mindedness, that seemed 
 to solace him in the midst of his afflictions.
 
 208 THE roc's egg. 
 
 The widower of Miriam did not live many 
 years. It is difficult to resign one's-self to the 
 loss of such a companion as she had been to him. 
 Perhaps he gave way to grief; but all that I know 
 is, that he too died, and was buried beside the 
 sweet creature whom he had loved so dearly. And 
 their sons, one being twenty and the other a year 
 older, finding themselves each in possession of a 
 respectable fortune, amassed by honourable indus- 
 try, resolved to adopt the plan of life most conge- 
 nial to their views and wishes; and to forward 
 his, William purchased a farm in a cheerful situ- 
 ation, and with every facility for carrying on the 
 agricultural projects in which (having disengaged 
 himself from trade) he wished to embark his portion. 
 
 Harry, as we have seen, chose the top of a 
 stage-coach as the first step of the ladder by 
 which he meditated mounting up to all possible 
 dignities; and when he was firmly seated on it, 
 and had given one strong and tender squeeze to 
 his brother's hand, his good brother, whose heart- 
 felt farewell the pang of parting had rendered 
 inarticulate, he felt as if the goal of his ambition 
 was already attained. And yet — I am now at the 
 period from which I first set out, and must account
 
 THE roc's egg. 209 
 
 for the slight impediment which this yet seemed 
 to throw in the way of his ambition. 
 
 Harry Grey wrote sonnets to the moon, and to 
 the stars, the morning-star, and the evening-star, 
 and the polar-star, and other heavenly bodies ; and 
 invocations to the Oreades, and the Dryades, and 
 the sylvan deities in general. He loved to wander 
 in the woods by moonlight, or at the golden hour 
 of the setting sun ; doated on music, but loved it 
 most when " married to immortal verse ;" had 
 dwelt on Werter till he had become enamoured 
 of suicide, and studied Schiller till he had con- 
 vinced himself that he was of the true rock from 
 which the robber Moor and the rebel Wallenstien, 
 those splendid incarnations — the one of a generous 
 nature outraged into crime, the other of a loftier 
 and more magnificent ambition — were hewn. He 
 had been known to shed tears at hearing certain 
 Hungarian waltzes played on the barrel-organ ; 
 and stood convicted of having inscribed the name 
 of Rousseau on a tablet in his father's garden, 
 with a distich upon man and nature under it. 
 
 Besides all this, he had mastered Italian ; knew 
 the loves and fortunes of all the princes and poets 
 of the middle ages; had sympathized with Cino
 
 210 THE roc's egg. 
 
 da Pistoia who, when young and as yet unknown, 
 had dared to love a fair and noble lady, the sweet 
 Ricciardi dei Selvaggia, for whose loss neither 
 riches nor honours could afterwards console him ; 
 had mused on Boccaccio's passion for that graceful, 
 graceless beauty, Mary of Naples, and the deeper 
 love of Tasso for Leonora d'Este ; till finding 
 himself in absolute want of an idol, and having 
 neither noble lady or great princess at hand, he 
 had fallen in love with a girl prettier than half the 
 princesses in Europe put together. 
 
 Fanny Middleton was a person of decided 
 fashion in the eyes of Harry Grey, who, with all 
 the seeds of aristocracy about him, had never come 
 in contact with any thing more aristocratical than 
 the manifold daughters of his father's five bro- 
 thers ; of whom two were curates, one a half-pay 
 captain, another a lieutenant of marines, and a 
 fifth a London attorney. Whereas Fanny was the 
 daughter of a colonel, and besides, her mother's 
 father was brother to a Scotch peer ; but both had 
 been extravagant in their youth, and the colonel's 
 death having deprived his family of the means of 
 living in society, Mrs. Middleton had retired to a 
 cheap village a mile or two from Durham, and
 
 THE roc's egg. 211 
 
 being a woman of strong sense, and a large pur- 
 chaser in the way of experience, had courageously 
 brought down her views to her resources. 
 
 They were extremely limited, but her health 
 and temper were good, and her spirits cheerful, 
 and it was with more of gaiety than regret that she 
 fixed herself in a cottage in the middle of a piece 
 of waste ground, which she soon converted into 
 a charming flower-garden ; and with the help of 
 some taste, a little paint, and a great deal of neat- 
 ness, contrived to give to her humble dwelling 
 that air of refined, yet simple comfort, for which 
 our English cottages are so remarkable. 
 
 I have forgotten how Miriam Grey and Mrs. 
 Middleton became acquainted, but probably by 
 some act of kindness on the part of the former. 
 Mrs. Middleton, who in early life had been at the 
 fag-end of an arrogant family, who had run the 
 gauntlet of caprice, and suffered all the inflictions 
 with which the overbearing love to visit the un- 
 protected, felt and valued the sincere and unpre- 
 tending excellence of Miriam's heart, and had too 
 much good taste not to be impressed by the grace- 
 ful simplicity and natural dignity of her manners. 
 In short, the draper's wife and the colonel's widow
 
 212 
 
 real firieods, (Aere are tirree kinds c^ 
 fort says) ; their children grew up 
 die HiemtifT of the beloved ^^liriam 
 aid lier good ImdMBd was chen^ied at Rosebrook 
 with moeaang aSediQn. Was an j ooe praised 
 for gBce gr beantj, ^eratiaD ai cfaaracter, <ir 
 Mrs. Middleton would foodlj 
 *s mu^, " Ah, (she would saj,) I 
 had a fiaemd as much above the person you 
 oi m lordizness, ss ^le was beycoid all others 
 in Tstne^ Poor dear Mrs. Grey I There was 
 beauty, — and socii a sweet mind with it, such an 
 angelic nature.'^ Aiul in these, and anular ex> 
 jmeaaaos^ would give vent to a blended feeling ai 
 tCBderae^ and adnnratioQ which death had in no 
 d^;ree weakaied ; and thus Fanny grew up in the 
 ■idst v£ inpRssiaBS so favourable to Miriam's 
 hmAjf ^at its name became natnrallj bJcnded 
 with all the eariy fimcks and affectionate feeKngs 
 of her heart. 
 
 Mis. Middletoii had (as I have already obserred) 
 kjiacd to shape her ambitioQ to her fallen fortunes; 
 agsd, having strong feelings and an ind<
 
 THE &OC's EGG. 213 
 
 miud, preferred the acrivity and freedom of her 
 humble life to an irritating dependance oo the 
 inactive good nature or mortifying caprices of her 
 rich and noble relatives. With these fedings, 
 precarious health, and the ever-present conscious- 
 ness that from her small pittance she could not 
 hope to lay bj even a decent sufficiencv for her 
 daughter, her wishes naturally turned towards the 
 good, the sage, the noble-minded WiUiam Grev, 
 just about the time when the fair Fanny's had 
 taken another direction. 
 
 HarrA- was not so handsome as his brother, 
 whose manly figure and fine countenance had much 
 of the pure and noble regularity of ancient Greek 
 sculpture : but he had that which girls of seven- 
 teen admire much more than a fine outline or a 
 serene expression, — eves full of wayward fancies, 
 of thought and sweetness, with a beaming smile 
 which his mother had given him. along with her 
 delightful voice and air of distinction. He had no 
 particular reputation for beauty ; but people said as 
 he passed. '• How very gentlemanlike Harry Grey 
 looks ; such good style, and such an intellectual 
 head ; so very original and interesting, — no one 
 could suppose him to be a draper's son.~
 
 214 THE roc's egg. 
 
 Fanny'^s heart was not the last to re-echo these 
 eulogiums ; she had read enough of poetry to 
 know that Harry Grey looked like a sunbeam, or 
 a moonbeam, she was not sure which, — sometimes 
 one, sometimes the other, and that all his brilliancy 
 and all his tenderness were reserved for her. And 
 no sooner had she made this discovery, than she 
 suddenly felt convinced that her ever liking any 
 one else was out of the question ; indeed no one 
 could have a second attachment; of that Harry had 
 assured her, and so she assured her mother, who 
 was always the depositary of her secrets. 
 
 " But Harry is scarcely twenty, my love," said 
 Mrs. Middleton ; " his views are vague, his cha- 
 racter unformed. Now William — " 
 
 " O, but neither William or I care about eacli 
 other." 
 
 This was unanswerable, and so after many grave 
 discussions and heart-stirring appeals, it was at 
 last arranged that if in two years Harry Grey and 
 Fanny continued still of the same mind, and that 
 his lofty speculations had sobered down into some- 
 thing more tangible, they should be united. 
 
 Fanny was a sweet-tempered, quick-minded girl, 
 with a healthy sensibility of heart and a sunny
 
 THE roc's egg. 215 
 
 cheerfulness of spirits, that had together stolen 
 into her eyes, and made the prettiest play there 
 imaginable. Her step was buoyant, her voice 
 music, her laugh joy, — like the laugh of one who 
 relied on hope, and had never heard of its deceit- 
 fulness. Her throat was long and flexible, with a 
 graceful undulating movement when she turned 
 her head that had something of stateliness in its 
 fine-drawn delicacy ; but the sweetness of her look 
 and manner seemed to court affection, and when 
 Harry bade her adieu, it was with the firm con- 
 viction that nothing like her charming self had 
 ever existed. 
 
 That evening, — I mean the evening of his 
 departure, Fanny sat at her window, and leant 
 her cheek upon her pretty hand, and looked like 
 Juliet in her balcony, as she watched the clouds 
 that passed over the heavens, obscuring as they 
 swept gently along the fair crescent moon that 
 hung above, and thought of her " gracious 
 Romeo,*" — " her dear lord," and would have 
 begged a voice of the nightingale, 
 
 " To lure her tassel gentle back," 
 
 and went so deep into romance, as to gaze on the
 
 210 THE ROg's egg. 
 
 green lane that lay in the moonshine at the bottom 
 of the garden, until she fancied it the great 
 liOndon road, and the hay-cart which struggled 
 through its ruts creakingly the London stage- 
 coach ; and there she sat watching its toiling 
 wheels as they rolled heavily along, until a sudden 
 'gee-heugh,' and the cracking of a cart-whip, 
 dispersed her gentle reveries. 
 
 Harry too had his moonshiny dreams, his fair 
 visions of futurity, in which love and ambition, 
 bound up in one idea, soared upwards like the 
 Austrian eagle, with a head looking each way. 
 But in the midst of his high and teeming fancies, 
 it is but justice to him to add, that Fanny's image 
 stood on the summit of the stars and garters, 
 cornucopias of gold, and patents of nobility, which 
 liis imagination had heaped together till the pile 
 had fairly made way for itself through the dim 
 unsatisfying atmosphere of probability, into the 
 paradise of dreams. Perhaps he had never read 
 the story of the Persian glassman. 
 
 The very circumstance of her having pleased 
 his fancy, gave Fanny's beauty an ineffable charm 
 in the eyes of her adorer ; for Harry believed him- 
 self to be one of the most discriminating judges of
 
 THE roc's egg. 217 
 
 female loveliness afloat, and could discuss the 
 warm yellow hair of Titian''s donnas, the long eye- 
 lid of RaphaePs virgins, the timid graces of Leonora 
 d'Este, or the courtly ones of Surrey's Geraldine, 
 most scientifically; preferred the long Egyptian 
 eye to the full Circassian one, knew the turn of 
 Miss Jennings' lip, and the form of Lady Castle- 
 maine's eyebrow ; and loved court beauties — Maza- 
 rins and Longuevilles, Richmonds and Hamiltons 
 — as well as Horace AValpole himself. No one 
 ever talked as he did about things of which they 
 knew nothing ; he would have discussed the poli- 
 tical economy of the stars, had he been a political 
 economist ; but as it was, beauty was his theme, 
 and love, and poetry, and music ; and having 
 taken Fanny for his idol, he no longer doubted her 
 surpassing all which the frequenters of haunted 
 streams, the moonlight visitors of the deep forest^ 
 or those who love to gaze upon the starry heavens 
 at midnight, had ever dreamed of. By turns she 
 resembled Dante's Beatrice, and the Miranda of 
 his dear Shakspeare ; sometimes the Saxon El- 
 frida, or Mary of Scotland in her rosebud days ; 
 at others fair Rosamond. I think he leant most to 
 the last, but was often divided between her and 
 
 L
 
 218 THE roc's egg. 
 
 that Princess de Conti, whose ravishing beauty 
 had — like that of the fair Portia, — brought wooers 
 from all corners of the earth. They were not, 
 probably, at all in the same style; but there was 
 no resisting the temptation of a comparison with 
 that particular star, of whose portrait the Prince 
 of Tunis, or of Fez — I have forgotten which,—-' 
 the Moorish prince (mark the romance in the word 
 Moorish) had become enamoured. 
 
 In short, he had long settled it in his mind that 
 modern times had produced nothing like Fanny, 
 and that all others of her sex looked, when near 
 her, as the scentless and gaudy tulip does opposed 
 to the chaste yet glowing beauty of the perfumed 
 rose. Of this he was more than ever convinced 
 when, on his arrival in London, his uncle, the 
 attorney, presented to him in rotation his five 
 daughters, — prodigiously fine girls as they were 
 called, but in his eyes vulgar, demonstrative, and 
 full of that flashy anxious show off", which an^ 
 nounces the minor boarding school as legibly as 
 the blue board and gilt letters. 
 
 Before an hour had elapsed, he was aware of all 
 their accomplishments. Miss Grey, as the eldest 
 was always called in her family (for having been
 
 THE roc's egg. 219 
 
 baptized plain Sarah, after a rich godmother, she 
 was happy to claim her right of seniority, and 
 smother her Christian name) had attitudinized a 
 few movements of the newest shawl-dance ; Miss 
 Augusta Wilhelmina touched her harp, the tender 
 Emmeline her lute guitar ; Julia Louisa had sung 
 " No, my love, no," quite as well (her mother said) 
 as Miss De Camp ; while Frederica — my brown 
 beauty, as the same active matron playfully styled 
 her youngest daughter — displayed her collection 
 of varnished screens, poonah drawings, and flowers 
 painted on velvet, which last were descanted on as 
 finished specimens of an elegant art in which the 
 gay creature particularly excelled ; quite a fashion- 
 able accomplishment, and (as Mrs. Edward Grey 
 rather incautiously observed) acquired with facility 
 in three lessons. 
 
 Fanny had her attainments too, but they were 
 of another kind ; and Harry Grey had too much 
 natural taste not to be disgusted by this premature 
 exhibition. But when evening came, and that, 
 putting on their showy bonnets knowingly, the 
 cousins proposed a walk in Red Lion Square, 
 (where their honoured father''s mansion occupied a 
 snug corner,) and dividing into parties of two and 
 
 l2
 
 220 THE roc's egg. 
 
 three, placed him in the middle; while the most 
 active manoeuvrer of each flank company used her 
 skill, when a quick turn favoured it, to whisk 
 round to his side, he suddenly made a vow to see 
 as little as possible of " those vastly fine girls, the 
 Greys," — and kept it ; resisting manfully pic-nics 
 at Norwood, white bait at Greenwich, and even a 
 tiffin on board an Indiaman, with a perspective of 
 attar of roses and hookahs. For the purser, " pa's 
 particular friend," was (Miss Grey observed) the 
 most generous creature in the world, and always 
 gave them oceans of nice things whenever they 
 went on board the Ganges. 
 
 And now Grey was launched in London with 
 money, talents, a distinguished appearance, and an 
 earnest desire to get on. But how to begin ? 
 Three or four months were spent in answering 
 this question. 
 
 In all such matters, ce ri'est que le premier pas 
 
 qui coute; but this premier pas / Many 
 
 obvious ways presented themselves to Grey, by 
 which his talents might be exercised and his fortune 
 improved; but then they were obvious ways, and 
 required time and industry. But he wished for 
 immediate elevation, (a rail-road upwards,) a seat
 
 THE roc's egg. 221 
 
 in parliament, a high place under government, 
 an important diplomatic station, &c., &c., totally 
 forgetting that he had neither interest nor con- 
 nexions, and that whatever his abilities might be, 
 he had not yet given proof of possessing any. 
 
 By chance this very thing occurred to him one 
 idle day ; and having nothing else to do, he sat 
 down to write a book. Possessing considerable 
 facility, he soon completed two neat volumes of 
 three hundred pages each ; but to write a book was 
 nothing, — to get it published was the difficulty. 
 No one would undertake it ; the subject was 
 worn out, the ground over fed ; the style might 
 possibly be good — every one now wrote well, — but 
 publishers were continually obliged to refuse highly 
 creditable performances, &c. At length Grey, 
 thoroughly convinced of the merits of his work, 
 published it at his own expense ; and found, to his 
 utter astonishment, that it hung on hand just as his 
 bookseller had predicted. However, he consoled 
 himself with the reflection that had he condescended 
 to cater for the public taste, or lowered his style to 
 its appetite, he should have succeeded, and that in 
 fact he had given a gem to the cock, who (wisely 
 enough) would have preferred a barley-corn.
 
 222 THE ROC'*S EGG. 
 
 Of how many persons, who in their day ob- 
 tained celebrity, might it be said that they had 
 much in their minds which never entered into 
 their hearts, which never lodged there, never was 
 made holy in the sanctuary. Their works are 
 like " mailed angels," fresh, gorgeous, glittering in 
 their bright and beautiful armour ; but they have 
 not the amazing power that one undressed thought 
 has, when it comes out in its loneliness from the 
 living temple. Perhaps this thought was not in 
 Grey''s book ; perhaps circumstances, or the colour 
 of the times, was against it ; at all events, he found 
 a solace in his vanity, — that staunch friend to 
 those who have no other flatterer. 
 
 " After all, (said he,) the Paradise Lost was sold 
 for ten pounds. Grey was burlesqued, and She- 
 ridan's Rivals received sentence of death on its 
 first appearance : a better taste reversed that sen- 
 tence, as it may, perhaps, reverse others. De- 
 cidedly, patronage is the great point. Who knows, 
 if Mecagnas had never lived, whether the Eneid 
 would have found its way down to us ?"
 
 THE ROC''s EGG. 223 
 
 A dinner at his publisher's was the sole result 
 (disappointment excepted) of Grey's literary efforts. 
 
 Young and unknown persons should suffer them- 
 selves to be drawn out, or at least employ their 
 tact to seize on favourable moments not already 
 bespoken by authorized monopolists. Grey forgot 
 this sage precept, and found that even when the 
 subject discussed happened to be one of which he 
 had an intimate knowledge, no one listened to his 
 observations. Mr. A. took the lead, Mr. B. fol- 
 lowed, Mr. C. opposed, Mr. D. assented ; one was 
 a high political character, another a wit, a third 
 dexterous. Poor Grey had the bad tact to put a 
 question to one of those great men which he could 
 not answer, and from that ill-starred moment a 
 deaf ear, a half smile, or a marked expression of 
 impatience, was all that he could obtain. 
 
 At this memorable dinner much was eaten, and 
 much discussed, — arts, sciences, wines, political 
 economy, general literature, and gastronomic im- 
 provements. Some maintained the honour of the 
 portly turbot, the deliciously flavoured lobster- 
 sauce, and the immortal saddle, but still kept the 
 top-stone of the pedestal for the lively turtle, — so 
 little known on the continent, that strangers often
 
 224) THE roc's egg. 
 
 fancy it one of our native luxuries; while others 
 mutinied in favour of the more scientific entrees 
 with which the peace of Amiens had recently 
 enriched our festive catalogues. Grey took no part 
 in these discussions, and having already received 
 some marked repulses on subjects more within the 
 scope of his talents, lay on his oars, but ever on the 
 watch to redeem the ground which he had lost. 
 
 At length sprung up an argument on the respec- 
 tive merits of the classical and the romantic style 
 of dramatic poetry; yet scarcely an argument, 
 for the latter was not then so firm in its seat as 
 great and widely circulated names, sent abroad in 
 various languages and impelling by their weight 
 the current of popular opinion into a new chan- 
 nel, have since made it. That the mighty one of 
 Shakspeare had consecrated the imaginative drama, 
 was allowed ; but it was denied that a shred of his 
 mantle had fallen upon his successors of modern 
 times, and unanimously opined that nothing less 
 than his glory could efface his broad and — as some 
 said — monstrous offences. 
 
 Grey, whose admiration of Shakspeare was a 
 wholesale feeling which admitted of no parcelling 
 off, recoiled as from some horrible heresy. Besides,
 
 THE roc's egg. 225 
 
 he loved the dance of song, the irregular fire 
 which flashes, burns, dies away and then blazes 
 out again, far better than the sustained equality of 
 unimpeachable verse, into whose flame (so ran his 
 argument) one might, like Shedrach, Meshach, and 
 Abednego, walk untouched, for it had neither heat 
 or action. He allowed that the Greek tragic poets 
 had made prodigious use of the passions, both 
 terrible and tender, wielding gloriously the great 
 elements of power, — grandeur, pathos, expression, 
 and the piercing instinct of moral divination ; and 
 though shackled by the unities, and unaided by 
 the knowledge of those secrets to which modern 
 dramatic art owes a portion of its illusions, yet 
 attaining by the force of intellectual strength the 
 " eminent mount " to which the road, though 
 smoothed, seems now so difiicult of access. But 
 he denied the claim of their modern representatives 
 to the same ground. " Bring forth," he conti- 
 nued, with warmth, " the great master of metho- 
 dized tragedy, — Racine himself, and oppose him to 
 the mighty one of antiquity. Does his marble — 
 beautiful and exquisitely polished as it is — pal- 
 pitate with life like the half-chiselled blocks of 
 the great Athenian ? No ; his works are like the 
 
 l3
 
 226 THE roc's egg. 
 
 statues of a sculptor whose mechanical powers are 
 more eminent than his inspirations, who labours at 
 the surface, softens the details, rounds the forms 
 into beauty, and with his own breath blows cflp the 
 last dust. But Eschylus, like Michael Angelo, 
 (himself the Eschylus of sculpture,) poured in the 
 life-blood, which, finding its own channels of cir- 
 culation, gave vitality to limbs and features left 
 unfinished by the chisel. Men have quaked at 
 things in a translated Eschylus : who ever quaked 
 at any thing in an original Racine ? 
 
 " Few," he continued, " who have been content 
 to subjugate their powers to the rules of classical — 
 or as it is called — legitimate drama, do more than 
 give back the images impressed on the mind 
 through the medium of sensation, without piercing 
 into the chaos of the soul, separating its elements, 
 or striking out light and life from its unsounded 
 depths;'' and he likened such minds to a mirror, 
 clear but void, aptly receiving the form set before 
 it, and reflecting it in perhaps a heightened and 
 more lucid beauty, but having no power to pro- 
 duce an original image. 
 
 The word original was cavilled at ; none were 
 original ; the existence of the creative faculty
 
 THE ROC^S EGG. 227 
 
 denied : all drew (it was asserted) from the same 
 open sources. 
 
 " Agreed,"'' said Grey, " the ore is there, but 
 men coin it to their fancies." 
 
 " Ay, but in imitation of visible images."" 
 
 " Combined from them : — so far is true. But 
 he who from known materials, accessible to all — 
 the handled, sifted, common stock — selects, blends, 
 and strikes out new forms with the touch of life, 
 the mark of truth, the countermark of nature on 
 them, may wear the word in his cap." And then 
 Grey would have returned to Shakspeare, and have 
 disburdened his mind of its upswelling thoughts 
 and passionate fancies ; but an indifference, com- 
 pared with which opposition is encouragement, 
 chilled though it did not silence him. 
 
 Grey was not yet an effective reasoner. He was 
 too prone to generalize his ideas patiently to suffer 
 analytical criticism, too diffuse to command atten- 
 tion, and too bold in his decisions to argue, or 
 perhaps examine, closely. He felt the difficulty of 
 his position, but still maintained it — though single 
 handed — against more experienced polemists, accus- 
 tomed to dress their arguments scientifically, and 
 furnished with the charges of grossness, distortion.
 
 228 THE KOC'S EGG. 
 
 false taste, artidcial feeling, and all the thronging 
 sins of what the speaker called an •• overleaping 
 imagination." To which last expression Grey 
 calmly replied — 
 
 " I know but of two boundaries which the ima- 
 gination mav not overieap : that of good taste, 
 which includes truth, decency, and much besides, 
 and that of interest ; for it is not allowable for us 
 to be vague and wild till the wings that follow us 
 are wear}*." 
 
 It oertsinlj was not Grey's intention to make a 
 speech, — he even believed himself uttering common 
 sense; but the remark appeared to give offence, 
 and to increase the feeling of contemptuous mis- 
 trust with which he appeared to be regarded. 
 
 Presently, a supercilious-looking person with a 
 broad vacant face, who sat immediately opposite to 
 him, said, in a jibing tone, ••' Pray, sir, may I be 
 permitted to ask if you write verses ? " 
 
 " Not professionally. sLr." 
 
 •• Ah ! an amateur : ' lines to Laura, by a young 
 gendeman,* — he — he," said the sneerer with a flat 
 titter. A neighbour whispered something. " Ah — 
 ' dgned Veritas ;* a bad signature, as old as Junius : 
 does not go with the times." Then turning to
 
 THE EOC's EGG. 229 
 
 Grey with a sort of leer, •• Sad dogs, those review- 
 ers, sir ; right, though, generally. But I must 
 say, and upon my honour I think, — [here a look 
 of dignitv as flat as the titter,] — that thev have 
 dished you up rather sauc-Uy. — he I hel~ at which 
 wretched pun, if pun it might be called, a brace 
 of dinner-hunters (the punster was a sort of Me- 
 caenas) laughed in their chins, as clever people do 
 when they have seized the fine point of a witticism. 
 But Grey was nettled : coldness he could bear, 
 but not ridicule. •* You are wrong, sir," said he 
 warmly. •'• I have not the honour to be the author 
 of the admirable pamphlet to which vou allude. I 
 should feel proud to have written it : everv page is 
 a mine of eloquence, sound argument, and moral 
 courage. Like the Levite of Ephraim, the writer 
 has parcelled out his wrongs, and sent them to 
 awaken vengeance amongst the tribes of the earth: 
 the cause he has espoused is a holv one, and he 
 fights for it. like the crusaders of old, manfullv, 
 with the mark of his faith upon his breast. No 
 shifting, no back-path left open to escape bv, no 
 compromising cowardice ; but the fine sentiment 
 of entire reverence in his heart, and on his lips the 
 noble courage of belief. That book, sir, will be
 
 23^ THE roc's egg. 
 
 read, remembered, quoted, when you and I have 
 been long forgotten."' 
 
 " Mr. Smith, may I have the pleasure of drink- 
 mg wine with you?" said the Sunday Mecaenas, 
 bending forward towards an angle of the table. 
 Mr. Smith bowed assent, at the same time smiling 
 significantly: the smile said very exiplicitly fudge, 
 and no one replying to Grey's tirade, the conver- 
 sation took another turn. 
 
 It was a trying day, and Gray felt the disap- 
 pointment of his hopes too severely to risk another 
 chance. There he was perhaps wrong ; but pro- 
 vincial talent, like provincial beauty, is often pre- 
 sumptuous, and spurns the level to which it finds 
 itself lowered when it becomes competitor with the 
 mighties of a capital. It tries to usurp, — fails, 
 and retires lacerated from the tribunal of public 
 opinion, perhaps at the moment when the legiti- 
 macy of its claims might, if persisted in, have been 
 acknowledged by a favourable verdict. 
 
 That night it occurred to Grey that he was in 
 the wrong track, and something that sounded like 
 the sweet voice of Fanny Middleton seemed to 
 whisper in his ear, " Return to Rosebrook ; a lieart 
 that loves you, an affectionate circle, independence.
 
 THE KOC's EGG. 231 
 
 the privilege of usefulness, and leisure to cultivate 
 powers too prematurely exercised, await you there. 
 What more can the heart of man desire ? " 
 
 But the roc's egg was still wanting ; and after a 
 perturbed night Grey rose, sickened of literature, 
 but in the full determination of attacking fortune 
 in some more accessible quarter, and effacing by 
 future distinctions the humiliations of the night 
 before. 
 
 The afternoon was beautiful, and Grey had 
 walked thoughtfully along for a considerable time, 
 carried forward by the current of Oxford Street, 
 without in the least knowing where he was going 
 to ; and even when the fresh country smells and 
 singing-birds might have told him that he had 
 left the human stream behind, he still walked 
 on, probably enjoying, though not knowing that 
 he did so, the charm of distant sounds dying 
 gradually into silence, and the sweet-scented air 
 which blew upon him from the neighbouring fields. 
 When suddenly awakening as from a trance, just as 
 he had reached the Bayswater gate of Kensington 
 Gardens, he entered ; and gliding into a side alley
 
 232 
 
 THE ROC S EGG. 
 
 that seemed safe from intruders, threw himself 
 upon a bench, and soon sunk into a second reverie, 
 from which he was abruptly roused by the approach 
 of voices. 
 
 Two young ladies were advancing up the walk, 
 robed as goddesses might be for earthly adventures, 
 and as belles are for Kensington. Both had the high 
 stamp of fashion on them, the not-to-be-mistaken 
 melange of delicacy and confidence. The eldest 
 was well made and well dressed, with a dark 
 French eye which could perhaps have dispensed 
 with the glass every moment applied to it ; the 
 youngest was a beauty, — a professed one, — but 
 with a fresh radiance that threw a fine natural 
 splendour over her whole figure, and prevented her 
 air of consciousness from being offensive. As the 
 ladies passed, Grey looked up, and started when 
 his eyes met those of the beauty. Probably his 
 countenance betrayed the surprise which so fair an 
 apparition caused him, for she evidently blushed, 
 and as she turned with her companion to join the 
 elders of tlie party, who lagged a little behind, 
 looked away disdainfully, as if she would obli- 
 terate the impression which the blush might have 
 made.
 
 THE roc's egg. 233 
 
 But she had blushed, and Grey had seen it ; and 
 having traced her charming form to the coronetted 
 landau which waited to receive it, he returned to 
 his solitary bench, and dreamt of birth-night balls 
 and court beauties, of Lucy Hyde and Sacharissa, 
 till twilight, and a hint from the guardian of the 
 shades, sent him back to his lodgings in MaddoK 
 Street to continue his musings. 
 
 The next day he thought of Kensington Gar- 
 dens, and of the bright creature in the robe of soft 
 muslin and fairy slippers, oftener perhaps than in 
 wisdom he should have done ; but he thought more 
 of Fanny Middleton, and sincerely wishing not to 
 mix any other image with hers, turned his footsteps 
 towards the Borough, having some business to 
 transact in a remote quarter. 
 
 Are we to suppose that it was destiny which, 
 as he returned from thence, pushed him into Ast- 
 ley''s, where some popular battle-piece — no matter 
 what — was running its course of splendid turbu- 
 lence ? At all events he entered with the crowd, 
 and had not long taken his seat, when the door of 
 a private-box near to him opened, and the vision 
 of Kensington Gardens entered, preceded by half 
 a dozen children, who crowded into the front
 
 234 THE roc's egg. 
 
 places, and followed by an elderly gentleman and 
 the short-sighted friend of the day before. 
 
 By a singular chance, (Grey thought,) her first 
 glance was directed towards him ; it was a careless 
 glance, but one of evident recognition ; and though 
 it was not repeated, yet there was a certain play- 
 off of beauty, which he had the vanity, or weak- 
 ness, to imagine was intended for himself. His 
 eyes were rivetted to the box, and Napoleon 
 folded his arms, looked through his telescope, 
 spoke with brief emphasis to his aides-de-camp, 
 or galloped across the stage in vain ; neither re- 
 dingotte grise, or petit chapeau a trois comes, 
 could lure his attention even for a moment from 
 the shrine of his new divinity. 
 
 If the children laughed, which they did often 
 and heartily, he grew suddenly romantic about the 
 adorable simplicity of the great ; if they looked 
 grave, and followed with serious anxiety the jum- 
 ble of incidents which at Astley's is called a plot, 
 their air of deep thought and beautiful attention 
 excited his admiration, — such cultivated minds, so 
 finely and susceptibly organized ! Children as they 
 were, yet their high blood (he remembered the 
 coronetted landau) spoke out in every movement ;
 
 THE KOC's EGG. 235 
 
 and then their simple attire — vulgar children were 
 so overdressed; besides they never shed tears with- 
 out roaring, and their laugh was so coarse and 
 deafening. 
 
 In short, they were mere pipe-clay compared to 
 the delicate japan on which he gazed adoringly. 
 But who were they, this family of sylphs ? The 
 shortest way of knowing this would have been to 
 have examined the box-keeper's book ; but what 
 were box-keepers to him, or he to box-keepers ? 
 All he thought of was to catch a nearer view of 
 the lady of his thoughts, and for that purpose he 
 took care to quit his seat at the first symptom of 
 muffling, and to throw himself, as if by accident, 
 in the way of the bright mystery as she passed 
 through the vestibule. 
 
 Here again chance seemed to favour him. As 
 the party approached, one of the children, having 
 encumbered herself with an extra shawl, dropped 
 her gloves, which Grey picked up and restored 
 with a well-bred bow. The vision inclined her 
 head gracefully, though slightly, and said in a 
 soft bewildering tone, " Thank you, sir," — words 
 which Grey for a long time afterwards considered 
 as poetry.
 
 236 THE R0C''S EGG. 
 
 As the party approached their carriage, the fair 
 3tar (still leaning on the arm of her friend) said, 
 " In a few days we shall be at lonely Dalreith."" 
 And then followed something about winds and 
 waves, which Grey rather guessed at than heard, 
 for the charming speaker had vanished before the 
 conclusion of the sentence. 
 
 " Dalreith," however, remained upon his me- 
 mory, and his first care was to purchase a map of 
 Scotland ; the sound, he thought, was Scotch, — it 
 had something heathy in it, and feudal, and — I 
 know not what. His next was to examine it mi- 
 nutely ; but nothing like Dalreith was traced upon 
 it. He then tried Wales, next Ireland, and last 
 of all, England ; but no such spot could be dis- 
 covered through either clearer or magnifier. The 
 Court Guide never occurred to him ; had it done 
 so, he would have easily found it there, and have 
 learned the family name and honours, with Burling- 
 ton Street ; Dalreith Castle, Fyfeshire ; Midhurst, 
 Bucks; and Oak Farm, Twickenham, tacked to it. 
 But Grey thought as little of Court Guides as 
 he had done of box-keepers ; it was not his mode 
 to seek for intelligence through ordinary mediums, 
 and liaving failed in those to which he had had
 
 THE ROC^S EGG. 237 
 
 recourse, he was in despair, — and yet he knew not 
 why, for certainly (as he frequently said to him- 
 self,) he had not the most distant idea of visitino- 
 this " lonely Dalreith ;" indeed, why should he do 
 so ? he who could never love any one but Fanny 
 Middleton ? and loving her, he certainly could have 
 no wish to follow a stray meteor. Yet still he 
 felt a sort of curiosity, a — in short, there was some- 
 thing so singular in their meeting twice, — and then 
 the blush, and the " thank you, sir," — it was alto- 
 gether very remarkable. 
 
 But when an idle mind falls into curiosity, some- 
 thing worse is usually at hand, and Grey had 
 discovered Dalreith, and was on his road to it 
 before another fortnight had elapsed. 
 
 This mysterious Dalreith was an obscure hamlet 
 on the coast of Fyfe, with a public-house in the 
 middle of it, where accommodation might be found 
 for the half-dozen visitors who occasionally came 
 there from the neighbouring town to enjoy sea- 
 bathing in its highest perfection. It had little 
 about it that could be called country, nothing but 
 a long stretch of pebbly strand and a high back
 
 238 THE EOC's EGG. 
 
 ground of rock, with a wide wild heath stretching 
 off from it. 
 
 At the distance, however, of about two miles, was 
 a valley covered with soft herbage, but bare of 
 trees ; and through it rushed a foaming stream, 
 and cattle fed upon its banks, and yellow broom 
 grew amongst the fragments of rock which had 
 come from one knew not where, and lay scattered 
 about on the carpet of fresh green turf. Upwards 
 from this valley rose a bold liill, the foremost of a 
 chain that stretched its indented line across the 
 horizon ; and on its brow stood a castle, a chief- 
 tain's castle, turreted and bastioned, with moat 
 and draw-bridge, and warder's tower ; and, crest- 
 ing the sunniest rampart, a hanging terrace with 
 a lady's garden on it full of bright exotics and 
 sweet southern perfume. From the castle walls a 
 forest of black pines swept boldly down to the base 
 of the hill, where a wild meeting of many waters 
 troubled the silence of un visited nature. 
 
 The lord of the castle was called, in the phrase 
 of the country, " Dalreith," but in civilized regions 
 the title of earl was added to it. He had been 
 twice a widower, was a man of common mind but 
 gentlemanlike manners, vain, worldly, and what is
 
 THE roc's egg. 239 
 
 called good natured ; proud of a very handsome 
 daughter who governed him, and indulgent to four 
 little children the offspring of a second marriage. 
 He had a son, too, his eldest child ; but he was in 
 Germany, visiting courts and silver mines, and 
 cultivating the good graces of princesses and prima 
 donnas. But of him I know- — and therefore shall 
 say — nothing. 
 
 The daughter was, as might be predicted, the 
 fair incognita of Kensington Gardens, who had 
 reluctantly accompanied her father on a visit of 
 necessity to his northern estates, and who having 
 nothing to do, and being a person of elegant 
 pursuits, cultivated flowers on her rampart gar- 
 den, read Rousseau, corresponded with five dear 
 friends and one confidential sympathizer ; and fur- 
 ther amused herself by turning the head of the 
 village minister, and bewildering the sentimental 
 son of a neighbouring half-pay captain, both of 
 whom she had unsettled for life in the course of 
 the Sunday dinner to which they were conde- 
 scendingly invited on the earPs arrival, But one 
 was a prig, and the other a simpleton, and neither 
 were noticed on the following sabbath, when Grev 
 made his appearance in the church of Dalreith.
 
 240 THE roc's egg. 
 
 Lord Dalreith was charmed to see a stranger of 
 distinguished figure, who looked as if he was aware 
 of town and town topics, walking up the aisle. 
 Having worn out the ear of both his chaplain and 
 physician, who had got into the way of sleeping 
 out his political diatribes, he was just then despe- 
 rately in want of a listener ; and kindling at the 
 idea of such a lucky chance, bowed courteously as 
 he passed Grey in the porch of the church. 
 
 " It is the gentleman who picked up Charlotte's 
 glove at the theatre," said Lady Emily, in an 
 obliging tone. • 
 
 The earl remembered nothing of the glove ; but 
 he bowed acknowledgment, and requested to have 
 the honour of seeing the gentleman at dinner. 
 Grey, repressing his exultation, bowed in return, 
 and accepted the invitation with as much calmness 
 as he could command in so intoxicating a moment. 
 
 At the appointed hour he presented himself at 
 the castle, fashionably but simply dressed, sat next 
 to Lady Emily at dinner, noticed nothing, though 
 all was new to him, discussed the opera, the music 
 of the day, and the merits of the composers and 
 performers most in vogue, with taste and science ; 
 spoke with fervour of poetry, ^vhich he really
 
 THE roc's egg. 241 
 
 loved, and with skill of pictures' which he had 
 never seen ; seized with an instinctive tact le 
 difficile facile of fashionable manners, ventured to 
 beg a rose from a tree which Lady Emily herself 
 had planted, and had the growing boldness to place 
 it in his bosom with one of those moonbeam looks 
 of which Fanny Middleton was perhaps at that 
 moment dreaming. 
 
 But it is needless to go through the grammar of 
 looks, or to dwell on the spells composed of far 
 other ingredients than 
 
 " E^'-e of newt, and toe of frog, 
 Wool of bat, and tongue of dog," 
 
 with which the beautiful Emily bewildered the 
 brain, and bewitched the heart of Grey. Love's 
 breviary was his only lore, its illusions his faith, 
 its image his religion. At first, the memory of 
 Fanny Middleton mingled itself upbraidingly with 
 his ambitious dreams; but by degrees the impres- 
 sion became fainter and fainter, until at length he 
 had worked himself up to believing that he had 
 merely fancied her because she was the first pretty 
 girl who had fallen in his way. And then, a heart 
 of nineteen was a boy's heart ; but a heart of 
 twenty-one was a thing to be relied upon, a trea- 
 
 M
 
 242 THE roc's egg. 
 
 sury of holy writ, a strong coffer double bramah'd, 
 opening only to one key, though a thousand were 
 tried in it, &c. &c. Fanny was certainly a very 
 pretty girl, (here a sigh would sometimes escape 
 before he was aware of it,) engaging too, and for 
 a downright country-girl, particularly well bred. 
 But Emily Dalreith ! O, she was like nothing that 
 the earth owned ! a creature of the sun, the sky, 
 the stars ! something from an unknown and won- 
 drous world, — so pure, so radiant, — like the forms 
 that minister to poets' fancies, or the embodied 
 light of the morning ! 
 
 Thus would he rave aloud to the woods, and to 
 the waves, and even to the walls of liis solitary 
 chamber, whenever his swelling soul happened to 
 be cribbed within its limits. At grey of morning, 
 in the cold night-hours when the stars were up, he 
 was abroad, watching the rising light as if it were 
 the emblem of his destiny, or questioning 
 
 " The far off, high Arcturus ;" 
 
 (for, like other children of fortune, he believed in 
 astrology, and had a planet of his own,) or wan- 
 dering amongst the dark pines homaging their 
 congenial gloom^ and crying aloud, like the pro-
 
 THE ROC^S EGG. 243 
 
 phets of old, to the mute company of trees and 
 listening rocks. Nor was it alone her beauty that 
 he glorified ; but her mind, her delightful mind — 
 
 That seraph's wreath. 
 On which the common dew turns into gems 
 By the divine collision, 
 
 as he himself had said in some poetical conceit of 
 which she was the subject, if not the inspiration. 
 
 " Who ever (he would say) was so natural in 
 heart, so elevated in mind, so pure in action, — 
 [here the waves murmured, and the woods sighed 
 assent,] — loving mountains and forests, and poetry 
 and moonlight, as if she had never known of any 
 thing beyond the wilds of Dalreith, and yet so 
 high bred, and so beautifully disdainful when it is 
 becoming to be so ? " 
 
 The history of Scotland had grown into his 
 favour, and expelled the romantic legends of the 
 middle ages, and the German ones of the thirty 
 years'* war. He thought no more of the beautiful 
 Valentina of Milan, or of the sad Imelda ; nor yet 
 of the noble, pure, devoted Thekla — the woman- 
 angel. The lost and desolate ladies, Gonzagues, 
 Medici, d'Estes, Lambertazzi, — wedded and un- 
 wedded, — once the worship of his soul, shared, 
 
 M 2
 
 244 THE roc's egg. 
 
 the same fate ; he thought no more of them, bat 
 only of Mary Stuart, or Helen Irwin, or that 
 glorious girl of the house of Douglass who made 
 a bolt of her arm to save King James from 
 his assassins ; wore heath in his breast, sung 
 " Yarrow Braes,'"* and the " Flowers of the Forest," 
 and " Bonnie Doune," and others of tender and 
 mournful melody, with a simple pathos which few 
 eyes could resist. Never had tenor so sweet and 
 touching vibrated on the ear of a nymph of quality. 
 Wood-nymphs may have heard such sounds at still 
 of evening, breaking out from the close thicket, 
 or the green hollows near the reedy brook where 
 sylvans and fauns, and all the merry people of the 
 woods, pipe aerial music ; but to court-nymphs, 
 who know not the secrets of the forests, such sounds 
 are strangers. 
 
 He often fancied that as " the course of true 
 love never does run smooth," his might not always 
 flow in the same full and gentle tide in which it 
 had hitherto glided along. Too vain not to be 
 sanguine, the idea of inconstancy on the part of 
 the adored never once occurred to him ; but then 
 she might be wretched, and made so by him ; and 
 to this thought he sometimes held with a melancholy
 
 245 
 
 complacency, which an ordinary lover might have 
 fancied had more of vanity than passion in it. 
 In his moody moments, when the sky was dark 
 and the waves billowy, he would stray upon the 
 shore, watching the sea-gulls as they lowered 
 their flight, and then suddenly bearing upwards, 
 whitened in the wild light that an opening cloud, 
 or a struggling sunbeam sent down upon them. 
 Then he would hum in mournful measure the 
 " Farewell to Lochaber," or repeat Burns' heart- 
 felt strain, — 
 
 " Had we never loved sae kindly. 
 Had we never loved sae blindly, 
 Never met, — or never parted. 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted," 
 
 with an expression of passion and tenderness worthy 
 of the poet who put his heart and soul into his 
 verse, and which Grey owed rather to strong emo- 
 tion than to deep feeling. Sometimes he would 
 look across the ocean towards the far-off land, which 
 (luxuriating in melancholy fancies) he had brought 
 himself to imagine might be that of his future 
 and voluntary exile were his hopes — ^he did not say 
 ambition — blighted, though nothing would pro- 
 bably have shocked or surprised him more than
 
 246 THE roc's egg. 
 
 such a dire necessity. For to a mind touched 
 — ^not imbued — with romance, life's crosses are 
 not altogether unlovely; but often full of silver 
 tears, and sighs of poetic perfume, though growl- 
 ing black-muzzled dogs enough when approached 
 too closely. 
 
 But in point of real, present, every-day vexations, 
 there was one which no chemistry of Grey's fancy 
 could turn into poetry. He had begun to apply to 
 his good father the circumlocution of Covielle, in 
 the Bourgeois Gentilhomme ; — " Lui, marchand ? 
 c'est pure m^disance, il ne Fa jamais et^. Tout 
 ce qu'il faisait, c'est qu'il ^tait fort obligeant, fort 
 officieux ; et comme il se connaissait fort bien en 
 ^toffes, il en allait choisir de tous cotes, les faisait 
 apporter chez lui, et en donnait a ses amis pour de 
 I'argent." He had grown romantic too about prince- 
 merchants, — Medici and others, who sent out their 
 ships to every port in the known world, and recalled 
 them laden with all that was most rare in nature and 
 refined in art. But the earl had a way of inquiring 
 about his family — not that he cared or waited for 
 an answer, — only it was a way he had ; and when 
 he did so. Grey's dreams mouldered into rubbish, 
 and he almost prayed for annihilation.
 
 THE roc's egg. 247 
 
 "A high name, Grey,'''' he would say. " Are you 
 of the Stamfords, Mr. Grey ? No, by the by, I think 
 you said you were of the Howick branch. Well, 
 they are all good. Come, my angel, give us a little 
 music: Mr. Grey will join you in my favourite 
 barcarole." And then Lady Emily (who took 
 Harry's pedigree for granted, never fancying that 
 even chance could have thrown her into plebeian 
 contact) would sit down to the piano ; and after 
 preluding lightly with her lily fingers, breathe out 
 some exquisite air, with all the giving up of soul, 
 the cadenced richness, of southern expression. 
 
 She had the true Italian gosier, was a pupil of 
 Grassini's, and pronounced the charming language 
 in which she always sang as if she had learned 
 it from Petrarch or Metastasio; and Grey, who 
 felt music in his heart's core, would join his voice 
 to hers, and they would together make set notes 
 and measured harmonies seem like the sudden 
 impulses of joy, hope, tenderness, and sorrow, 
 rejecting the feebler mediums of expression and 
 bursting out in song. 
 
 But every thing must have an end, and this 
 dangerous companionship, this wandering on the 
 sea-shore, botanizing on the hills, dramatizing the
 
 248 THE roc's egg. 
 
 passions at the piano, and poetizing on the ram- 
 parts by moonlight, terminated one raw winterish 
 morning, when Grey, with his sorrowing heart in 
 his eyes, placed Lady Emily beside her father in 
 a travelling-carriage, which a moment after took 
 the road to London, amidst adieus and sighs, 
 and indescribable looks, that spoke and promised 
 volumes. 
 
 Grey remained a few days at Dalreith, indulging 
 in the lover's luxury of lingering on those spots 
 where he and the bright lady (as he was wont in 
 his fantastic moods to call her) had been used to 
 stray together. He was just at that point in his 
 romance when tender natures find it more delicious 
 to recall, than even to anticipate. Memory is the 
 paraclete of the fond and trusting spirit; when 
 shadows darken round us, we fly from it. Grey 
 was so almost sure of cause for hope, that he 
 forgot its dreams ; but the past might fade away 
 from him, and he returned to it for ever, gathering 
 it into his bosom, and nourishing it there with 
 a jealous care that allowed no other interest to 
 mingle with it. 
 
 His delight was to stray upon the pebbly shore, 
 picking up shells and throwing them back again
 
 THE roc's egg. 249 
 
 into the ocean, watching the skimming sea-gull in 
 its lonely flight, or the fisher's bark as it stole 
 homewards ; or standing motionless upon the gar- 
 den rampart, looking long and wishingly towards 
 the happy south, 
 
 Where she, who had his soul in her dear keeping, 
 Speeded to her gay home ; while far behind, 
 Witliin the sea-side cave, whose sullen roof 
 Seemed inlaid as with stars when she was there, 
 He mused alone, communing with the past.* 
 
 But some insuff*erable girls, who called him the 
 handsome stranger, and flung themselves for ever 
 in his way, made the inn which was their mutual 
 residence so insupportable, that lie threw himself 
 into the first conveyance that offered, and was 
 gone — as one of the girls (who had lived in a gar- 
 rison-town, and subscribed to a circulating library) 
 observed — " like the breeze of the desert,'"* without 
 giving fair play to their amiable intentions. 
 
 In the month of October there is little to be 
 done in London ; so Lord Dalreith merely paid a 
 flying visit to his town establishment, and then 
 
 * MS. • 
 
 M 3
 
 250 THE IIOC'S EGG. 
 
 hurried down into Berkshire, where he proposed 
 remaining until his political duties brought him 
 up again. 
 
 Grey being uninvited, could not follow him ; and 
 though it would have perfectly accorded with liis 
 romantic notions to have hidden himself in some 
 neighbouring farm-house, and fed on the air that 
 his goddess breathed, and cheated the tardy hours 
 of absence by the fond thought that, though 
 she knew it not, he still watched over her like her 
 guardian spirit, yet delicacy forbade the indulgence 
 of such a fancy. So he returned to London to 
 admire the sudden majesty of the dense fog when 
 an unexpected sunbeam clears its way through it, 
 touching its dark volume with a yellow light as it 
 rolls off slowly and solemnly ; to skait (if so it 
 pleased him) on the Serpentine, or drop in at half 
 play at Drury Lane or Coven t Garden. 
 
 But Grey did not love skaiting, and was far too 
 fashionable to patronise the winter theatres, and 
 yet so utterly unknown in the circles into which 
 alone he desired to be admitted, that the delicious 
 little dinners which the great men, whose official 
 situations retain them in town, give to the talented 
 ones who only flourish in its atmosphere, were as
 
 THE roc's egg. 251 
 
 inaccessible to him as Almack's to the usher of a 
 grammar-school . 
 
 What then did he do ? Why for the first month 
 he lived, like a German astrologer, alone in his 
 chamber, gazing on the stars and questioning the 
 planets. But his landlady? a widowed milliner, 
 with a showy person, some hundred pounds "and 
 possibilities," ogled him with such a fixity of 
 purpose day after day as he passed the open door 
 of her show-room, that, seized with indignation 
 and horror, he took the opportunity of her absence 
 on a Sunday pleasure-party, and depositing the 
 amount of his debt on her table, packed himself 
 and moveables into a hackney-coach, and took 
 refuge in an apartment safe from the attacks 
 of ogling modistes, but which happened to be also 
 out of the reach of planetary influences. This he 
 regretted, for the stars had become his compa- 
 nions, and the narrow stripe of sky from which 
 
 his apartment in S Street borrowed light, 
 
 scarcely allowed play-room for a single twinkler : 
 but there were no milliners, so that the drawback 
 was more than balanced by the equivalent. The 
 stars once shut out. Grey turned into a more sub- 
 lunary track, and instead of studying the aspect of
 
 252 THE roc's egg. 
 
 the planets, gave up as much of his thoughts as he 
 could spare from his love-dreams, to the grand 
 object of making what are called advantageous 
 acquaintances. 
 
 By advantageous acquaintances he did not 
 mean such as might be really useful to him in a 
 worldly sense ; nor yet those in whose society new- 
 ideas might be gained, or latent thought de- 
 veloped ; qualities were out of the question, all 
 that he desired was a name, — if possible a title, but 
 at all events a name, a fashionable or a high one ; 
 a card to lay on his table, " a particular friend" to 
 throw out as a safety-rope by which to draw in 
 others who might be afraid of Mr. Nobody Grey''s 
 contact, but could feel no alarm at being claimed 
 
 as an acquaintance by the friend of Lord M , 
 
 or the Hon. Mr. D . 
 
 To attain this stepping-stone was, he conceived, 
 essential to his chance of success with Lord Dal- 
 reith, whose name he never failed to bring in on 
 every occasion, and in a way to which previous 
 habits of intimacy gave a naturally familiar air. 
 When judiciously managed, the play-off was 
 usually effective; but he was not always judicious, 
 and happening once to sport an opinion which
 
 THE llOC's EGG. 253 
 
 excited surprise, a friend slyly asked, " What 
 would Lord Dalreith say to this?'' Harry's quick 
 tact took the hint, and used its article of display 
 more sparingly. 
 
 The world seldom teaches us to be great, but 
 we learn in it the desire to seem so. I use the 
 phrase " the world" in its ordinary and social sig- 
 nification, and the word great in the sense in 
 which they who have abused the power bestowed 
 on them by nature of really becoming so, least like 
 to employ it. In other times Grey had purer 
 notions of its meaning, and perhaps would still 
 have said, if questioned, that moral greatness was 
 a high faculty of the soul, whose essence was 
 self-sacrifice, while he felt that (according to his 
 present reading) great was the synonyme of power 
 and station. 
 
 I shall say nothing of his successes, his humi- 
 liations, or his failures; but that the first were 
 partial, the second numerous, and the last fre- 
 quent. And thus he reached the month of April, 
 the appointed time for the earPs arrival in Bur- 
 lington Street. 
 
 Six months' absence had only served to confirm 
 a passion which had at once inflamed his ambition,
 
 ^54^ THE KOC'S EGG. 
 
 overset his reason, and engrossed his heart. In 
 the excess of his infatuation, he believed in love's 
 scriptures as in holy writ ; these scriptures were a 
 look, a monosyllable, a rose-bud given playfully — 
 no matter what. Love is at first a gentle creditor, 
 and will take flowery coinage for the debt we owe 
 him, however rapacious he may become afterwards. 
 And then the charming candour that brightened in 
 his idoFs beautiful eyes, the naif expressions that 
 seemed to escape from her heart, and to which her 
 blushes and childish confusion, when she would 
 stifle or recall them, gave such sweet validity, could 
 not be mistaken ; and thus vanity working upon 
 romance, and at the same time on a naturally right 
 conception of what woman ought to be, persuaded 
 him to the belief that encouragement such as he 
 had received from Lady Emily, could not have 
 been held out by a candid and delicate mind in 
 any other feeling than that of sincerity. 
 
 It was true he had observed, and more than 
 once, that when she seemed on the \erge of be- 
 traying the secret of her own heart, she had 
 adroitly turned aside the passionate avowal which 
 trembled on his lips. But then the delicacy of 
 her position, the dread of her father's displeasure.
 
 THE ROC''s EGG, 255 
 
 — in short, a thousand things might have made 
 her wish to retard an avowal to which she dared 
 not reply, and yet must have in some shape noticed. 
 
 Wild and visionary as he was, still he could not 
 always shut his eyes to the impediments which 
 the want of birth and fortune threw in the way of 
 his ambitious hopes, — audacious ones others might 
 have called them ; but he was indulgent, and so 
 sanguine, that when he earnestly desired any thing, 
 tlie means of obtaining it constantly seemed to pre- 
 sent itself, like the Fairy of the Ring, at a wish ; 
 and Lady Emily's boundless influence over her 
 father, added to the old lord's kindness towards 
 himself, filled him with hope. Lord Dalrcith had 
 so often praised Grey's talents, coincided in his 
 political opinions, admired his knack of reasoning, 
 his ready eloquence, and what he called statesman- 
 like delivery, always winding up with " Mr. Grey, 
 you should get into parliament," or " the house, 
 Mr. Grey, the Commons, that must be your field 
 of action; you will cut a figure there," that Grey, 
 naturally vain and credulous, could not but ima- 
 gine that the earl had given the subject some 
 serious thought. 
 
 Indeed, one less carried away by his fancies than 
 
 Uf-
 
 256 THE ROC*^S EGG. 
 
 Grey was, might have been induced to believe the 
 same; for there were moments when Lord Dal- 
 reith, in the affectionate expansion of a good- 
 natured mind, used to say, " I should be a happy 
 father, Mr. Grey, if my son gave the promise of 
 future distinction which you appear to me to do. 
 It has always been my wish that he should have 
 followed in my steps, have become a steady poli- 
 tical leader, or a distinguished diplomatist ; but he 
 will never be any thing but a man about town. 
 While you, sir, or I am much mistaken, will in 
 twenty years' time be cabinet minister, perhaps 
 chancellor of the exchequer, — premier, — what you 
 please ; and then,'' he would add, with a pon)pous 
 but encouraging smile, " we shall all make our 
 bows at your levee.'' 
 
 At length, after an age of expectation, Grey 
 ascertained that Lord Dalreith had arrived in 
 town, and on the same day presented himself in 
 Burlington Street, having first put on a coat which 
 Lady Emily had once condescended to say was a 
 particularly good blackish blue, adding that her 
 next Amazone should be of the same shade. From
 
 THE liOc"'s EGG. 257 
 
 that moment he had considered it as holy, and 
 reserved it with religious care for the present 
 momentous occasion. 
 
 And in this seemingly trivial matter, he felt that 
 he had evinced the sincerity of his passion more 
 than others sometimes do by apparently greater 
 efforts. For since he had left Dalreith he had 
 discarded colours and taken altogether to black, 
 and was too sensible of looking in that picturesque 
 garb like a young Venetian nobleman of Titian's 
 time and pencil, to change it without extreme 
 reluctance for a more garish colour. Indeed, a 
 painter who lived (for the sake, he said, of having 
 a skylight,) in the roof of the house which Grey 
 inhabited, had requested to be favoured with a few 
 sittings ; and having turned black cloth into black 
 velvet, thrown off the cravat, gloved one hand, 
 ungloved the other, and decorated the little finger 
 with an antique and massive ring, had made a 
 capital thing of it : which, when exhibited at So- 
 merset House as " a portrait after the manner of 
 the Venetian school,"" had procured for the artist 
 some reputation and a little practice, and made 
 more than one pair of young eyes look hastily into 
 their catalogues for ' No. 407 in the ante-room,"
 
 258 THE UOC's EGG. 
 
 However, sentiment conquered vanity, and the 
 blackish blue already alluded to was put on. As 
 a fitting accompaniment for this consecrated suit, 
 the ashes of a rose — the last gift of the goddess, — 
 which neither sealing-wax dropped on the end of 
 the stalk, or silver paper closely folded round the 
 flower, or any other process known to lovers, could 
 preserve in its freshness, was placed within a deli- 
 cate envelopement, and worn, but not visibly, in 
 his bosom. 
 
 When he knocked at the door he felt oddly, 
 timidly, and as he had never felt before ; in short, 
 as if he already anticipated the reception which 
 country acquaintances sometimes meet with in town, 
 an idea w^hich, however, had not yet presented 
 itself to his mind. How his heart beat, and still, 
 notwithstanding its beatings, how he glanced at his 
 figure in the pure mirrors that decorated the splen- 
 did suite of drawing-rooms through which he was 
 ushered to the inviolate boudoir, the perfume- 
 breathing boudoir, where Lady Emily herself re- 
 posed, surrounded by a rich variety of fashionable 
 flowers, her saucy short-sighted friend turning over 
 some drawings that lay upon a table before her, 
 and the '' observed of all observers," the divine
 
 THE roc's egg. 259 
 
 Hyde Biddulph, as the ladies called him, leaning 
 against the chimney-piece in the attitude of intel- 
 lectual abstraction which he had recently invented, 
 an attitude, or rather air, pronounced to be deci- 
 dedly unattainable to the vulgar. 
 
 Lady Emily was evidently confused, but bowed 
 gracefully, and without rising pointed to a chair. 
 
 " You are very good, Mr. Grey," said her lady- 
 ship, " to recollect us after so many months' 
 absence. Have you been long in town ?" 
 
 The calm politeness of her tone absolutely 
 shocked Grey ; and as she continued to speak, 
 there was a marked condescension in her manner, 
 and a constant effort to impress her more distin- 
 guished friends with the idea that he was entirely 
 her father's acquaintance, which his alert tact 
 instantly seized. " Papa will regret not seeing you, 
 Mr. Grey ; he will, I am sure, feel obliged by 
 your having called on him," or other words to 
 the same effect, were so often repeated, that Grey 
 began to feel out of place, and was rising to termi- 
 nate his painful visit, when Lord Dalreith entered 
 the room, and greeting him warmly, expressed the 
 pleasure he felt at seeing him again with a friendli- 
 ness for which Grey's heart thanked him more than
 
 260 THE roc's egg. 
 
 his words. He was in sad need of encouragement, 
 and the earFs cordiality, though (as usual) some- 
 what touched with loftiness, was like balm to a 
 fresh wound. 
 
 An invitation to dine the next day followed a 
 string of awkward questions, such as Lord Dalreith 
 had a knack of putting, and Grey no knack what- 
 ever at answering. Grey hesitated for a moment, 
 then bowed acceptance ; and yet he felt that he 
 ought to have refused, but he wanted courage. 
 
 Besides a thought struck him ; Lady Emily 
 was perhaps acting a part, forced upon her by 
 necessity, a part against which her heart repugned, 
 yet dared not do so openly. No sooner had this 
 idea presented itself, than he embraced it wooingly, 
 and resigning himself to the necromancy of hope, 
 left Burlington Street in better humour with for- 
 tune than he had been a few minutes before. 
 
 How many pleas — and plausible ones too, — do 
 we find for doing that which especially suits our 
 fancies ; reason may stand aloof, but reasons are 
 always ready to chime in with our wishes. Grey 
 had found out a dozen for dining in Burlington
 
 THE roc's egg. 261 
 
 Street, and was rehearsing them to his pride, just 
 at the precise moment when Lady Emily was de- 
 claring her intention of expelling the servant, who 
 had been so unpardonably gauche as to admit a 
 country acquaintance into her sanctuary, and in 
 the stupid notion that because it was a familiar 
 face, it must necessarily be a welcome one. Poor 
 man ! he knew little of the neutralizing effect of a 
 London atmosphere, or how quickly, under its con- 
 stant thaw, friendship weakens into acquaintance, 
 or warmer love dilutes into indifference. 
 
 Half-past seven was the earPs nominal dinner- 
 hour. Grey was punctual, and not a little morti- 
 fied at finding himself — not only the first arrived, 
 but that no member of the family was visible. 
 He had probably never heard the story of Lord 
 D 's visitor. 
 
 A gentleman invited to dinner at Lord D ^'s, 
 
 arrived at eight o'clock, the appointed hour. No 
 one visible : waited ten minutes, twenty minutes, 
 half an hour; not a mouse stirring. At length he 
 grew nervous, feared to have mistaken the day, 
 and was on the point of sneaking off* with the least 
 possible tclat^ when a footman popped in his head 
 to see how the fire went on.
 
 262 THE roc's egg. 
 
 "Does Lord D expect company to-day?'' 
 
 he inquired anxiously. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; we are to have a large party." 
 
 " And what may be his lordship's usual dinner- 
 hour?" 
 
 "Why that's rather uncertain, sir. We say 
 eiMit on our cards, but seldom contrive to sit down 
 before nine." 
 
 Luckily Grey had not quite so long to wait. In 
 a short time Lord Dalreith made his appearance, 
 and soon after came Lady Emily, leaning on her 
 inevitable friend, and followed by Colonel Bid- 
 dulph and two or three exquisites of the very first 
 water, full of that spirit of inconsiderate gaiety 
 which the privileged sometimes abuse to cruel 
 purposes, and disclosing in their careless conversa- 
 tion that the half hour before dinner — the mortal 
 half hour — had been whiled away in the "dear 
 boudoir," so recently profaned by Grey's unautho- 
 rized intrusion, as Lady Emily emphatically styled 
 his ill-timed visit. 
 
 Her ladyship was in high spirits, beautiful, and 
 (as it appeared to Grey for the first time) bold. 
 Her manner towards him was precisely the same 
 as the day before, — not absolutely impolite, but
 
 THE roc's egg. 263 
 
 positively chilling. At dinner the conversation 
 turned wholly on topics of local, or individual 
 interest, in which Grey, (of whose presence after 
 the first moment of coldly-polite recognition she 
 seemed wholly unconscious,) could take no part ; 
 and he was condemned to listen to Lord Dalreith''s 
 jeremiades over the failure of some favourite po- 
 litical scheme until the ladies withdrew. 
 
 Colonel Biddulph followed almost immediately, 
 and soon after the rest of the party rejoined the 
 trio in the drawing-room. Poor Grey ! how his 
 heart throbbed, how his pulses galloped, when he 
 heard the sound of the piano, and the soft toucli 
 of the well-known hand caressing the notes, as 
 though it would master them by playfulness. He 
 sat down in a remote corner, and turned away his 
 face from the instrument. After a rich prelude, 
 Lady Emily touched a few notes of the air which 
 she was going to sing ; it was the barcarole in 
 which their voices had so often made sweet music 
 together at Dalreith. 
 
 Then came the past : the sea-shore, the lonely 
 valley where the waters met, the autumn moon- 
 shine on the battlements, all were before him. But 
 no beautiful eyes looked kindness; no soft voice
 
 264 THK roc's egg. 
 
 said, " Mr. Grey, shall we begin ?'" and yet it was 
 still the same hand which brought forth the same 
 delicious sounds — but not for him ! 
 
 " But why does she choose that air ?'''' he asked 
 himself. " May it not be that she wishes to tell 
 me, in the only language she dares to use, that her 
 heart is still unchanged and lives in the past, 
 thoup'h circumstances force her to assume the mask 
 of gaiety ?^'' And then he wished she had not worn 
 it quite so naturally, that she had not been so 
 good an actress ; but her worldly education, her 
 position in society, so unfavourable to the soul's 
 expansion, — in short, the wonder was, not that she 
 had faults, but that she was so near perfection. 
 Besides, he well knew how dangerous it is to 
 dissect the heart by which we are beloved ; how 
 weakly sensitive to hunt after failings, when we 
 must work through affection to get at them. And 
 thus he rocked himself, like a sea-bird on a bil- 
 low, brooding delightedly : but it was only for a 
 minute. 
 
 " Ah, that is my favourite," said the earl, ap- 
 proaching the piano with a good-natured smile, 
 " which you and Mr. Grey used to sing together 
 at Dalreith. Why not do so again ? It will make
 
 THE ROC"*S EGG. 265 
 
 me think of my heaths and hills, and feudal seig- 
 neurie, where I set limits to the ocean — '' 
 
 " For nothing else intrudes upon my power," he 
 would have added; but a scowl from Lady Emily, 
 which a moment before her soft features seemed 
 incapable of expressing, and a quick indignant 
 flush, cut short the thread of his discourse and 
 restored Grey to the melancholy privilege of rea- 
 son, just as he had Jaffier'd himself into inwardly 
 pronouncing that immortal line, so inestimable 
 to unhappy lovers, 
 
 " Fathers have flinty hearts. 
 And children must be wretched 1 " 
 
 At length she sang, and he felt his flesh creep, 
 and tears start into his eyes. Surely music may 
 be called the memory of emotion ; many things 
 recall place, season, circumstance, but music re- 
 strings the heart. 
 
 " Is it possible," said he, mentally, as he gazed 
 upon her, " that she who sits there so vain-glo- 
 riously beautiful, by whom my existence seems 
 forgotten even while I am present, should a few 
 short months ago have sung with me, listened 
 while I read, and deigned to lean upon my arm
 
 266 THE roc's egg. 
 
 when we wandered together in the woods of Dal- 
 reith ?" But his reverie was suddenly interrupted. 
 Another voice mingled its fine tenor notes with the 
 rich volume of Lady Emily's exquisite soprano : it 
 was Colonel Biddulph, the most distinguished ama- 
 teur talent of the day who had now taken the part 
 which, in the golden hours of dupery, had so often 
 been sustained by the then vain and happy Grey. 
 
 This was too much, and he would have in- 
 stantly quitted the house, but the dead silence, 
 the wide empty space which he must have tra- 
 versed in crossing the saloon, alarmed his vanity, 
 always his thin-skinned point, even when love was 
 in the way ; and the idea of submitting himself as 
 a subject for the wicked wit of others to batten 
 on, would have been worse misery than even that 
 inflicted by Lady Emily's contemptuous coldness. 
 
 It was a fortunate circumstance for Grey that 
 his vanity was so severely piqued, for it weakened 
 the pull on his heart ; and that so sensibly, that 
 when Lady Emily, changing her tender barcarole 
 for a bold bravura, cleared the divisions with 
 theatrical dexterity, his pulse beat more freely, 
 and he had courage to comment on her style, her 
 expression, her elaborate graces — even her gaiety,
 
 THE roc's egg. 267 
 
 and to pronounce, but only to himself, the word — 
 exaggeration ! 
 
 Her countenance, he found out, was totally 
 changed, its expression was forced and artificial ; 
 there was something, too, a little insipid in the 
 perfect regularity of her features, which he was 
 astorrfshed never to have before discovered, and 
 which seemed rather increased than lessened by 
 a violent effort at splendid effect, unworthy (he 
 thought) of so much natural beauty. In short, 
 he had just decided that nothing was so cold, so 
 unpoetical, so common-place as exaggeration ; and 
 that the Lady Emily of Burlington Street, op- 
 posed to the Emily of Dalreith, was like a ball- 
 room chandelier hung out in the pure beams of a 
 summer moon ; when she suddenly turned towards 
 him, though her eyes did not reach the obscure 
 corner in which he had hidden himself, for they 
 fell upon a flower that stood near to her in a tall 
 glass, such as painters love to place a single lily 
 in. It was a rare and delicate flower, and as she 
 took it out of the water, carefully wiping the stalk 
 with a handkerchief scarcely whiter than her taper 
 fingers, she looked at it admiringly, pressed its 
 leaves to her lips, and then holding it graceftdly 
 
 N 2
 
 268 THE roc's egg. 
 
 at a little distance, followed it with her eyes, 
 exclaiming, ''Is it not beautiful?'' in a voice of 
 such tender sweetness, and with such a look of 
 innocent, flower-loving sensibility, that if he had 
 not rapidly convinced himself that it was all got 
 up, — and for another, — he might have been lost 
 for ever. 
 
 The party was soon augmented by the addition 
 of two young ladies and an old one, enveloped in 
 shawls and on the wing to some fashionable place 
 of evening amusement, to which they insisted with 
 gentle violence, that Lady Emily should accom- 
 pany them. She, " nothing loath," prepared to do 
 so, and her particular train followed her example. 
 Then came a charming scene of gay hurry 
 and well-bred confusion ; laughing, hght raillery, 
 sportive malice, and all the graceful persiflage of 
 the drawing-room. Lady Emily was rayonnante, 
 — too much so. Grey thought ; her spirits seemed 
 to have taken head, and run away with her deli- 
 cacy, almost with her good-breeding, and he could 
 not help falling again into comparisons, and con- 
 trasting the soft, expressive, poetical star of Dal- 
 reith, the gentle northern light, with the blaze 
 that squandered itself so carelessly.
 
 THE roc's egg. 269 
 
 Not that he doubted its all being very fine, and 
 very fashionable ; and had the display been made 
 expressly for himself, he would probably have 
 admired it, as he did all things that were fine and 
 fashionable. But feeling that he was completely 
 lurched, scorned, and, worst of all, — forgotten, 
 mortification and anger acted as clearer s, and the 
 decided tone and exuberant volatility disgusted him 
 even more than the confident rattle of the bravura. 
 
 The gay group were soon equipped, and all had 
 nearly left the room, when Grey heard Lady Emily 
 exclaim, in a sort of half whisper to one of her 
 worshippers, " Good gracious ! we have quite 
 forgotten that unfortunate Mr. Grey; must we 
 ask him to meet us ? " 
 
 " Par exemple," cried the inevitable in a louder 
 tone, " c'est un peu trop fort. Tell him that we 
 all wish him good night." A laugh followed, and 
 then the quick descent of feet announced the 
 departure of the brilliant coterie. 
 
 Grey remained for a moment stupified, then rose 
 to quit for ever the scene of his humiliation, his 
 bitter suffering ; but the trials of the day were not 
 yet over. From its commencement he had lost all 
 confidence in himself, and consequently all power
 
 270 THE roc's egg. 
 
 of doing himself justice; he felt this, and hastened 
 to put an end to his horrible perplexities ; but as 
 he approached the door, it opened, and Colonel 
 Douglass, the old friend of Lord Dalreith, entered. 
 
 The colonel was a thoroughly good-hearted man, 
 with a face like the characteristic names in our old 
 comedies, — Feign well, Marall,Lovemore, &c. which 
 let you into the secret of his nature, without the 
 painful or pleasurable exercise of curiosity. With 
 Congreve or Farquhar he would have been Heart- 
 free, and his excellent feelings were all in action in 
 his countenance when he exclaimed, shaking our 
 unfortvmate hero heartily by the hand, 
 
 " What — Harry Grey here ! Sincerely glad to 
 see you, my dear fellow. It's some time now since 
 we have met ; but I have not forgotten old days, 
 when I used to take you to dine at the mess with 
 me. Grown a dashing fellow, Harry, quite a kill- 
 the-ladies ; but the same eyes — the same face ; 
 should have known you any where, my boy.'' 
 
 Grey boMed, and would have spoken, but no 
 words presented themselves. 
 
 " But you must come and see me, Harry," con- 
 tinued the colonel, without noticing his confusion; 
 " always to be found before two o'clock at Long's.
 
 THE roc's egg. 271 
 
 When I was quartered at Durham, your father did 
 me a service which I should be a heartless fellow 
 to forget. — "But you are in haste, my boy ; some 
 wild scheme, I dare say. Well, off with you ; but 
 remember, to-morrow, any time before two, — or 
 six o'clock at the British, if that suits you better.*" 
 Grey bowed again, stammered out a few words 
 of acknowledgment, and forgetting the ceremony 
 of " good night" to Lord Dalrieth, who alone re- 
 mained of the scattered party, rushed out of the 
 room, leaving the colonel to disclose all the horrors 
 of the drapery concern. Then hastily quitting 
 the house and regaining his solitary chamber, he 
 gave way to the agony of disappointed hope, and 
 the sharper torture of humiliated vanity. 
 
 The night was horribly spent, but less in sorrow 
 than in execration ; all the powers of his mind were 
 angered into violence, all concentrated in one great 
 project of vengeance : but morning came, and with 
 it calmer purposes, though every fibre still crisped 
 as if beneath the lash. But neither night or 
 morning brought with it the feeling of self-accusa- 
 tion ; nor while he bitterly upbraided Lady Emily, 
 did it ever occur to him that he had himself deserted 
 one to whom he had beeYi vowed, and slighted a
 
 272 THE roc's egg. 
 
 heart whose first affections he had won with all the 
 lore of love, and with not fewer of its arts than 
 that accomplished coquette herself had marshalled 
 for his ruin. 
 
 About this time Grey's pecuniary resources were 
 perceptibly narrowing. Absurd efforts to support 
 a position to which he had no claim, and an affected 
 taste for play into which he had plunged, not from 
 liking, but because it brought him into occasional 
 contact with certain young men of fashion, from 
 whom he sometimes extracted a nod in Hyde Park, 
 or an " Eh, Harry .?" in Bond Street, had so diluted 
 the strength of his purse, that both exertion and 
 perseverance had become absolutely necessary to its 
 re-establishment. 
 
 What a pity it is that a traveller along the high 
 road of life cannot, when he sees its perplexities 
 overtaking him, sit down by the way-side and 
 let them go by. So thought Grey, but thought 
 could bring no remedy against his thickening diffi- 
 culties ; so he was obliged to get vipon his feet and 
 oppose them. Necessity impels, ambition seduces, 
 both together make a great man, or a great villain ;
 
 THE roc's egg. 273 
 
 of him they made neither the one or the other, but 
 a man who had learned from the Jirst, to tame his 
 spirit down to the furtherance of the second. He 
 felt that he had talents, earnestly desired to make 
 them convertible into fame and fortune, grew every 
 day less scrupulous of the means, and yet dared 
 nothing, saved by vanity more (it is to be feared) 
 than by principle from daring any thing which 
 might, by its failure, render him despicable. None 
 could more thoroughly scorn the snares by which 
 he had been entangled than he now did ; but his 
 ambition, more vulnerable than his judgment, still 
 hankered after the society which had deceived, and 
 then expelled him, and the whole force of his mind 
 was turned upon the means of rising to an eminence, 
 from which he might look down upon those who 
 had made him feel the smart of inferiority. 
 
 On that entirely personal and individual feeling 
 were all his plans based, but no sooner did he try 
 to put one into execution, than he found it imprac- 
 ticable ; so in a moment of sanity and disappoint- 
 ment he resolved to return to Durham, advise with 
 his brother, and marry Fanny Middleton. Marry 
 Fanny Middleton ! Yes ; Lady Emily*'s heartless 
 coquetry had cured him, — not of aspiring dreams, 
 
 x3
 
 274 THE roc's egg. 
 
 but of fine ladies. And then Fanny was a thou- 
 sand times more beautiful ; the one (he now found 
 out) had excited his vanity, bewitched his brain ; 
 but th^ other ! ah, she alone had touched his heart ; 
 he had never really loved but her, and she, he was 
 sure, had not forgotten, and would forgive him. 
 
 " Dear, dear Fanny !" he exclaimed with enthu- 
 siasm, " how could I have ever ceased to think of 
 you ? how could I have ever put her practised graces 
 in comparison with your delicious simplicity, and 
 the dear girlish charm of your beautifully mutable 
 countenance ? and then she was again his lady- 
 lily, his queen-bee, &c. In short, he had nearly 
 arrived at Rosebrook before any thing but snow- 
 drops, and dew-drops, and rose-buds, and lioney- 
 bells, and all such parts of the paraphernalia of 
 nature as belong especially to " those who trade in 
 love," had crossed his brain. 
 
 Once or twice the image of Lady Emily had 
 swept before him like an oppressive shadow, but 
 always with the word artifice, or effort, or aff'ec- 
 tation round it in luminous characters. No piping 
 shepherd ever loved ^* cotillions simples, souliers 
 plats," more than he did, or believed himself to 
 do, at that moment. The sight of a country girl
 
 THE roc's egg. 275 
 
 striding over a hedge, with bare feet or uncoifed 
 head, threw him into raptures ; the free motion of 
 her limbs, the broad uncramped foot and inde- 
 pendent step, were all subjects of admiration ; 
 even the ragged tresses came in for their share 
 of praise. 
 
 '' Nature is always so beautiful," said he. " Ob- 
 serve how the wind sustains her hair ; how grace- 
 fully it floats." 
 
 " I should like it better tightened up under 
 a neat cap," said a snug-looking little man, who 
 occupied a corner of the coach in which Grey 
 condescended to travel. 
 
 " I have no objection to the cap," returned 
 Grey, "provided it be really a neat one, like 
 the quarter-caps of our grandmothers in their 
 childish days, or the simple cambrick coif of the 
 sober quaker. But the cap miscalled French, 
 with the flaring bonnet over it, to which our 
 village girls have lately taken, is my especial 
 horror." 
 
 " Ah," rejoined the snug man, " that's what 
 I calls throwing out false lights. I'm no friend to 
 a poor woman's stealing a leaf out of a fine lady's 
 book; 'ten't nat'ral — no, 'ten't; and I am for nater
 
 276 THE roc's egg. 
 
 above the world, and truth, sir ; nothing like 
 seeming what you are.'" 
 
 '' There I join you, sir,'' exclaimed Grey 
 warmly; and immediately wrenching an occasion 
 out of the poor man's words to throw ofF on his 
 favourite theme, " You are right, sir, (he conti- 
 nued, imagining for a moment that he spoke before 
 the House, a conceit which often seized him,) 
 there is nothing like truth ; no man should ever 
 divest himself of the immense advantages derived 
 from the great check of truth. Known veracity 
 gives a weight, a genuineness, an enduring value 
 to all that it utters, which far outlasts the impres- 
 sion made by the most brilliant talents, or the 
 most profound knowledge. The sober reality of 
 truth is like the calm of nature, — out of its stillness 
 comes life, it strikes into the mind's core; while 
 falsehood, like quicksilver dropped on a smooth 
 surface, glides over it, glitters, disappears, and 
 leaves no trace of its passage." 
 
 The man stared: he was a grocer of Sunder- 
 land, who had been to Lancaster after a bad debt, 
 and not being able to trace the slightest connexion 
 between Grey's illustration and his own view of the 
 subject, turned round to a neighbour more in his
 
 THE roc's egg. 277 
 
 way, and fell into conversation about the rise 
 of teas, and the qualities of potash. While Grey, 
 satisfied that he loved truth because he had praised 
 it, heard the cheers of the House tingling in his 
 ears, and wrapping himself in the douillette of 
 self-complacency, sunk back absorbed, and quite 
 forgetful of the vain duplicity with which he had 
 tacitly given in to the Howick and Stamford visions 
 in which Lord Dalreith's credulity had indulged. 
 
 When Grey found himself within two or three 
 miles of his Peri's bower, he quitted the stage and 
 entered an inn, perhaps to compose his feelings, or 
 his toilette, — or both. It was just an hour after 
 day-break ; the early breath of morning, — that 
 balmy essence of compounded sweets, that suave, 
 and fresh, and gentle odour, to which the breath of 
 cattle, the moistened earth, and every flower and 
 every herb that grows upon its bosom, contribute, 
 and yet where nothing dominates, — seemed, as it 
 blew upon him through the open casement, to bring 
 with it the happy hours of his early youth, and to 
 promise a renewal of them, or rather a renewal of 
 those feelings which had enabled him to enjoy and
 
 278 THE roc's egg. 
 
 appreciate their simple charm. His heart seemed 
 to purify, and the love of nature to enter once 
 more into its long-deserted cell. He looked into 
 the little garden and upon its gaily dappled flower- 
 beds glistening with morning dew; and over the 
 budding hedge upon the corn-field, where the 
 bright and tender blade just showed its sweet 
 spring green ; and on the long, brook-watered 
 meadow beyond, where cattle fed or ruminated 
 with that sedate and gentle aspect which commu- 
 nicates a sentiment of serenity to the mind, while 
 it presents to the eye a placid and pastoral image 
 full of innocent and pleasant associations ; and 
 feeling that such simple appeals still found an 
 answer in his breast, he fancied that nature had 
 only been absent — not banished from it. But after 
 some minutes her sweet and gracious beauty palled, 
 and seemed insipid to him; and false views, false 
 opinions, and artificial feelings got again the 
 mastery. 
 
 In the same parlour where Grey thus mused, 
 sat a person of homely appearance, who seeing him 
 look broodingly, good-naturedly tried to provoke 
 a conversation ; to which purpose he volunteered 
 informing Grey that he was going to B , and
 
 THE roc's egg. 279 
 
 had just come from the neighbourhood of the 
 Ehns, which Grey immediately recollected to be 
 the name of his brother William's farm. Without 
 telling his name, he inquired about his family ; he 
 did so with a beating heart, feeling, and acutely, 
 what he had till then forgotten, — that considerably 
 more than a year had elapsed since he had heard 
 of any of its members. 
 
 In fact, all correspondence had long ceased 
 between Grey and his friends. In the early period 
 of his stay in London he had written sometimes 
 to his brother, and very often to Mrs. Middleton ; 
 but by degrees the intervals of silence had be- 
 come longer, letters remained unanswered until 
 they became unanswerable, or were acknowledged 
 in a page of excuses and half-page of 7iewspaper 
 news; good-byes and remembrances every day 
 growing colder and more laboured, with the name 
 stretched out at full length, and the date both at 
 beginning and end, to give the sheet a furnished 
 look. And then came silence ; and from the night at 
 Astley's, unopened letters thrown into the fire with 
 a hasty trembling hand, unnerved by conscience 
 and mental irritation. But the dream was over, 
 and Grey's lip quivered while he made the inquiry.
 
 280 THE roc's egg. 
 
 " Sir," said the stranger, " no one can give you 
 later intelligence of Mr. Grey than I can ; and I 
 am most happy to tell you, that there is not in the 
 whole county of Durham a more respected or inde- 
 pendent man. Every thing succeeds with him ; his 
 farm was a lucky hit, — ay, there he bought gold ; 
 and his wife ! there's a woman for you, nothing 
 handsomer, I assure you, in all England ; quite a 
 beauty, and an amiable creature too, as any living." 
 
 " As you seem interested, sir,'" said an elderly 
 person, who had been looking over a newspaper in 
 the same room, " about Mr. Grey's family, I feel 
 great pleasure in adding my testimony to this 
 gentleman's. Mr. Grey is my near and much- 
 respected neighbour ; yesterday I had the pleasure 
 of seeing him in his delightful home, his model 
 farm as it may be truly called ; where he enjoys as 
 large a share of happiness as is perhaps compatible 
 with the lot of human nature : fate indeed has 
 smiled upon him. It would be difficult to find a 
 more beautiful or excellent woman than his wife, 
 or a happier man than her husband." 
 
 " I was not aware that Mr. Grey was married," 
 said Harry, in the calmest tone he could assume. 
 " Is it long since .^"
 
 THE roc's egg. 281 
 
 " About six months, I should think." 
 
 " And the lady's name ?" 
 
 " Was Middleton, the daughter of the late 
 Colonel Middleton, my old and valued friend. 
 You will be delighted with her, I am sure,"" added 
 the gentleman, taking up his hat, " she is a 
 charming creature ; the best wife and the prettiest 
 woman in the county." And then with a polite 
 bow he quitted the room, and a moment after 
 passed the window reclined in the comer of a 
 fashionable britschka. 
 
 " Bless me ! "*' exclaimed the other stranger, " if 
 it is not Sir Gower Horton of Hovendon Park, 
 our county member. How distressing ! will you 
 believe, sir, that I never once thought of saluting 
 him, — indeed, I may say, never caught the glance 
 of him until this moment, his face being turned 
 the other way, and I never thinking who it might 
 be. Very awkward, sir, wasn't it ? " 
 
 But Grey had no ear for his perplexities ; his 
 soul was convulsed. Fanny the wife of his bro- 
 ther ! his brother the happy, the beloved husband 
 of Fanny ! All that he should have possessed in 
 her, all that was now lost to him for ever, rushed 
 upon his mind. I will not say that he envied
 
 282 THE roc's egg. 
 
 William's happiness ; his nature was still too noble 
 for that, but he could not witness it. 
 
 He went no farther, — and soon after was to be 
 seen in the sequestered walks of Kensington Gar- 
 dens, with his arms folded and his eyes cast on 
 the ground, or darting behind the trees when a 
 giggling group of fair exhibitors were seen ap- 
 proaching. He was paler, thinner, and more 
 thoughtful than he had been, and the young 
 ladies of the Kensington establishments, whose 
 walks were wisely limited to the quiet alleys, 
 knew him by the appellation of the " picturesque 
 man." 
 
 His repentance was real and profound, but it 
 was only repentance ; had it been remorse, he 
 would have changed his course, which it appears 
 he did not. It was what he had lost, not how he 
 had lost it, which probably absorbed his mind. 
 
 Very successful people in life are often those 
 who can be " bons ou mauvais a propos." I do not 
 know whether this was, or was not, Grey's secret. 
 As he rose in fame, his high public qualities were 
 talked of. What are called high public qualities,
 
 THE roc's egg. 283 
 
 are usually (at least often) brought into action — if 
 not created, by individual ambition ; his certainly 
 were so. The ambition of common minds is as- 
 cendency of station ; of those some degrees higher, 
 fame ; of the best and purest, the success of its 
 object — that presupposed a noble one — by its 
 instrumentality, but at the willing price of total 
 personal sacrifice. No doubt there have been 
 splendid exceptions ; but they are exceptions. — 
 No more. How few love virtue as Napoleon said 
 Dessaix did glory, — for its own sake ! 
 
 Grey, I suspect, did not. Ambition (such as it 
 was) was the main-spring of his actions, a Jesuitical 
 ambition ; whose frequent maxim was (I fear) 
 that the end sanctifies the means. But I do not 
 intend to follow him through the details of an 
 eventful, and what is called eminently successful 
 career; but shall merely add, that at forty-three 
 he was a high political leader and (par paren these) 
 apostate, booked for a peerage, possessor of two 
 country seats and a classical villa ; possessor, too, 
 of a wife, — a Lady Mary, who never forgot the 
 draper, nor the honour she had done him : and 
 further blest with an arrogant daughter (mamma's 
 counterpart) who despised him, and an unpromising
 
 284 
 
 THE ROC S EGG. 
 
 son, whose education had been entrusted to a tutor 
 of her ladyship's selection. Sir Henry's public 
 avocations not allowing him time to think about 
 it himself. 
 
 I have not yet enumerated all his possessions, — 
 but was the roc's egg amongst them ? I fear not ; 
 for the roc's egg is — content.
 
 COUNT DALBERG 
 
 AND HIS SON.
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 How is the gold become dim ! how is the most fine 
 
 gold changed ! r t. 
 
 ° ° Jeremiah. 
 
 Oh, father, what a hell of witchcraft lies 
 In the small orb of one particular tear ! 
 
 Passionate Pilgrim. 
 
 " Is there no Dalberg here?" called out the em- 
 peror. 
 
 It is an old usage that, at the crowning of the 
 kaiser, he who is the representative of that ancient 
 house should be thus summoned. 
 
 There was a Dalberg there, and he answered 
 boldly ; and there was another Dalberg, the son of 
 that same lofty one who, while the herald blew a 
 proud blast and a hundred imperial banners floated 
 in the air, sat by the bed-side of a woman who 
 was dying, and wiped the cold dew from her fore- 
 head, and held her hand within his, and prayed
 
 288 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 aloud. The bells tolled ; he thought they were 
 
 death-bells, but they rang out for joy that an 
 
 emperor was crowned. 
 
 The accession of a new ruler always brings joy 
 
 with it ; even those whose happiness it can no way 
 influence rejoice. The streets swarmed, the crowd 
 shouted, the women sang, the children laughed and 
 danced, and rent the air with acclamations ; each 
 seemed to think that change was benefit — sure and 
 individual. The sound of revelry reached even 
 to the suburb-street, to the still chamber where 
 Herman sat by the death-bed of his mother : he 
 closed the shutters, but the light of the bursting 
 rockets glared in through the wide chinks. Old 
 voices and young ones cried " Long live the em- 
 peror ! "" He turned to the small mean bed on 
 which she whom he most loved on earth lay dying, 
 and as the dull light of an ill-fed lamp gleamed on 
 her shrunken features, how coldly did that cry fall 
 upon his heart. Long life ! ay, for others ; but 
 for her of whom alone he thought, there was no 
 more life, and the word was bitter to him. 
 
 That night she died, and the son sat beside the 
 corpse of his mother. At midnight there was 
 music in the street, but he did not hear it ; some-
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 289 
 
 times he heard the dull ticking of the clock that 
 stood near to the bed — but nothing else. 
 
 Margaret, the mother of Herman, had been 
 beautiful as the stars in heaven ; and as she lay 
 dead, her features seemed to recover their pure 
 and graceful form, and her brow its early sweet- 
 ness. It was daybreak, and the streets were silent: 
 Herman opened the casement ; the grey dawn 
 lighted imperfectly the melancholy chamber. The 
 son looked upon his mother; he had heard that 
 death was hideous, but how beautiful she was ! — 
 like a fair marble image wrought by an inspired 
 hand ; and on her lips there was a smile, as if she 
 listened to the whisperings of angels. 
 
 There were moments when he could not think 
 her dead ; moments when he fancied, as he looked 
 upon her intently, that she moved ; but as the sky 
 brightened, and broad daylight poured into the 
 chamber, death became more awfull}^ visible. It 
 was six o'clock, and some early shops were already 
 open : he closed the curtain of the window, and 
 locking the door carefully, descended the stairs. 
 At the entrance of the house sat a woman who 
 sold flowers ; she was arranging her nosegays, and 
 as he approached said kindly, " I have kept these 
 
 o
 
 290 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 roses for your mother ; their pleasant scent will do 
 her good."" He took them and said, " I thank 
 you,'" not knowing what he did ; and returning to 
 the chamber, broke ofF the leaves and strewed them 
 over the corpse. Then again descended the stair- 
 case, and went out upon his melancholy mission. 
 
 His humble orders were soon executed, and not 
 till then did he believe his mother actually dead ; 
 not till he saw the lid of that simple coffin, which 
 was all that his poor fortune could afford her dear 
 remains, closed upon them ; or imagine that she had 
 
 gone from him entirely, until the earth But it 
 
 is sad to talk of it ! We are accustomed to think 
 of death as a refuge from trouble, a translation to 
 a happier home ; but the loved one, the dear, the 
 familiar — down in the earth, with a heavy clod 
 upon the heart but a little while before so full of 
 human sympathies: and the cold wind, and the 
 heavy rain, and the long nettles growing out of the 
 grave, — the distant, dark, oblivious grave ! 
 
 Herman was fifteen, and Margaret — the mother 
 whom he had lost — only sixteen years older. She 
 was little more than a beautiful child when a count
 
 COUNT DALBERG AXD HIS SON. 291 
 
 of the house of Dalberg, hunting in a remote forest, 
 saw her at the door of her father's dwelling, scat- 
 tering bread to the deer that were gathered tamely 
 round her, in cap and gloves of velvet lined with 
 fur, and a rough pelisse of forest green, clasped at 
 the throat by some gorgeous ornament, which had 
 once made part of the gallant accoutrements of 
 the Old Major, as her father, Herman Werner, 
 was usually called. 
 
 The old major had been a fierce student, a 
 stormy patriot, a brave soldier. He had married 
 a charming girl twenty years younger than him- 
 self, whose elder sister he had loved with a truer 
 and a tenderer passion than, from his somewhat 
 severe though handsome countenance, many would 
 have supposed him capable of feeling. But she 
 had chosen another, was unfortunate, fell ill, and 
 as she lay upon her death-bed, forsaken by him for 
 whom she had forsaken all, sent for the faithful 
 Herman, and bequeathing her little sister — who 
 was an orphan — to his care, died comforted. 
 
 Angels might have looked with delight on the 
 way in which Herman fulfilled the trust reposed 
 in him. When his charge approached womanhood, 
 he said to her, " Margaret, we may soon have 
 
 o 2
 
 292 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 war, and I may be called away from you. You 
 have no friend ; therefore I would fain find you 
 one, who would be a firm support to you in sor- 
 row, — for it must come to us all, — and a dear 
 companion in joy." 
 
 Margaret blushed, and cast down her bright 
 eyes ; the major paused, — he was not a man of 
 many words, but he was one of profound feeling ; 
 his voice faltered. 
 
 '' I would propose to you, Margaret In 
 
 short, what think you of Albert Hartznian, the 
 son of my old comrade ? He is young, and brave, 
 and comely — ^" 
 
 " O, not comely ! " cried Margaret abruptly ; 
 « I think him frightful." 
 
 "Frightful!" exclaimed the major, in a sur- 
 prised but not an angry tone ; " why there is 
 not a girl in the canton that does not set her 
 cap at him." 
 
 " That may be," answered Margaret scornfully ; 
 " but I, for one, should rather live by myself 
 amongst the wolves in the old forest yonder, than 
 marry Albert Hartzman, if that is what you 
 mean." 
 
 The major smiled, and said, " Well, if you will
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 293 
 
 not have Albert, we will say no more about it ; but 
 there is Leopold, our neighbour the late governor's 
 son, who has loved you from your childhood ; an 
 excellent youth, — gay, rich, and the best shot in 
 the country."" 
 
 " Not so good as you are, cousin ; besides," she 
 added with a childish air, " I can't bear him ; he 
 has five fingers on one hand, and only three on the 
 other.*" The major smiled again. 
 
 When Margaret had been placed in his arms by 
 her dying sister, she was only five years old, and 
 he was twenty years her senior ; so he taught her 
 to call him uncle, thinking it well that some show 
 of affinity should exist between them. But as she 
 grew up, he took an aversion to the assumed title, 
 and changed it to that of cousin, which he disco- 
 vered to be a pleasanter sounding word. 
 
 " But, my dear cousin," said he, " you must 
 hear reason. It is more than probable that I may 
 be obliged to quit you. The good Teresa, who 
 has been as a mother to you, is likely to be also 
 called away to superintend the concerns of her son, 
 now a widower. To remain in this solitude would 
 neither befit your youth or character; the chances 
 of war may keep us separated for years — ^"
 
 294 COUNT DALBEIIG AND HIS SON. 
 
 " Not unless you please it, cousin,''* interrupted 
 Margaret anxiously ; " for if you will, you may 
 take me with you ; and a thousand times happier 
 shall I be sharing your dangers, than in the gover- 
 nor's castle with Leopold, or Albert either. Take 
 me with you, (she added,) my only friend ! With 
 you I shall be safe and happy ; but (and her quick 
 tone changed to a mournful one) if I must stay 
 behind, let it be here in your dwelling." 
 
 The major was deeply affected. He had long 
 loved Margaret with more than a cousin's love, 
 but he had never dared to reckon on any return 
 of affection other than that which a child feels 
 towards a parent. He might have married her, 
 and the world would have said, " The good major ! 
 how nobly he has acted. He has made the girl his 
 wife, with whom in pure benevolence he saddled 
 himself when she was an infant." But he viewed 
 the matter in another light, and struggling against 
 his deeply attached heart, argued thus with him- 
 self : — "Ought I to take advantage of the influ- 
 ence which habit (he would not even to his own 
 ear say kindness) has given me over her mind, to 
 engage her in a union with a man old enough to 
 be her father, and to whom she may merely fancy
 
 COUNT DALBKRG AND HIS SON. 295 
 
 herself attached because she is accustomed to his 
 society, and knows nothing of the world? If, 
 having become acquainted with it, and with other 
 suitors younger, more brilliant, and more engag- 
 ing, her heart still continues faithful to its first 
 preference, then, and then only, may I honourably 
 make her my wife ; but there must be no regrets, 
 no crying out of the cheated heart, no backward 
 wishes." 
 
 Thus thought the good major, and as he 
 thought, so did he act. War, as he expected, 
 broke out, his services were offered and accepted ; 
 but before joining his regiment he deposited the 
 sorrowing Margaret with an excellent woman and 
 dear friend, whose position obliged her to mix 
 much in high, but select society ; and consigning 
 the fair girl to her discreet care, departed. 
 
 He was away two years, and when he returned 
 with a sabre wound across the forehead, Margaret 
 sprang to meet him with a bright glow of happy 
 feeling in her charming eyes, and a frank hope 
 on her lips that he would take her back to her 
 forest, and to the deer, and the pheasants, and 
 the flowers that she had loved and nursed in her 
 infancy. She returned to her sylvan haunts a
 
 296 COUNT DALBEUG AND HIS SON. 
 
 happy wife ; and Margaret, the sole offspring of 
 this true marriage of affection, grew up amidst 
 the woods as her mother had done before her. 
 
 When Margaret was fourteen, Herman Werner 
 was beginning to be called the Old Major, though 
 sound health and a cheerful temper had combined 
 together to keep his fine countenance and manly 
 figure much as they were when his charming ward 
 had flouted the pretensions of Albert Hartzman 
 and the governor''s son. The young Margaret was 
 wild, and shy, and beautiful, as her mother had 
 been ; could run with the deer, steer a sledge down 
 the steep face of the mountain when the snow 
 covered it, and row her father's skiff across the 
 forest-lake with a light oar and a steady movement, 
 and then warble to him as he cast his hne into its 
 bosom ; while the rocks, giving back the sound, 
 seemed as if they had an aviary of sweet-singing 
 birds hidden within them. The air was not fresher, 
 the flowers sweeter, the sky brighter than she was. 
 While summer lasted, she rowed upon the lake, 
 rambled in the forest, cultivated her flower-garden, 
 and gathered fruits which she helped her mother 
 to preserve for winter luxury ; and when the long 
 evenings came, spun and knit, thrummed on an old
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 297 
 
 harpsichord the mountain airs wliich her father 
 loved, or sat at his feet and recounted to him the 
 legends she had gathered from the shepherds, 
 when they came down from the hills to their 
 winter dwellings. 
 
 It was thus that she lived when the young Count 
 Dalberg, hunting (as I have said) in the forest, 
 saw her in the midst of the dappled herd, giving 
 bread to her favourites. He was alone, havino; 
 left his attendants far behind ; she did not hear 
 him approach, and he had leisure to gaze long 
 and uninterruptedly on her, before a voice, calling 
 from within the house, caused her to quit her 
 gentle occupation. 
 
 It was almost supper-time ; a bright wood-fire 
 burned in the old hall, where the major and his 
 happy family were used to pass their winter 
 evenings. Madame Werner — still lovely, though 
 her beauty had taken a more maternal character, 
 sat at the antique harpsichord, giving expression to 
 the quaint measure of an old-fashioned air, which 
 was one of her husband's particular favourites, her 
 fine eyes fixed on Margaret, who stood in the 
 
 o3
 
 298 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 middle of the room in the full blaze of the gay 
 fire, and close to her the major, holding her hand 
 which he raised towards his head, while he turned 
 her round and round, following the graceful 
 movement of a dance which he had learned in his 
 youth in some island of the Mediterranean. 
 
 Werner was one of those happy spirits who, 
 though already in the downhill path of life, enjoy 
 the recreations of the young as if they were still 
 themselves of that gay band. His habitual gravity 
 made his mirthful vein appear more rich and 
 heartfelt ; and though less the customary produce 
 of his mind than a delightful variety, yet the 
 veriest child in Christendom could not share in the 
 sport, promote the game, or insist on the forfeit, 
 with more hearty earnestness than he did. 
 
 He was now in one of his most joyous moments, 
 entering with the gaiety of fifteen into the spirit 
 of the sport ; whirling Margaret round rapidly, 
 chasing her as in anger, or catching her in his 
 arms and throwing her upwards with a spring, as 
 if she had been no heavier than a feather. A little 
 apart was a boy sitting on a stool, and blowing 
 violently through a pasteboard trumpet ; with one 
 foot he marked the time of the dance, while the
 
 COUNT DALBKRG AND HIS SON. 299 
 
 other was slyly advanced to entrap the heedless 
 dancers. It was a child of the neighbourhood, 
 who from his good humour and intelligence had 
 become a favourite at the Kloster, the name which 
 Werner's dwelling, having been part of an ancient 
 religious house, still retained. More in the back 
 ground were two women, one old, the other young, 
 both gravely and neatly dressed, as became the 
 confidential domestics of a retired and respectable 
 country family: one working at a frame, and the 
 other sitting on a low chair beside her, dividing a 
 mass of different-coloured worsteds into separate 
 skeins. This simple fashion, which recalled the 
 times of the patriarchs, took nothing from the 
 respect due on one side, and heightened considerate 
 feelings into friendly ones on the other. 
 
 Margaret, flushed and breathless, was — as I 
 have already said, standing up in the middle of the 
 room, and the major beside her marshalling her 
 movements, when a knock was heard at the entrance 
 gate. "It is Gottfried," said the major ; and gave 
 Margaret a spin round after what he called the 
 Venetian fashion. The younger female gathered 
 up her worsteds, and went to open the door. 
 There was a short pause ; and then the girl
 
 300 COUNT DALBEKG AND HIS SON. 
 
 returned, lighting in a benighted wanderer, who 
 she well knew would be welcome to her master's 
 hospitable home. 
 
 Werner advanced with a kind greeting ; while 
 his wife rose from her harpsichord to receive her 
 unknown guest, with the natural grace which 
 distinguished all her movements. The women left 
 their frame and retired silently, and Margaret, 
 who felt a little ashamed of her ruffled hair, and 
 frock torn from its gathers, shrunk back abashed. 
 But a few minutes brought all things again into 
 their usual course, and the young Count Dalberg 
 was soon installed in the seat of honour, close to 
 the blazing hearth, while brisk preparations were 
 making in a more remote corner of the hall for the 
 cheerful evening meal, which was speedily served 
 with the customary neatness and comfort, — the 
 unexpected presence of a stranger causing neither 
 delay or coniusion in the major's well-regulated 
 household. 
 
 Count Dalberg wast just twenty-five, of a 
 charming figure and most amusing conversation ; 
 with the ease of high breeding and the frankness 
 of one who had never found it necessary to accom- 
 modate his tastes to the caprices of others, but
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 301 
 
 mixed with a natural desire to please, which, con- 
 verting boldness into candour, is always sure to 
 inspire confidence and good-will. His politeness 
 was not the conventional courtesy of the drawing- 
 room, but the softer one of the heart; technical 
 from habit, but cordial from good feeling. 
 
 Werner took to him at once, and in truth it was 
 but natural that he should do so, for Dalberg's 
 look and speech would have won over the most 
 crabbed. He had travelled much, read much, and 
 seen much of the world ; was familiar with the 
 manners and habits of rural life, and spoke of 
 woods and mountains as if he had borrowed the 
 language of the birds who dwelt in them. Werner 
 who loved to listen when he could be either enter- 
 tained or instructed, led him to talk of the countries 
 which he had visited ; he did so, and without 
 affectation, but with eloquence and fervour ; while 
 Margaret, who dearly loved all kinds of tales, 
 not even disdaining those of the fairies, did, like 
 the gentle Desdemona, " seriously incline," noting 
 with most delighted ear the marvels which the 
 narrative of the traveller unfolded. 
 
 Sometimes the scene was an island in the 
 Atlantic, an ocean paradise, with its smooth
 
 302 COUNT DALE ERG AKD HIS SON. 
 
 savannahs, its almond blossoms, tall pines and 
 feathery cedars, and its flowery carpet of home 
 and foreign sweets ; and on its highest peak a her- 
 mitage, perhaps a convent, whose bells sent their 
 sweet and holy sound at morning and evening over 
 the wide waters, bearing the thought of prayer and 
 Providence to the watching mariner. Or it was 
 the great chain of the mighty Andes, hiding in 
 its bosom the city of the Incas,* and the boiling 
 wells in which their golden throne lies buried. 
 Then the scene changed, and the traveller told how 
 he had sailed along the shores where Greece lay 
 sleeping on her chains, had anchored in the bays of 
 classic Sicily, passed the fair and lonely coast of 
 Calabria, — that rich hive of almost unappropriated 
 sweets, of beauty sown by nature but not reaped 
 by man, — and seen the sun rise and set on glitter- 
 ing Naples, and proud Genoa that vies with the 
 great city of the Bosphorus. 
 
 All this, and much beside of place and people, 
 did he touch upon ; lingering, as he saw Margaret's 
 curiosity sharpen into anxiousness, on the Spanish 
 ladies who dwell in the old cities of the caliphs, 
 and sing the ancient ballads of the Moorish times 
 * Caxamarca.
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 303 
 
 in the lemon-groves of Seville or of Cordova; or 
 the bright girls of fruitful Sicily, — fair as the 
 Proserpine of their pagan story, — who have not 
 forgotten the song of the Syrens ; and then he told 
 of the music, and the moonshine, and the gay 
 revolvings, the prompt yet bashful movements of 
 those antique dances — children of the southern 
 shores — which have outlived tradition, until Mar- 
 garet began to think less kindly of her forests and 
 her snow-mountains than she had ever done before. 
 As night came on, the traveller''s stories became 
 like those of Schehezerade, more intensely inter- 
 esting, and it was past midnight before sleep was 
 thought of. 
 
 A day's sporting in the woods, proposed by 
 Werner, and warmly acceded to by Dalberg, 
 brought on another evening of pleasant inter- 
 course ; but it was now Dalberg's turn to listen, 
 and he did not acquit himself less well in his new 
 capacity, than he had previously done in the 
 more brilliant one of narrator. 
 
 Make me a good listener^ would be no bad 
 prayer for one who was obliged to be the shaper 
 of his own fortune; that one talent, or rather 
 passive faculty, has often eclipsed others of eminent
 
 304 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 brightness, and opened doors closed against infi- 
 nitely higher claims. It is certain that the good 
 major, though neither vain or exacting, was pleased 
 and flattered by Dalberg^s attentive mien. He too 
 had travelled, and though his imagination might 
 have somewhat rusted in camps, his heart was as 
 green as ever, and its freshness gave a fine youth- 
 ful zest to his conversation, which had besides all 
 the interest that truth, judgment, right feeling, 
 and an observant mind could bestow upon it. 
 And thus discoursing most excellent music, they 
 became friends. 
 
 The next day, Dalberg (unwilling longer to in- 
 trude on Werner's hospitality) quitted the Kloster, 
 but not its neighbourhood. The lake, the moun- 
 tains, the forest, seemed like the rock in the story 
 of the Calendar, which, by some mysterious in- 
 fluence, drew every thing towards it. But he best 
 loved the lake, for Mai'garet's window looked upon 
 it; and while he cast his line into its waters, his 
 eyes watched her shadow, as it passed behind the 
 slight trellis which, when spring had covered it 
 with leaves and flowers, screened the interior of 
 her chamber. 
 
 When he went out with his gun, its echo was
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 305 
 
 sure to be heard in that part of the forest which 
 approached nearest to the Kloster. He had found 
 a lodging at the curate''s ; and as Rosengarten was 
 but a mile farther down in the valley, he could see 
 the walls of the old building rising from an aerial 
 swell, with the small clear lake at its feet, and the 
 arched fragments of its cloisters stretching back 
 into the girdling woods and discoursing silently 
 of the long gone-by with the fresh grass and the 
 green leaves of the forest, as time does with youth, 
 — youth that still flings away its blossoms, speed- 
 ing lavishly to the end without heeding the lesson, 
 yet dies before its tutor who seemed so old, but 
 who lives on to throw away the same unregarded 
 counsels on the fresh shoots of other seasons. 
 
 Before half the spring had passed away, Dal- 
 berg had discovered that life without Margaret 
 would be too vapid for endurance. He was what 
 lovers call of mature age, and exempted by the 
 death of both his parents from the check of duti- 
 ful allegiance. Nor was Margaret's alliance to be 
 scorned even by the highest blood, for hers was 
 pure and noble. Her mother''s house, though 
 fallen, was ancient, and honourably historical ; and 
 her father was the son of one who had written
 
 306 COUNT DALBEEG AND HIS SON. 
 
 his name proudly, but who for a political offence, 
 an act motived by conscience and not unappre- 
 ciated by the world, had been forbidden the court, 
 and deprived of certain hereditary honours and 
 advantages. 
 
 It could not be said that Werner put his claims 
 too much in the sun ; on the contrary, he had 
 almost forgotten them. His pride was to possess 
 the affections of the simple people amongst whom 
 he lived, and who looked up to him with reve- 
 rence ; and though he might have presented 
 himself fearlessly before his sovereign, and have 
 claimed by virtue of his military services the 
 restoration of such ancestral honours as had been 
 forfeited by his father's imprudence, yet he pre- 
 ferred before all things the quiet of his happy 
 home, and the fair company of nature. 
 
 The starry path of love seems but a dull road 
 to those who have left it behind them for ever. It 
 makes no narrative, awakens no new images, and 
 sometimes perhaps vexes the mind with old ones. 
 We have pulled the flowers which once grew in it 
 ourselves, when the young life was in them ; and
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 307 
 
 when those which have been gathered by others 
 are presented to us, we find them like the Arabian 
 apple, all dust and ashes. There is no going 
 along such tracks on other people's feet, we must 
 be there present and eminent; then the spring 
 daisies swear they are immortals, and the ragged 
 thorn passes off its hips and haws for downright 
 rosebuds — but at second hand ! 
 
 It is for this reason that I shall pass over Mar- 
 garet's wooing days. At length came her wedding 
 one, with the volume of fate in it ! — but it was 
 beautiful. The sun looked out in its loveliness, 
 the air was full of fragrance, the woods of song. 
 " Happy is the bride that the sun shineth on,"" 
 said the major, and the mother's loving heart was 
 cheered by the cheerfulness of nature. 
 
 Margaret knelt in the presence of Heaven, and 
 behind her knelt her parents, giving the holiest 
 sanction to the solemn act which it could receive 
 from earthly approbation. For the king's son, or 
 the king himself, may give away the bride, the 
 queen may fasten pearls on her neck, and kiss her 
 on the forehead, and strangers may shed tears at 
 seeing it ; but the father's blessing and the mo- 
 ther's kiss are the holy ones, after the blessing of
 
 308 COUNT DALBEIIG AND HIS SON. 
 
 God, which theirs invoke, and without which all 
 others are valueless. 
 
 A fairer pair had rarely knelt before the nuptial 
 altar than Dalbers and Maro^aret Werner. The 
 curate of Rosengarten blest their union, and prayed 
 in heart and voice for the child, (for so he still 
 called her,) whom he had loved from her infancy, 
 and for him who was to be the future guardian of 
 her happiness. 
 
 This curate of Rosengarten — simple, pure- 
 minded, and zealous as an apostle, fervent and 
 fearless at the altar, mild and benignant in the 
 relations of life, — had still one shade of weakness 
 in his character, which neither his holy function, 
 or his solemn sense of the duties it imposed, could 
 entirely keep down. He was a poet, — or rather 
 a stringer of rhymes ; and though he often took 
 himself to task for an idle use of time, if not an 
 evil one, yet the sin of rhyming was upon him, 
 and never could he resist an opportunity of in- 
 dulging in it. The wedding eve offered one too 
 tempting to be resisted ; and as he took a solemn 
 and touching leave of Margaret in her maiden
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 309 
 
 character, giving her much wholesome counsel and 
 many blessings, he could not help slipping a paper 
 into her hand, to which he had consigned these 
 well-meaning verses : — 
 
 The other da}'-, my beauteous one, thou wert a gentle child, 
 A guileless, careleiss, red-cheeked thing, and as the reindeer 
 wild ; 
 
 And now thou art a lady bright, 
 
 A star of peril to the sight. 
 
 I knew thee in thy snowy frock, and sash of azure blue. 
 And locks that on thy shoulders hung in curls of sunny hue; 
 
 1 knew thee when thy infant face 
 
 Peep'd from its baby cap of lace. 
 
 And now thou soon wilt married be to a gallant cavalier, 
 And cloth of gold and gems thou'lt have, such as noble ladies 
 wear ; 
 
 And thou wilt go to court — and there 
 Nothing will be that 's half so fair. 
 
 But will thy heart be light as 'twas, when thou didst gather 
 flowers 
 
 From the honey-scented eglantine to build up fairv bowers ; 
 Or, older grown, thy playful grace, 
 Brought smiles into a parent's face ? 
 
 God grant it may ! for thou didst make a paradise of home. 
 Content within its quiet sphere in solitude to bloom; 
 
 While others, fair as thou, had pined 
 
 Within such lists to be confined. 
 
 And surely joy will spring for one who has so wisely sown. 
 Thy happy home will be to thee a palace and a throne ; 
 
 And all the good thou didst bestow 
 
 On others, back to thee will flow.
 
 310 COUNT DALBEJIG AXD HTS SON. 
 
 Margaret was affected by the curate's kindness, 
 if not by his poetry ; some tender thoughts swelled 
 in her heart which she would have repressed, but 
 they refused to be commanded. Without knowing 
 why, these simple lines had saddened her, and she 
 found herself repeating " thy happy home," when 
 she would have wished to have forgotten them 
 altogether. 
 
 A marriage solemnized in the quiet of the 
 country, to which the woods, the mountains, the 
 simple and pious people bear witness, touches the 
 heart more nearly than the same ceremony per- 
 formed with all the pomp and bustle of a town 
 pageant. The file of equipages, the crowd of starers, 
 the display of dress, the consciousness of beauty, 
 hustle out the serious and collected feelings natu- 
 rally inspired by a ceremony so full of the future. 
 
 Margaret's vows were plighted in the solemn 
 shade of her native forest, in the small church that 
 nestled in its bosom, with sylvan images, sacred in 
 themselves as being of Almighty workmanship, 
 and mixed with others made sacred also by their 
 appropriation, around her. Her maiden beauty 
 became the flowers which were its only ornament, 
 and the white veil, thrown over her by her mother's
 
 COUNT DALBKHG AND HIS SON. 311 
 
 trembling hands, accorded well with the vestal 
 sweetness of her innocent countenance. 
 
 How deep and holy are the secrets of a parent's 
 heart on the day when it makes over its dear 
 rights to another ! Hope — with the spirit of prayer 
 upon it — joy, sorrow ; wishes accomplished, fears 
 awakened, all are there, with the perspective of 
 separation, dimmed with clouds, in the distance. 
 
 But at length it was all over. Margaret was at 
 Vienna, and the major, with the other dear Mar- 
 garet, were left alone in the forest. 
 
 —II.— 
 
 A year passed away ; and at the end of it, 
 Margaret — now a mother — returned with her hus- 
 band and her child to visit her parents, who never 
 quitted their solitude. Sweet gentle creature ! how 
 she loved the forests, and the lake, and the moun- 
 tains of her childhood ! and how cold and heartless 
 appeared to her the conventional politeness and 
 itemed smiles of the gay courtiers, and the hollow 
 pomp of their court ! It was fine, but her heart 
 took no pleasure in its finery ; it did not lean upon 
 it for happiness, as on its old and dear associations.
 
 312 COCN'T DALBEKG AN'D HIS SON. 
 
 And yet she had been supremely happy there, 
 happv in the exclusive possession of her husband's 
 heart, happv even in the pride which he took in 
 her ; though sometimes unquiet when she saw it 
 fed more by the fuel of others" admiration, than by 
 the sweet aliment of individual love. For the 
 thought would often cross her modest mind, that 
 her attractions were too feeble to justify the sensa- 
 tion which her appearance was sure to create, and 
 that to the charm of novelty alone was she indebted 
 for it. " Ah,"^ she would say fearfully, " when the 
 painted glass is withdrawn, and the object appears 
 in its natural light, how wiU his heart bear the 
 disappointment !*^ 
 
 But it was not when she returned to the Kloster 
 that Margaret felt the visitation of doubt. No : 
 there her heart admitted nothing but joy. The 
 caresses of her parents, the sight of old familiar 
 things, the presence of her husband, of her child, 
 whom she carried for ever in her arms, and the 
 absence of what is called the world, brought 
 paradise around her. Every day, at the hour 
 when Dalberg was used to return from the chase, 
 she would sit down at the root of an old thorn that 
 grew in his path, and watch for his coming, fond-
 
 COUXT DALBEEG AST) HIS SON'. 313 
 
 ling her little Herman as he lay on her knee, look- 
 ing up and smiling idly at the blue sky ; or, with 
 head erect and busy feet, trying to grasp the 
 flowers which she held playfully before him. At 
 such moments her mind was full of gentle mus- 
 ings ; and while she caressed her child under the 
 same trees that had lent their shade to her own 
 infant sports, it seemed as if she lived between 
 memory and hope. 
 
 "And yet the world has its charms, its delights,'"* 
 said Dalberg one day when, without thinking of 
 poetrv, ]\Iargaret had grown poetical while she 
 talked of the sweet-stirring air and the pleasant 
 site of the old Kloster, looking out from its green 
 forest and casting the reflection of its turrets into 
 the lake, in whose clear mirror the broad blue sky 
 looked like a glorious pavement bordered with all 
 fantastic things that, brandling downwards, seemed 
 to grow into its pure bosom. 
 
 " But not such as we have here," said Margaret, 
 with a look of love. 
 
 "Not such,"" he replied, "but others, — perhaps 
 more in unison with the wants and wishes of man."" 
 Margaret was silent. " In the sameness of na- 
 ture — " She looked wonderingly. It had always
 
 314 COUNT DAL BERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 seemed to her, that in the full page of nature's di- 
 vine book all things were to be found, all beauty, 
 and all knowledge. 
 
 " In the sameness of nature," continued Dal- 
 berg, " the mind feels the want of that excitement 
 by which its faculties are developed, and those 
 before unfelt powers which have lain bedded in 
 inaction, called into life. We awake here amidst 
 the same scenes that day after day have presented 
 themselves to our eyes ; they are beautiful, but 
 we no longer mark their beauty ; we assemble 
 together, the same faces always surround us ; if 
 the sun shines, we bask listlessly in its beams, or 
 pursue the same sports which we pursued yester- 
 day, and all the yesterdays that went before it. If 
 the sky lowers, we are driven to pore over dull 
 books, — poor substitutes for the quick coinage of 
 speech ; to associate with the dead, while others 
 plunge into the full stream of life and are carried 
 forward by the rapidity of its current ; to retrace 
 frivolous events with prosing neighbours, — events 
 gone by in the world, or never known to it, — as if 
 the fate of empires hung upon them ; while the 
 mind stands still, waiting the touch of circum- 
 stance, or congenial feeling. — It is the life of a
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 315 
 
 cabbage-stump. But in society, the mind recovers 
 its brightness ; its veins and arteries re-appear 
 upon the surface, which becomes again lucid by 
 friction, and spread out the currents of thought 
 that lay congealed in their channels. — But you, 
 my love, think otherwise." 
 
 " Ah, Dalberg," said Margaret, in a tone of 
 reproach, " how eloquent is your displeasure ! If 
 the recollection of our first meeting, our early 
 love, has endeared these woods to me ; if my heart 
 warms to this spot because it is the home of those 
 I dearly love, and was that of my happy child- 
 hood, do not for that reason doubt that all places, 
 all scenes, all occupations are not welcome when 
 you are with me. If I have loved my home too 
 well, and the world too little, it is because the one 
 separates me too often from you, who are all to 
 me, — life, air, sunshine ; while the other, claiming 
 nothing from time, allows me the dear joy of 
 being always near you. But, (she added, in the 
 soft tone of one who almost feared to have said 
 too much,) I know well that the duties of man and 
 woman are different : my bounden one is to make 
 you happy, and in doing so I myself am blest. 
 But yours are high and complicated; your station, 
 
 p2
 
 316 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 your public character make it necessary that you 
 should live in the world. Be it so, crowds and 
 deserts are the same to me, so that I be but your 
 companion, and your dearest one.^"* 
 
 " Sweet Margaret," said Dalberg wdth tender- 
 ness, " can you doubt it ? Is it for one like you 
 to dread a rival ?" 
 
 " I know not what I dread,'' she replied ; '' cer- 
 tainly nothing defined. Yet there are moments 
 when heavy thoughts steal over me, and then my 
 woods become dearer to me than ever, and I feel 
 as if all good and holy things dwelt within them. 
 But you smile, my love ; be it in kindness, and I 
 will smile with you, for I feel that I have been 
 childishly, perhaps waywardly, urgent. Will you 
 forgive me ? " 
 
 " Forgive ! How can I forgive one who has 
 never offended ? In you, my beloved creature, 
 there is nothing to pardon, every thing to approve. 
 Ah, Margaret ! your beautiful devotedness shames 
 my worldly feelings. But here comes your father, 
 tugging on Herman in the new cart which Wilfred 
 made for him last week." 
 
 " Dear boy !" exclaimed Margaret, with a 
 mother's joy sparkling in her eyes ; " how beau
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 317 
 
 tiful he looks. See, they put my father''s hat on 
 him." Then flying off with the wild gaiety of 
 a child, was in the midst of the group the next 
 moment. 
 
 Dalberg paused an instant to look upon them. 
 " What a beautiful picture ! " he exclaimed. 
 "Perhaps Margaret is right; perhaps the world 
 has nothing better than this to offer." 
 
 Time passed, and Margaret was still the happy 
 and beloved wife of Dalberg; twice every year 
 she visited her home in the forest, and gladdened 
 with her presence the heart of the good major and 
 her tender mother. At ten years old, Herman 
 could follow Werner when he went up to shoot in 
 the mountains, proud to be the occasional bearer of 
 the bag, and loving the clambering, the excitement, 
 the wild and, for so young a sportsman, perilous 
 paths, — every thing, in short, except the death of 
 the bird, or the sight of the wounded one, as keenly 
 as the major himself. But his heart was tender, 
 and the fluttering wing, or the stained plumage, 
 was never beheld without a choky feel in the 
 throat, which Werner remarked with pleasure;
 
 318 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SOW 
 
 for (as he would often say) we are made of 
 hardening stuff, and if the young heart is not 
 pitying, there will be no mercy in the old one. 
 
 Herman was a handsome, hardy boy, serious 
 and gay by turns, but oftener grave than giddy, 
 with a fine thoughtful eye and a woman's smile, 
 tender and beautiful. Even at his early age, 
 much of the same contempt of pomp and love of 
 excellence for which Werner was remarkable, dis- 
 tinguished his character. His perception of right 
 and wrong was quick and delicate, his judgment 
 precocious, his sensibility profound — not showy ; 
 it made no sign, but the fire worked under ground, 
 not yet concentrated by time or circumstance, but 
 with all the materiel of future action within it. 
 
 — HI.— 
 
 It was about the time when Herman was twelve 
 years old, and Margaret twenty-eight, that the 
 latter became acquainted with a lady who had 
 begun to excite an interest in the court circle. 
 She was the widow of a Sicilian nobleman, and not 
 altogether unknown at Vienna, for two or three
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 319 
 
 persons of the court remembered to have seen and 
 slightly known her at Palermo in the life-time of 
 her husband. But who she had been, or what 
 were the circumstances of her previous life, none 
 knew. 
 
 She was still young and, as some thought, 
 interesting, with strange bright eyes that had 
 more of animal wildness in them than of woman's 
 gentleness. They were dark and far apart, and 
 sometimes spoke an odd language, whose mystery 
 was not without interest. Her black hair hung; 
 about her eyes in heavy ringlets, and she used to 
 put it back with her hand as if it mattered not 
 how it was, uncovering a forehead fairer than the 
 rest of her face, which was sallow and of a thin 
 oval form, singularly but not unpleasingly filled up. 
 
 It was a figure and a being full of contrasts : 
 her step was languid, her manner abrupt, her 
 voice soft, her eye bold and rapid. When she 
 was spoken of, there was no medium in opinion : 
 those who did not think her handsome, fell into 
 the other extreme and called her disagreeable ; 
 others were spell-bound, and discovered a grace, 
 hitherto unseen, in the awkwardness of her move- 
 ments.
 
 320 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 Her dress was apparently negligent, yet studied; 
 fanciful, out of the mode, ridiculous perhaps, — 
 or would have been so if worn by another ; but 
 it seemed to become the character of her figure, 
 which would have but ill allied itself with the 
 systematic caprices of fashion, and at best have 
 been that of a Parisianized Medea, had the mil- 
 liners meddled with it. 
 
 When she entered a room, her foreign expres- 
 sion, singular attire, and an original air by which 
 she was especially individualized, seldom failed 
 to create a general sensation. People gazed at 
 her as on some wild thing just taken in a toil, 
 exclaimed against her strange eyes and undrilled 
 gait, and often ended by finding charm in the 
 one and dignity in the other. 
 
 If she wore an ornament, it was sure to be some 
 uncouth and massive thing, that looked as if it 
 had been modelled by rude fingers and chiselled 
 by unfinished tools, such as might have been found 
 in the niche of an Egyptian deity, or amongst the 
 ruins of a Mexican temple. Her hair was per- 
 fectly black, and she used to bind it partly up 
 with leaves or wild berries, or with the flowers of 
 the asphalathus, leaving the rest to float freely on
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 321 
 
 her shoulders; affecting at one time the frantic 
 dress of the bacchante, or entering a quiet circle 
 in the glittering vest and Egyptian headclotli of a 
 wandering Bohemian. Yet when astonished eyes 
 were turned upon her, her look was shy and 
 startled, as if she would have hidden herself from 
 the scrutiny which her dress seemed purposely 
 adopted to provoke. 
 
 She never danced ; but as she moved, her path 
 was marked by the fragrance of the rare and deli- 
 cate flowers which she always wore in her bosom. 
 It could not be said that she was mascuHne, and 
 yet there was nothing of woman, in her sweetest 
 and most becoming character, about her. It was 
 impossible to associate her image with that of any 
 thing domestic or habitual, or fancy her submitted 
 to the rules of common life ; from her isolated air, 
 none could have supposed that she had been a 
 wife ; she looked like something alone in the world, 
 something unlinked and solitary, a wild and un- 
 communing spirit, which had made a track for 
 itself apart from the beaten one, and had never 
 known home ties, or human sympathies. And yet 
 fine and generous things were reported of her, 
 great personal sacrifices were recorded, and a beau- 
 
 p 3
 
 322 COUNT DALBERG AND HlS SON. 
 
 tiful giving up of worldly interests, for a husband 
 by whom she had been abandoned. 
 
 At times, she appeared natural even to rude- 
 ness ; at others, the perplexed thread of an artificial 
 nature was visible. Yet she could not be called 
 studied; there was an absence of project about 
 her, which seemed to be less the result of single- 
 ness of mind than of long habits of loneliness. 
 She never appeared to know precisely what she did 
 or said, rarely where she was, or to whom she 
 addressed herself ; consequently, she often uttered 
 strange and misapplied things. Still her habits 
 were not those of a candid nature, but of one care- 
 less of the feelings of others rather than commu- 
 nicative of her own ; yet not careless from malice, 
 but indifference. These fits of coldness, abstrac- 
 tion, and uncourteousness were so frequent, that 
 a warm or kindly expression from her lips became 
 infatuating ; it had an appearance of sincerity that 
 seemed like an escaping of the heart. Many 
 believed her altogether artificial ; while others 
 deemed her one who nursed some secret and 
 absorbing sorrow, which at times affected her 
 mind so powerfully as almost to unsettle it. 
 
 Of this belief was Margaret ; and pity, which
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 323 
 
 in her charming nature awakened all kindly feel- 
 ings, induced her to seek the society of the 
 Countess Isabella. Dalberg thought otherwise. 
 Her appearance was so unpleasing to him, that he 
 gave her credit for every species of deception ; 
 and when he did speak of her, which was rarely, 
 and only when the theme was forced upon him, 
 it was to mock at what he called her calculated 
 insanity. 
 
 Margaret was her idol. Though nearly of an 
 age, sorrow — or some other cause — had already 
 tarnished the lustre of Isabella's charms; while 
 Margaret's soft and more distinguished beauty 
 still retained its first young freshness. They were 
 like day and night ; one bright and pure, the other 
 dark and troubled, but with a wild gleam breaking 
 sometimes through the heavy clouds which, like 
 the forked lightning, threw a pallid glare on all 
 around it. Her love of Margaret was like that of 
 an Indian woman for her first-born, — she fawned 
 upon her, chided her lovingly, caressed her, twined 
 flowers in her hair, and then laughed to see her 
 look so beautiful. 
 
 The coldness with which she spoke of Dalberg, 
 not only on their first acquaintance, but even long
 
 324 COUNT DALBERG AXD HIS SON. 
 
 after she had become familiar in his home, offended 
 Margaret, who was jealous of herself when she 
 found that she was preferred to him. But Isabella's 
 feelings, always in extremes, suddenly took ano- 
 ther turn, and one more suspicious than Margaret 
 might have been startled by the energy of her 
 praise. 
 
 " O," she would say, " what happiness is yours ! 
 How noble he is, how tender ! How magnificent 
 to the eye, and to the heart ! O, how persuasive ! 
 Beautiful wedded love ! how bright it seems, my 
 Margaret, in your example ; mine was a frightful 
 experience, — but yours ! " And then she would 
 burst into tears, and hide herself in some solitary 
 corner. 
 
 Dalberg was the last to perceive the impression 
 he had made upon her, but at length it thrust 
 itself into his eyes. To have been fastened upon 
 as an object of preference by a woman who was 
 either above or below restraint, whose appearance 
 displeased, and whose audacious candour shocked 
 him, was odious to his feelings. 
 
 But indifference, even contempt, — the fuel of 
 woman's hate, — produced no effect on Isabella ; 
 and the anxious air with which she devoured his
 
 COUNT DALBEIIG AND HIS SON. 325 
 
 most careless words became so painful to him, that 
 he expostulated with Margaret on the strange fancy 
 of encumbering herself with such an insupportable 
 companion. But she, sweet and unsuspecting 
 creature, sued for her friend, and dwelt on her 
 misfortunes and her loneliness until she suc- 
 ceeded in awakening something like pity in his 
 bosom. 
 
 Dislike once conquered, Dalberg began to think 
 less harshly of Isabella ; and having made the 
 great leap from repugnance to toleration, went on 
 step by step in kindly feeling, until the favourable 
 impression became — like all impressions produced 
 with difficulty — deep and permanent, taking by 
 degrees a form, which seemed to observant eyes to 
 threaten inquietude, perhaps danger. 
 
 One evening, a few persons were assembled in 
 Isabella's saloon : Dalberg and Margaret were of 
 the number. After a short time passed in conver- 
 sation, music was proposed ; and as Vienna was at 
 that period the citadel of sound, a concord of most 
 sweet notes was speedily produced, a rich gush of 
 harmony, making one voice as it burst from the
 
 326 COUNT DALBEllG AND HIS SON. 
 
 full choir, and lifting the spirit on the winged 
 mystery of song upwards towards heaven. 
 
 Margaret, who felt music as not many do, sat 
 entranced, communing with those sweet and un- 
 earthly thoughts which come at the bidding of 
 congenial sounds, and Isabella at her feet, her face 
 resting between her hands, her wild eyes fixed on 
 Dalberg ; and in this attitude of passionate watch- 
 fulness, she appeared like the living image of an 
 antique statue of mysterious seeming thrown from 
 its base, but with the look of desolate life which the 
 sculptor's magic had bestowed upon it still there ; 
 or one left alone in the desert, listening for the 
 voice which was never more to break upon the ear. 
 A harp stood in a corner of the room : some 
 one asked Isabella to play, but she refused, urging 
 her small knowledge of the instrument. Margaret, 
 who had not been before aware of her possessing 
 any musical acquirements, joined in the entreaty, 
 but without success. At length Dalberg approached. 
 " Will it give you pleasure ?" she asked, in a low 
 tone. The answer was in one still lower, and 
 she turned to the harp. 
 
 Her hands swept over the strings, and after a 
 moment's thought she struck a few bold chords ;
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 327 
 
 then suddenly dropping into a wild and plaintive 
 strain, she seemed to find words as she went along, 
 uttering them — not as if they had been recollected, 
 but as if her emotion, as it rose, created them : — 
 
 Shall I never see my hills again, 
 My native hills ; 
 Nor hear the dead voice speak, 
 Nor see the smile awake, 
 But always be alone ? — ever alone ! 
 How the thought kills ! 
 
 Never will the beloved come again, 
 Never again ! 
 His grave is by the side 
 Of Danube's rolling tide, 
 And I must be alone, — always alone 
 With my heart's pain 1 
 
 At the last word she paused a moment ; sorrow- 
 ful recollections seemed to crowd upon her. Then 
 pressing her hands against the chords of her 
 harp, as if to deaden the melancholy vibration, 
 she broke out into one of those simple melodies, 
 always vocal to the heart, in which the popular 
 music of Germany is so eminently rich. 
 
 Her voice was of no extent; the tone was muffled ; 
 it was neither remarkable for, nor yet deficient in 
 sweetness, but somewhat like her person, — full of 
 defects so cunningly smoothed and fitted to each
 
 328 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 Other, that the eifFect was an unexpected harmony 
 which took the senses by surprise, mastering them 
 by means which owed their power to their strange- 
 ness. The airs that she sang were perhaps selected 
 for effect, perhaps stumbled on by accident ; there 
 was a wild sentiment of romance about them, to 
 which she gave a singular but touching expression. 
 Some shed tears, others laughed oddly ; and while 
 her colour heightened, from the consciousness of 
 success, into a bright tinge seldom visible on her 
 pale cheek, she looked almost beautiful. 
 
 Dalberg certainly thought her so, and for the 
 first time ; and while her bold shy eyes, — ^for 
 strange as it may seem they united both expres- 
 sions, — were turned on him with an uncertain 
 gaze which seemed every moment ready to fly 
 away from its object, Margaret caught the look 
 of admiring, of almost fond delight, with which 
 he contemplated her glowing countenance. 
 
 At that moment suspicion entered into her soul, 
 turning a blooming paradise into a waste that 
 never afterwards nourished leaf or flower. Some 
 who loved, and others who envied her, had long 
 before warned her of the dangers which threatened 
 her peace ; but as we are apt to measure the
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 329 
 
 virtues of others by our own, her true heart 
 trusted in the fidelity of her husband's so fully 
 and so fearlessly, that a voice from heaven could 
 scarcely have persuaded her that he who had so 
 long been faithful, could at last be false. 
 
 Who can look into the mind of man, or cast the 
 plummet into its depths and sound the bottom ? 
 Who can mark the point at which virtue stops, 
 and vice commences? Is man himself aware of it ? 
 or does guilt come step by step upon him until, 
 like the hour hand of a watch, it has gone its 
 full time without visible movement ? I know not ; 
 nor can I tell why some, who have gone on 
 virtuously through a long course of years, strike 
 all at once against that circumstance which could 
 alone perhaps sink them into error. 
 
 Poor Margaret ! suspicion had (as I have said) 
 crept into her heart ; and by the opening which it 
 made, did all blessed things steal out one by one. 
 What a cruel change is that from confidence to 
 mistrust ! and then the cruder one from mistrust 
 to conviction ! Oppression, injustice, loss of for- 
 tune, and all the hardships that wait upon the
 
 330 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SOX. 
 
 change, are as nothing to this break-down of the 
 heart. Then indeed it becomes a desert, " a dwel- 
 ling-place for dragons, an astonishment and a 
 hissing ; "" for what desolation can equal the deso- 
 lation of the heart, — is it not greater than that 
 of Babylon ? — when all its hopes and its seeming 
 sureties are torn up, and overset, and made 
 " heaps ;" when a single word, a half glance, has 
 the agony of ages in it ! 
 
 Again I say, poor Margaret ! Poor indeed, — 
 for she had lost every thing. He who freights 
 many vessels, and sends them to the east and to 
 the west, has, if one be lost, the hope left that 
 others may have reached their ports in safety ; but 
 to him who has adventured all in one frail bark, 
 what a sound is that of the tempest ! how it howls 
 at his ear with death and ruin in it ! 
 
 There is no torture like that of jealousy ; it 
 admits no pause, no alleviation ; it kills alike by 
 doubt and certainty ; it will not suffer consolation, 
 but disputes every inch of the scathed and deso- 
 late ground it stands upon, against hope, even 
 against truth itself ; loathing its wretchedness, yet 
 seeking with morbid eagerness the means of aug- 
 menting the proofs on which its sad belief is raised.
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 331 
 
 Thus it was with Margaret. Her purity of 
 mind, her confidence in Dalberg''s love, her 
 ignorance of evil, made her long deaf to the hints 
 that were poured into her ear ; the sole feeling 
 awakened by them was that of indignation against 
 those who had dared to give them utterance. But 
 from the moment of doubt to that of certainty was 
 but a step, — a short step, but it led from life to 
 death. 
 
 At first, unwilling to believe that she had 
 entirely lost the heart which had been hers so 
 long, she tried by all the sweet means which a 
 devoted nature could devise to win it back again. 
 And for a time with some show of success, when a 
 feeling of shame, a sense of her tried excellence, 
 or the memory of past endearments gave a casual 
 glow to Dalberg's manner ; and then a kind look, 
 a gentle word, was heaven to her heart, on whom 
 all gentle words were once lavished. But soon the 
 expression of tenderness was received coldly or 
 pettishly, and she who had no other language, 
 sunk into silence. 
 
 Raise the oppressed, lift them up, seat them 
 firmly in the high place, and nine times in ten they 
 become oppressors in their turn. Is it the instinct
 
 332 COUNT DALDERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 of vengeance, or the intoxication of power, — or 
 both ? I cannot solve the question ; others may 
 do so who are better skilled in the labyrinths of 
 the mind ; but from the moment in which Isabella 
 felt herself supported by Dalberg, all the violence 
 of her passionate nature broke out in wild idolatry 
 for him, and scorn for others. It seemed as if her 
 guilty love was glory, and that she only lived 
 to worship him, and trample on all beside ; and 
 Margaret, who had sought her in her shunned 
 loneliness, needed all the dignity of real virtue, 
 all the eminence of character and station, to 
 depress her proud encroachments. 
 
 Yet sometimes in her strange fits of casual 
 sensibility, she would insult Margaret by tears, 
 and wring her hands and cry, " Pardon one whom 
 Heaven has forsaken ! It is you whom he loves, 
 not me, poor wretch ! How could he think of me, 
 changed and faded as I am, near you who are so 
 bright and beautiful.?*" And then, perhaps, in 
 the very moment of contrition, of self-abandon- 
 ment, of despair, her fierce and wayward spirit 
 would suddenly flame out in all the strength of 
 its wild perversity. 
 
 A feeling of respect, — ^perhaps of pity, still gave
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HTS SON. 333 
 
 a semblance of decency to Dalberg's manner, but 
 Margaret felt that love was past and gone ; and 
 whether she was treated with cold civility or marked 
 unkindness, was to her matter of indifference ; she 
 was no longer loved, and in that all was said, all 
 that her heart cared for ;, her presence no longer 
 gave pleasure, her absence pain. She did not stop 
 to gather up the scattered links which might have 
 been still hung together to cheat the eye ; the great 
 one was broken, and she looked no farther. But 
 there was no upbraiding, no forbidding gloom ; 
 only sweet welcomes covering a breaking heart, 
 and patient efforts to make a home attractive from 
 which, notwithstanding all that tenderness unwea- 
 ried and forgiving could devise, Dalberg became 
 daily more estranged. 
 
 —IV.— 
 
 In the midst of Margaret's progressing sorrow, 
 came a dispatch from the Kloster ; — her mother 
 was dying. At that moment all else was forgotten. 
 In an hour she was on the road, to her mountains, 
 but Dalberg could not accompany her ; affairs (of
 
 334 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 state, he said,) detained him ; so she went with 
 only Herman. Alas ! her haste was unavailing : 
 she arrived too late. 
 
 Too late ! what a world of woe, deep and irre- 
 trievable, lies in these two words. Her mother had 
 been buried the day before : not even a last embrace, 
 a parting blessing ! Nothing but the grave in the 
 chancel of the old church, and the memory in the 
 heart, — the sweet though sorrowful memory of the 
 dear, the good, the departed ! 
 
 Margaret found her father sitting in the room in 
 which her mother had died ; the windows open, the 
 curtains of the bed drawn back, the summer air 
 blowing through it, and the old man with his hat 
 on and his shooting-dress, as if he had not changed 
 it for many days, his arms hanging listlessly over 
 the sides of his chair, not knowing that the wind 
 blew, or the sun shone, — for within all was dark- 
 ness ! It seemed as if old age had come suddenly 
 upon him, for till then he had shown few marks of 
 its approach ; but now his hair was white, his eye 
 dim, his cheek pale and sunken. Margaret knelt 
 at his feet, and bathed his hands with her warm 
 tears ; but he did not look at her, he did not return 
 her fond pressure.
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 335 
 
 " It is your Margaret," she said ; " speak to her."" 
 
 " My Margaret !"" he faintly exclaimed. " Have 
 you not heard that she is dead.'^" and then relapsed 
 into a state of stupor. 
 
 Even when he became sensible of his daughter's 
 presence, the consciousness seemed rather to distress 
 than cheer him. " Are you well ? (he would say,) 
 are you happy ? You look pale, my love, and sad, 
 and there is no one now to nurse you. My tender 
 Margaret ! the world, I fear, has used you roughly; 
 but come, we will sit upon her grave, and her 
 spirit will be with us ; she will speak to us with 
 the tongue of an angel, and we shall be comforted. 
 At evening in the grey hour, when the sun is gone, 
 she sometimes comes to the old beech that grows 
 into the lake, and communes with me in the lan- 
 guage of heaven ; she waits for me, but life will 
 not leave me, — this weary, weary life ! " 
 
 Then he would say in a tone of self upbraiding, 
 " But you would miss me, Margaret, even me, — 
 the old man full of sorrow, the weak prop ; yet, 1 
 fear me much, your only one. Ah, Margaret ! 
 your star is still young in the heavens, but its 
 beauty is darkened ; I do not ask you why it is 
 so, yet my dim eyes see it," and then he would
 
 336 COUNT DALBERG AXD HIS SON. 
 
 embrace her fondly, and comfort her, until he 
 himself felt somewhat comforted. 
 
 '' My God," prayed Margaret mentally, as she 
 looked upon him, "have pity on me! There is 
 none other left to love me, except my poor Herman, 
 — spare him in mercy !" But he was taken ; and 
 when she knelt upon the grave where he rested 
 with his Margaret, she acknowledged that God 
 was merciful, and that her prayer had been selfish. 
 " Pure and beloved ones, (she said,) you are still 
 together; while your Margaret sits, like the poor 
 bird on the forlorn bough, sad and unmated/' 
 
 She wrote to Dalberg ; he did not answer her : 
 she wrote again, but with the same ill success. 
 It had been her constant habit, whenever she 
 visited the Kloster, to dismiss her carriage and the 
 servants who had accompanied her, immediately 
 on arriving there ; for she loved to be served by 
 those who had nursed her in her childhood, and to 
 conform in all things to the custom of her maiden 
 days. Hitherto Dalberg had always been with 
 her ; but now, though aware of her deep distress, 
 he neither came nor sent, and the appalling con- 
 viction that she was utterly forsaken took posses- 
 sion of her mind.
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 337 
 
 One day, when she sat in the lonely hall which 
 had formerly been the joyous one, the hall in which 
 she had first seen Dalberg, — thinking of the dead 
 who were in heaven, and of the living who were 
 dead for her, — a letter was put into her hands. It 
 was from one of tried fidelity, and there were 
 things in it which iced her blood. Dalberg's ear 
 was poisoned ; he believed her false ! The Countess 
 Isabella was the poisoner — and the adored. There 
 was no more disguise, and the once dear Margaret, 
 the flower of the forest, as Dalberg used to call her 
 in the days of love, was now an obstacle to be 
 got rid of. 
 
 " False ! "''* exclaimed Margaret as the letter 
 dropped from her hands; " O, if it be falsehood to 
 love as I have done, then what is truth ?"" and she 
 blushed, though none were there to see her, at the 
 foul accusation. At first, her whole frame shook 
 with terror ; but indignation soon mastered dread, 
 and the sudden courage which springs from the 
 sense and suffering of injustice, animated her to 
 immediate exertion. She determined at once to 
 quit the Kloster, and return with all the speed she 
 could make to the capital. Horses were with some 
 difficulty procured, and an old carriage which her
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SOX. 
 
 mother had been in the habit of using whenever 
 any peculiar circumstance obliged her to go out of 
 her immediate neighbourhood, was put in readiness. 
 
 " I shall never see you again !'"* she said, as she 
 looked at the still lake with the autumn leaves 
 floating on its bosom, " never again ! It is all 
 over now; — all who loved me, rest here in this 
 blessed spot !" 
 
 " Mother," said Herman ; " they are in heaven, 
 and heaven is every where." 
 
 " It is true," replied Margaret, fondly caressing 
 him, " heaven is every where ; and they who dwell 
 in it have but arrived within the starry porch a 
 little before those who are now toiling up the same 
 steep path by which they have already mounted." 
 
 The carriage waited for her at the garden gate. 
 As she descended the old stone steps, she stopped 
 to gather some roses from a bush which her mother 
 had planted. " How sorrowful it is, (she said,) to 
 see all this for the last time ; but I shall never 
 forget it, it is all in my heart, the form of every 
 tree, the perfume of every flower. She is gone who 
 planted these roses ; their fragile beauty has out- 
 lived the heart that had such treasures of love in 
 it ! Herman, do you remember the evening when
 
 COUNT DALBEBG AND HIS SON. 339 
 
 we rowed across the lake to see the woodman's 
 wife who, we feared, was dying ?" 
 
 " Yes, and we found her better ; and you, dear 
 mother, were so glad. I have not forgotten it, nor 
 how the moon shone upon the waters as if it were 
 at the bottom of the lake ; and we all sang — my 
 
 grandfather the loudest But forgive me, I am 
 
 wrong to make you think of it." 
 
 " Well, that night, — that night which was so 
 beautiful, that moment when we were all so happy, 
 
 I had a presage. Herman, if I should die 1 
 
 do not mean now, (seeing that his eyes filled with 
 tears,) for I am much better indeed ; but when I 
 am old and die, you will cause me to be brought 
 here, and placed near them : — promise me." 
 
 Herman pressed his face against hers, and made 
 no answer ; but he grasped her hand strongly, and 
 Margaret considered the pledge as given. 
 
 — v.— 
 
 It was evening when Margaret quitted the 
 Kloster. The solemn forest spread itself out like 
 the arms of time, and the dark clouds rolled over 
 
 ft 2
 
 340 COUNT DALBEKG A'SD HIS SO:^J. 
 
 it ; but as twilight deepened the wind dropped, 
 and the clouds dividing, showed the stars glim- 
 mering in the blue heavens, and the moon shining 
 in the midst of them. 
 
 Margaret looked back, as the carriage drove 
 from the gate, at the window of her mother's 
 chamber. '' Who is it, (she asked,) who stands 
 there ? It is a man — it is my father ! O Lord, 
 how pale he looks ! " 
 
 " It is only the shadow of a bough," said 
 Herman. 
 
 "It is no more," returned Margaret, rubbing 
 her eyes, and looking up again ; " but I am so 
 weak, the very moonshine that I used to love 
 seems to me so wan and fearful, so full of 
 presages. — Pardon me, my good child, I shall 
 be stronger presently." 
 
 It was her last moment of feebleness ; and 
 she whose timid spirit had looked at distant peril 
 as we do at the wild beast in its cage, shudder- 
 ing to think even of its chained force, found, when 
 the encounter came, the strength that is born of 
 danger. 
 
 All that night, and all the next day, and for 
 four more tedious ones, they pursued their jour-
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 341 
 
 ney ; for their horses went but slowly, and the 
 state of the cross roads, at that season deep and 
 rugged, much impeded their progress. 
 
 On the seventh evening, just as they had entered 
 a village about a league distant from the spot at 
 which their road fell into the highway leading to 
 Vienna, the old carriage, which had long been in 
 a tottering state, broke down. The case was hope* 
 less ; there was no one near who had skill enough 
 to prop it up again, and even had there been, the 
 chances were that its creaking frame could not 
 have supported the shock of reparation. Marga- 
 ret was obliged to pass the night in a poor hovel, 
 but a hovel or a palace was the same to her ; day- 
 light was all that she wished for, and its long delay 
 seemed increased by her impatience. 
 
 At length the morning broke, and taking with 
 her the trusty servant who had attended her from 
 the Kloster, she quitted the village on foot, accom- 
 panied by Herman. After more than an hour's 
 walking, they gained a small town on the high- 
 road, and there Margaret, overcome by fatigue, 
 and weakened by fever which was gaining fast 
 upon her, sat down on a bench before the door 
 of a cottage isolated from the street, to wait the
 
 342 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 approach of some public vehicle which might 
 convey her to Vienna. After a long watching, 
 one appeared : it was empty. Margaret and Her- 
 man got into it ; and bidding an affectionate fare- 
 well to the old servant, who stood at the door in 
 tears, took the road to the capital. 
 
 It was her intention to have gone at once to 
 a garden house, — a gift of Dalberg's, which she 
 possessed in the skirts of the city, for she feared 
 to bring suspicion on him by returning to his 
 home in so poor a plight ; but as she approached 
 the suburbs her strength failed. For many hours 
 she had struggled courageously against the pro- 
 gress of a disease which was rapidly undermining 
 the principle of life; had tried to talk, and think, 
 and act it down ; but vainly. The quick eye and 
 feverish colouring, the hurried yet interrupted 
 articulation and strange flow of spirits, had already 
 alarmed Herman, to whom acquaintance with the 
 aspect of sorrow had given an early habit of reflec- 
 tion. He saw that she was in a state of unnatural 
 excitement, and while he gazed upon her in mute 
 anxiety, she suddenly turned as pale as death, 
 faintly saving, '' Take me somewhere ; I can go 
 no farther,'' and then sunk back as if dying.
 
 COUNT DALBERG AXD HIS SON. 3-i3 
 
 Herman stopped the carriage before the door of 
 a humble-looking house, into which INlargaret was 
 carried and placed upon a bed in a mean chamber, 
 where the usual remedies were speedily admini- 
 stered, at first almost hopelessly, but afterwards 
 vith some show of success. At length her senses 
 returned, and she expressed a desire to be left 
 alone with her son ; and while he hung over her 
 pillow, she took from her bosom a note addressed 
 to Dalberg, saying as she gave it to him, " Now — 
 at once.'" Then raising herself a little, and fondly 
 kissing his inclined cheek, she added in a weak 
 interrupted voice, " I bless you ! May God also, 
 my child ! my good and dear one ! "" and then 
 relapsed into insensibility. 
 
 But she was again brought to life, and even 
 seemed a little better. Herman, who would not 
 leave her bed-side for a moment, procured a mes- 
 senger to whom he entrusted Margaret"'s letter, 
 charmno^ him to deliver it into the hands of the 
 Count Dalberg himself. But the count was absent, 
 and the servants were strangers, who either did 
 not know where he was, or had been cautioned 
 against indiscretion. The letter was brought back 
 again, but Margaret did not know it; her beauti-
 
 344 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 ful mind was gone, and even the voice of her son 
 found no living echo in her heart, — no recognition, 
 no reply ! 
 
 It has already been told how Margaret died 
 on the night of the great rejoicings, when a 
 new emperor was crowned, and music sounded 
 in the streets, and fire- works blazed in the air, 
 and Herman sat alone in the house — for all be- 
 sides were gone out to see the show — by the 
 death-bed of his mother. He buried her in a 
 humble grave, without a name or other orna- 
 ment than the flowers which grew about it ; but 
 he had not forgotten his engagement, and the 
 means of fulfilling it now wholly occupied his 
 thoughts. 
 
 After much reflection, he had opened his 
 mother's letter, thinking that perhaps there might 
 be something in it essential for him to know and 
 act upon. But it was only the melancholy record 
 of wrongs inhumanly inflicted, and meekly borne ; 
 and from that moment he determined never to 
 accept assistance from his father, or solicit love. 
 From that same moment he disclaimed a name 
 which had become hateful to him ; his young 
 soul burned with indignation; boy as he was when
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 345 
 
 he had quitted Vienna, yet the coldness with which 
 he had seen his mother treated, lacerated his heart ; 
 and though her fine nature had disdained com- 
 plaint, he saw the sorrow that spoke without a 
 tongue in her heavy eye ; he read it all — the whole 
 story of her grief, in her closed lips, and viewing 
 her as one akin to angels, all the respect, all the 
 natural affection which he had felt towards a 
 ^father, who, though lately cold, had once been all 
 kindness, all love, could not quell within him the 
 reproachful feeling which, while he condemned it 
 as irreverent, even unnatural, rose in his heart 
 when he remembered his mother^s uncomplained- 
 of wrongs. 
 
 But now she was dead — killed, as he doubted 
 not, by his father's cruelty. His heart had bat- 
 tled long against this conviction; but it stuck 
 fast within it, and there it lay festering. To his 
 young and romantic mind rank and name were 
 nothing, and he at once determined to abjure both, 
 to owe all to himself, and to take no other armoui 
 against the rough chances of fortune, than that ot 
 virtue and the memory of his mother's fate. 
 
 All he asked of Providence was life and strength, 
 that he might toil manfully until he had obtained 
 
 q3
 
 346 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 sufficient to fulfil her last desire, and remove her 
 dear remains from their unhonoured grave to the 
 chancel of the Kloster. For her fair fame he 
 feared nothing; the purity of her Hfe was its 
 best guarantee. The world, he well knew, would 
 decide with equity between her innocence and 
 her rival's guilt ; the broken heart had put 
 down envy, the grave extinguished it, and she, 
 co-mate of angels, would (lie felt assured) be 
 honoured as a sacrifice without spot. He was 
 now fifteen ; but his reason, matured by circum- 
 stances, belonged to riper years. His first act — 
 when he could think of acting — was to write to 
 his father, informing him of his mother's death, 
 and of his own determination to withdraw himself 
 from parental authority ; and then, having thanked 
 him with a simplicity which seemed still to be- 
 long to childhood for the love he had once borne 
 him, to bid him farewell for ever. 
 
 It occurred to Herman, that if his father should 
 cause him to be pursued with the intention of 
 compelling his return, he might perhaps find means 
 of tracing him to the spot where Margaret had 
 expired ; so he determined to hide himself in some 
 obscure corner beyond the reach of rumour. To
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 347 
 
 the Kloster he could not go, for there search was 
 certain ; he resolved therefore to journey on as 
 far as his strength and slight resources would 
 carry him, and then to engage himself for what- 
 ever work he might be thought most suited, until 
 he had gained enough for the accomplishment of a 
 purpose which wholly absorbed his mind. With 
 this intention, he disposed of the few things which 
 remained to him after having discharged the 
 expenses of his mother's short illness and humble 
 burial. Of the little that was left, he deposited 
 three parts with a person in the neighbourhood, 
 who had undertaken to weed her grave, plant 
 fresh flowers on it, and encircle it with a fence of 
 closely-twisted osiers ; retaining for himself barely 
 enough for a few days' scanty maintenance. But 
 his purpose occupied every chink of his heart, and 
 left no room for weakness or repining. 
 
 —VI.— 
 
 At length, after many hardships, disappoint- 
 ments, and privations, Herman found himself in- 
 stalled in the work-room of a painter, — an obscure
 
 348 COUNT OAtUfeRG AND HlS SOK. 
 
 man, but full of the sentiment of his art ; who 
 found in his young scholar a knowledge of the 
 principles of drawings and a certain refinement of 
 taste, which at first greatly surprised him. But 
 he soon perceived that Herman, (or Frederich, as 
 he called him self j) was not what he appeared to 
 be ; and without coarsely wrenching out his secret, 
 became sufficiently master of it to know that the 
 aim of his labour was to acquire a certain sum, 
 and his object the fulfilment of a solemn promise 
 by which he considered himself inviolably bound. 
 
 His talents^ industry, and exemplary conduct, 
 added to the interest inspired by his frank and 
 noble countenance, and by the singularity of his 
 motive, influenced his master so much in his 
 favour, that he freely offered him a loan, which 
 his narrow circumstances could ill afford. But 
 Herman had resolved that to himself alone he 
 would owe the power of fulfilling the engagement, 
 which time seemed to render holier and more 
 binding. He therefore, having thanked his master, 
 gratefully but decidedly declined the friendly 
 offer ; asking at the same time his aid in the 
 disposal of some sketches which he had made 
 in the neighbourhood of their dwelling.
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 349 
 
 The painter expressed his surprise that one so 
 dih'gent in his employer's service should have 
 found leisure to work for himself, and learned, 
 not without a feeling of respect, that the largest 
 portion of the time which others gave to sleep, he 
 had devoted to toil ; that it had been his constant 
 habit to work for some hours after the family of 
 his master had retired to rest; to rise at daybreak, 
 descend without noise from the window of his 
 chamber, which was near the ground, and seek 
 such subjects as he loved in the fields and woods 
 that surrounded their modest habitation. For the 
 quiet hamlet, in which it occupied a sequestered 
 spot, was hidden in a fresh and solitary country 
 full of pastoral images, — of delicious pictures, 
 largely and graciously traced by that pencil which 
 dips into the rainbow for its hues, and takes the 
 broad earth for its canvas. 
 
 In this beautiful solitude, Herman renewed 
 companionship with things of dear account to his 
 young fancy, — the opening day, the rich preluding 
 light, the golden sunrise, and the warm glow of 
 its decline. At night, when the open fields were 
 full of moonshine and the woods of darkness, he 
 used to walk alone with nature, looking into her
 
 350 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SOX. 
 
 face, and noting down its varying expression. He 
 looked into the air too, till, like Velasquez, he 
 learned to paint it ; and from such studies he 
 gleaned many things which common observers 
 recognised when presented to them, though till 
 then unconscious of having noticed their existence. 
 It was to this nice scrutiny of natural objects 
 that his sketches owed their character of intimate 
 reality, which charmed in spite of a still defective 
 execution, and procured for them ready purchasers 
 in the nearest town ; while his youth, his melan- 
 choly aspect, and the mystery attached to his 
 story, rendered him an object of interest to the 
 few with whom, in his recluse position, he had 
 chanced to be brought in contact. 
 
 But Herman shunned the sympathy that would 
 have forced itself upon him, or repulsed it with 
 coldness. He desired to be beholden only to 
 himself, and to accept no other aid than that which 
 he had asked of his master, whom he loved and 
 honoured. The obtrusive pity of some, and the 
 officious charity of others, were alike offensive to 
 him ; he had but one thought, one wish, one object 
 in all that he did, — the accomplishment of his 
 silent but sacred engagement. And the inter-
 
 COUNT DALBEEG AND illS SOX. 35l 
 
 meddling world, who would come at the root of 
 his sorrow and heal it in their own way, roused a 
 feeling in his breast which he took no pains to 
 conceal. For sorrow is unceremonious, it is bold ; 
 it forgets forms, it cares not for opinion, and never 
 suspects that the hour will come when the idle 
 press of every-day matter will again choke up 
 the avenues to feeling, and relegate to the obli- 
 vion of the past the dominion which it believed 
 eternal. 
 
 But in its hour of dominion what singleness, 
 what grandeur is in real grief! how entirely it 
 disengages the mind from the small fibres of 
 vanity, which in happy moments twine themselves 
 about it! what elevation in its simplicitv, what 
 strength in its prostration ! This boy, in liis deep 
 sorrow, had more real dignity about him, than 
 many a sovereign who sits upon his throne in the 
 full complement of purple and ermine ; but grief 
 has its weak side, and if under its influence the 
 vulgar become noble, and the dull eloquent, the 
 injured also become unforgiving. "Evil be to 
 him who has done this ! " is oftener uttered by the 
 wounded than " Heaven forgive him ! " Grief 
 softens the heart to the grief of others, but har-
 
 352 COUNT DALBEKG AND HIS SON. 
 
 dens it to the cause of its own individual suffering, 
 if that cause be man. 
 
 Even Herman's generous nature was not proof 
 against the influence of this feeling ; his mother's 
 wrongs and his fathers cruelty rankled together 
 in his heart, and festered into anger ; and neither 
 the instinct of affection — the natural touch — nor 
 the sense of duty, could overcome an almost 
 vindictive sentiment, which time seemed rather to 
 strengthen than subdue. 
 
 —VII.— 
 
 Two years of unceasing toil, of constant priva- 
 tion, had put Herman in possession of the sum 
 which he believed necessary for the completion of 
 his long-cherished purpose; and bidding a grateful 
 farewell to his good master, he set out on foot 
 upon his pious pilgrimage. 
 
 His heart was lighter than it had been for many 
 a day ; its dear project was on the point of being 
 accomplished : and when at length, after a tedious 
 and toilsome journey, the spires of Vienna appeared 
 in the distance, he bounded forward more like a
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 353 
 
 lover who returned to the mistress of his heart, 
 than a son who sought the grave of his mother. 
 He did not enter the suburb, but took at once a 
 by-path that led to the humble cemetery. The 
 spot which he sought was easily distinguished by 
 its flowery sod and osier fence, now grown into a 
 bower. Herman approached it with a feeling of 
 reverence, not unmixed with awe ; and kneeling 
 down beside the turf, wept and prayed out of the 
 fulness of his heart, and took some of the earth 
 from the grave, and placed it in his bosom as a 
 holy relic ; and then rose comforted, and went into 
 the town. 
 
 He sought out the chamber in which his mother 
 had died, and prayed in it, for it seemed to him a 
 temple sanctified by the translation of a soul to 
 heaven. His first step was to obtain permission 
 to exhume the body, which had been committed to 
 the earth as that of the unknown Margaret Wer- 
 ner ; and then, in pious thankfulness, he (with the 
 assistance of two others) performed the solemn 
 office at day-break, before the world was stirring ; 
 and having enclosed the coffin within another of 
 more durable materials and finer workmanship, 
 and placed it on a suitable hearse covered with an
 
 354 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 ample pall of black velvet, he began his homeward 
 journey, following on foot the heavy movement of 
 the dilatory machine. 
 
 He no longer dreaded to approach the Kloster, 
 for he judged that if he had ever been sought for 
 there, the search must have been long since over, 
 and probably even his existence forgotten in the 
 new ties which his father had doubtless formed. 
 On that score, therefore, he was tranquil, and in 
 the general temper of his mind almost happy. His 
 soul overflowed with melancholy, in which delight 
 was mingled. Was he not again alone in the world 
 with her whom he best loved ? Did not the sun 
 shine again upon her ? Alas, no ! but he could 
 fancy it ; and hour after hour he would follow the 
 hearse, cheating his heart with some such illusion 
 as that which sends the poor bird back, with a 
 precious seed in his bill, to his stiffened mate, and 
 opens the gush of song to which no loving sound 
 will ever make reply. 
 
 By night he rested usually in the outbuildings 
 of some lonely farm-house, for none cared to admit 
 the corpse of a stranger within their dwelling. 
 Those were dreary hours when he watched by the 
 side of the coffin in some gloomy spot, with a dim
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 355 
 
 lamp before him throwing fantastic shadows on 
 the bare walls ; but he prayed and was comforted. 
 Sometimes he thought that she was near him, and 
 that her sweet consolings entered into his heart ; 
 and at such moments he felt as if some good spirit 
 had folded him in its wings, and carried him up 
 from earth to the starred heaven where the blessed 
 abide for ever. 
 
 One night, as he watched in an untenanted 
 stable, he heard the sound of voices speaking 
 loudly in the road near to it ; and looking through 
 a crevice, saw by the light of the moon a berline 
 surrounded by servants, and the people of the 
 farm running to and fro with lights as if some 
 accident had happened. This proved to be the 
 case ; and while the disaster was repairing, a lady 
 descended from the carriage assisted by a gen- 
 tleman, and approached the liouse ; but to cross 
 the yard would — the farmer said — be inconvenient, 
 as it was wet, and foul with straw and other coun- 
 try litter, — in fact, impassable for delicate footsteps. 
 So he opened the door of the stable to let the stran- 
 gers through by a cleaner path ; and Herman, seeing 
 them approach, flapped his hat over his eyes, and 
 hid himself in the shade of a dark recess.
 
 356 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 The lady put her foot upon the threshold and 
 started back, screaming out in a voice that made 
 Herman recoil with horror, " Christ, save me ! — 
 Avhat is that ? " 
 
 *' It is only a young man,*" said the farmer, care- 
 lessly, " to whom we have given a night's lodging.'** 
 
 " But the coffin ? '' 
 
 '•The coffin?" said the farmer, in some con- 
 fusion, for he feared that the sight of it might 
 scare away his guests and spoil his intended 
 harvest; " O, that's nothing; it's only (as I have 
 said) a young man travelling homewards with the 
 body of his mother, who died in some place where 
 she was a stranger ; and so he must needs humour 
 her last fancy, which it seems was, that her bones 
 should be laid with her people. That's all, madam; 
 nothing more than that, — nothing fearful or un- 
 natural, as one may say." And then in a lower 
 tone, " Some poor body, I reckon, for he neither 
 eats or drinks to signify; and he who drives 
 the hearse has not yet got at his name." 
 
 The lady advanced rapidly, and approached 
 Herman, whose face Mas totally concealed from 
 view by his flapped hat and the darkness of the 
 spot on which he stood. " Good young man,"
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 357 
 
 she said, in a voice full of emotion, " pray for me. 
 Your dead mother is more honoured than many 
 living ones. Pray for me, sir," she continued, 
 trying to take his hand, which he withheld, " for 
 I have great need of help." 
 
 " Then," replied Herman, in a stifled tone, 
 " address yourself to God ; He will aid you." 
 
 " Not me — not me," she said hurriedly. "But 
 you, who stand here beside the coffin of your 
 mother, have you not a voice in heaven ? Pure 
 and pious soul ! " she added, her voice rising 
 to enthusiasm, " yes, and one that will be heard 
 amongst angels. Give me your blessing, sir ; the sa- 
 credness of your office will make it holy," and she 
 would have knelt, but her companion approached, 
 and gently taking her hand, prevented her. 
 
 " At least," she said, as he drew her softly back, 
 " one word in your prayers — one word for a great 
 sinner." 
 
 ^' If you can also say a sincere penitent," answer- 
 ed Herman in a mild and solemn tone, " doubtless 
 He who alone can pardon has already heard you." 
 
 She would have spoken, but her companion again 
 urged her on. " Come, my love," he said, we 
 intrude too long on the sacredness of grief." And
 
 358 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SOM. 
 
 casting another look on the coffin, a look with a 
 strange farewell in it, an almost fond farewell, — 
 as if she guessed its tenant, — she suffered herself 
 to be drawn away from the spot. 
 
 Herman looked after them as they went towards 
 the house. The space was full of moonshine — cold 
 and ghastly ; and as they passed under the arched 
 entrance, going from light into deep shadow, the 
 lady's tall figure and white floating robe looked 
 spectral. But she was no spectre, and Herman 
 knew her well, though awfully changed, to be the 
 same Isabella whose wild necromancy had spirited 
 away his mother's peace, and her life with it ; and 
 he who called her by sweet names was his father, 
 and the husband of that fair Margaret who lay 
 there in her coffin murdered by their wickedness ! 
 
 It was a terrible moment ; to see one by whom he 
 had been so fondly loved pass before him without 
 acknowledgment of eye or heart, to see him turn 
 away from the coffin of her who had been the wife of 
 his early love, as if it were a loathsome sight to look 
 upon ; to see almost at his feet the false one who 
 had driven him into exile, and made him desolate ! 
 Strange trick of fate ! untoward moment ! which 
 crossed with desperate thoughts the mind of Her-
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 359 
 
 man ; but he prayed for strength, and it was 
 given him. 
 
 At length the old spire appeared above the 
 woods, and presently the glistening lake in the 
 distance, and then the home of Herman's heart, 
 and all its dear familiar features, coming out one 
 by one upon him as if each would give him a wel- 
 come of its own. But it was his mother's hearse 
 that he followed, — the mother who had so often 
 borne him in her arms along that same path ! 
 
 Every tree had a story of the past, every leaf a 
 blessing in it. Old friends and old recollections 
 spoke to him in every dappled bud, in the perfume 
 of every field-flower ; and then the memory of the 
 dead came upon him, — not as it was wont to do, 
 with grave-clothes and the clinging earth about it, 
 but like a spirit soaring upwards in robes of glory 
 amidst the music of angels, or shining like a bright 
 star amongst the luminous flowers of paradise. 
 
 So much had three years increased his stature, 
 darkened his cheek, and altered his appearance, 
 that many passed him on the road who had been 
 the playfellows of his childhood without recol-
 
 360 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 lecting him. It was the friendly curate whose 
 instinct of affection found out the* boy's face 
 through its premature shading. Kind man ! how 
 he joyed to see Herman back again ; but when he 
 knew that it was Margaret who lay within the 
 coffin, the same Margaret whom he remembered a 
 child, a bride, a mother, he turned away and wept. 
 And now Herman saw the dear wish of his heart 
 accomplished, and Margaret laid in the chancel by 
 the side of the old major and her mother. Those 
 who had known her from her childhood stood 
 round as mourners, and the curate would have 
 pronounced a discourse which he had composed for 
 the sad occasion, and in which all the tenderness of 
 his heart and the devotional glow of his pious mind 
 were blended together ; but when he ascended the 
 pulpit, his eye happened to rest upon the bier, and 
 the tide of memory coming strong upon him, his 
 voice faltered ; the words which he would have 
 uttered passed out of his mind, and pointing to it, 
 he sunk back in speechless sorrow. 
 
 The ceremony was over, the grave closed, the 
 last flowers of autumn, for it was now the fall of
 
 COUNT DALBEEG AND HIS SON. 361 
 
 the year, strewed vipon it, and Herman returned to 
 the Kloster, and for that day to the society of the 
 dead. The next morning the old curate, Emanuel 
 Reichter, came to him, accompanied by a young 
 man named Rheinart Waldeck, and placed in his 
 hands certain sums arising from the produce of 
 lands, of which the domain of the Kloster formed 
 a part, that had belonged to his grandfather, and 
 which since the major's death had gone on prosper- 
 ing under their joint care. " For (said the curate) 
 we wished that nothing should degenerate through 
 neglect, but that whenever you returned to claim 
 your lawful right, you should receive it unimpaired ; 
 and now we give up our trust in a rich and pro- 
 ductive state, and with the hope that our dear 
 Herman will live amongst us as his grandfather 
 did, blessing and blest."" 
 
 Herman was surprised and touched ; it had 
 never occurred to him that the Kloster was his; 
 he knew nothing of his hereditary rights. His 
 mother's deep distress of mind had left no room for 
 worldly thoughts, and her death would have for 
 ever shut out the chance of his having discovered 
 it, had not her last wish directed his steps again to 
 her native home. He embraced his friends with
 
 362 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 tenderness and gratitude, and his long-closed heart 
 opened to the warm and cheering feeling with 
 which those, who cherish the love of independence 
 and the high privilege of usefidness, receive the 
 power of enjoying the one, and exercising the 
 other. He now learned, that a short time after his 
 mother's death, a messenger had arrived from the 
 Count Dalberg charged with despatches for him ; 
 but that unable to obtain any information as to the 
 object of his mission, he had, after a day or two 
 spent in useless inquiries, departed for Vienna. 
 
 It seemed probable to Herman, that after this 
 abortive tmd unrepeated attempt, none other would 
 be made. At all events he determined to establish 
 himself in the old Kloster, and take the chance of 
 the future. It was to him the land of memory, 
 and as yet no other feeling had risen up in his 
 heart to meddle with the past — his book of life ! 
 the written page on which he dwelt unceasingly. 
 
 Within sight of the Kloster was the village of 
 Rosengarten, and in this village was a garden house 
 in which Rheinart Waldeck lived with his young 
 sister Mina. This Rheinart was the little boy who.
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 363 
 
 on the night when Dalberg first craved hospitality 
 at the Kloster, sat on a stool beating time while 
 Margaret danced, and puffing manfully through a 
 pasteboard trumpet ; but nineteen years had passed 
 away since that evening, and he was now a wise 
 and learned man, accounted rich in his simple 
 neighbourhood, and noted for his efficient kindness 
 to all who stood in need of his assistance. But 
 above all for his tender care of a sister fourteen 
 years younger than himself, and whom — the parent 
 props being both withdrawn — he sustained and 
 sheltered, as the strong oak of the forest does the 
 tender fibrous plant that clings to it for protection. 
 They were all that remained of a once numerous 
 family, and their mutual love was that of orphans, 
 who had no claim but on each other's heart. 
 
 The word charming seemed to have been invented 
 for Mina. Her features were not remarkable for 
 regularity, but her fresh, gay smile was full of 
 innocent sweetness; and there was a grace in her 
 most careless look or movement, which it would 
 have been impossible for another to have imitated, 
 or even described. No one cried nit on first seeing 
 her, " What a beautiful creature!" but every one 
 wished to see her again ; the transparency of her 
 
 R 2
 
 364 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SOV. 
 
 blush, the pretty kind look in her eyes, her sunny 
 hair, sweet voice, and most dehcious laugh, were all 
 heart-baits, of whose power she was far from being 
 aware. There was not a girl in the district with 
 any pretensions to beauty, who was not more showy 
 than Mina; many were perhaps handsomer, but 
 none were so engaging. She had the prettiest way 
 imaginable of saying and doing every thing, — a 
 way of her own, that like the grace of childhood 
 could not be taught, and like it too, was all the 
 sweeter and prettier for being out of rule and 
 regulated practice. 
 
 Old Reichter used to call her his fairy queen, 
 and could find no cake so good, or drink so cool, 
 as that prepared by Mina, who was manager and 
 mistress of her brother's domestic concerns, and 
 (her baby years considered) the best and thriftiest 
 in the canton. Herman taught her to draw; and 
 before he had been three months at the Kloster, 
 had sketched her figure in all its habitual changes 
 of action and repose; in front, in profile, full length, 
 half length, and three-quarters ; sitting, standing, 
 looking up, and looking down ; until he had filled 
 a fair-sized portfolio with the prettiest outlines 
 imaginable. But she was still to him only a
 
 COU>^T DALBERG AND HIS SON. 365 
 
 charming child, while he was to her (to her fancy, 
 I would say,) a grave philosopher, one who talked 
 of trees and flowers not merely as of things green, 
 and fresh, and sweet smelling, but as if they were 
 books, in which men could read the secrets of 
 nature. And yet she loved to listen to him ; and 
 when they sat at evening in the perfumed porch of 
 their cottage, and that he talked with Rheinart of 
 the starry heavens and the world beyond the grave, 
 her eyes often filled with tears, which she would 
 wipe away, wondering why they should be there 
 while her heart was so happy. 
 
 —VIII.— 
 
 We must now return to Dalberg, and to the 
 moment when Herman's letter conveyed to him 
 the intelligence of Margaret's death, and his son's 
 voluntary exile. Then indeed his heart smote him. 
 He had never believed the tales poured into his 
 ear, — how could he ? — but feeble in principle and 
 strong in passion, he had seized upon the first 
 pretext that presented itself to throw off the 
 innocent wife, whose sole crime was the involun-
 
 366 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 tary, but to a fickle mind most heinous one, of 
 having outlived his liking. But when he knew 
 her dead, then came her fair image back upon his 
 mind in its first beautiful investments, with the 
 gloss of youth, the glow of love upon it ; and he 
 shrunk with horror from himself. 
 
 In this interval of strong though short repen* 
 tance, he caused an anxious search to be made 
 after his son, but could discover no trace of him. 
 The remote spot in which Herman had niched 
 himself, a corner scarcely traced on the map of 
 the empire, entirely escaped his notice ; and after 
 some time spent in fruitless inquiry, he gave him 
 up as lost for ever. Nor could Dalberg blame 
 the spirit in which his son had abandoned him — 
 perhaps he honoured it, — for none could hold 
 more in horror than he did, the cruelty which had 
 driven Margaret to despair ; none could find in it 
 with the same conscience-quickened, bitter readi- 
 ness, the entire justification of Herman's conduct. 
 
 For one who, having sinned, repents deeply and 
 strives not to conceal the haggard aspect of his 
 soul, there is still a hold left on human sympathy, 
 if he have but courage to seize it by becoming his 
 own accuser. Dalberg did so, firmly and boldly.
 
 COUNT DALBERG AXD HIS SON. 367 
 
 and the whole power of his mind was bent to the 
 purpose of criminating himself, and raising altars 
 to her purity whose image he had before trodden 
 under foot. But as none had credited the slan- 
 derous fabrications, there were none to be con- 
 vinced of their falsehood ; and he found that 
 Margaret's chaste name was held in such bright 
 honour, that no calumny, however cunningly de- 
 vised, could sully its transparency. With Isabella 
 remained the credit of the invention, and with 
 himself the scandal of an affected belief, which 
 though base enough to feign, he never for a 
 moment felt. 
 
 He fled from her; she followed. He shut his 
 doors against her, but she found, or forced, an 
 entrance. He believed her far away ; and she 
 was at his feet in an agony of grief, with the great 
 excuse, to which the vanity of man is rarely inac- 
 cessible, — the excuse of love on her lips, and its 
 boundless influence in her eyes. Had she denied, 
 or sought to palliate, her guilt, he would have 
 spurned her ; but she tore off* the wrappings of 
 deception, and baring the foul spot in her heart, 
 cried out in a voice of overwhelming passion, '• I 
 am a wretch, not fit to live in the light of day ;
 
 368 COUNT DALE ERG AND HIS SOW 
 
 but I have greatly loved) and for the sake of that 
 love, forgive me."" 
 
 He did so ; and once forgiven, she became again 
 omnipotent. When we dare not repress a feeling 
 in our own breast, nor check its utterance on the 
 lips of another, lest it should become extinct, we 
 must submit to be subjugated by it. It was thus 
 with Dalberg. Perhaps, like most men who, hav- 
 ing left the period of youth behind them, find them- 
 selves the object of an interest which they had no 
 longer counted on inspiring, he became intoxicated 
 by the fresh and precious incense, and that a 
 breath which, when a thousand breaths ministered 
 to the flame would have passed away unheeded, 
 had become as a rare and costly perfume that his 
 vanity delighted to inhale. Perhaps he still loved 
 Isabella, — at all events he married her ; and though 
 ungracious feelings rose sometimes in their hours 
 of domestic intercourse to the surface, yet her 
 influence over his mind continued undiminished. 
 
 There were moments when remorse seemed to 
 take the lead of all other emotions in her wild 
 mind, and it was remarked that her countenance 
 occasionally exhibited traces of deep distress, strik- 
 ingly at variance with the splendour by which
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 369 
 
 she was surrounded. The violent shocks to which 
 her uncontrouled feelings continually exposed her 
 feeble frame, had shattered it incurably, and bro- 
 ken down, before its time, whatever beauty she 
 might have once possessed. Her wasted form had 
 now but little attraction ; the expression of her 
 eye had become fearful, her lip livid, her mind 
 disturbed ; and in the van of those fierce phantoms 
 that continually haunted her diseased imagination, 
 stood jealousy stinging her with the thought, that 
 the wrong which she had done another might be 
 one day paid back upon herself. 
 
 Sometimes she would cry out in an ecstasy of 
 passion, " I have killed the sweetest soul that ever 
 the earth held ; and he for whose love I murdered 
 her, abhors and shuns me. Fool that I was, to 
 think that he who had been false to Margaret, 
 could ever have been true to rae I"*"* And then 
 sinking on her knees, " Blessed creature ! (she 
 would exclaim,) in thy heaven above, pray for the 
 guilty one !'' 
 
 Things were in this state, when an accident 
 brought about the meeting in the stable of the 
 isolated farm-house, and Dalberg stood unknow- 
 ingly beside the coffin of his wife — his once, and 
 
 r3
 
 370 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 now again beloved Margaret ; for not a day passed 
 in which his upbraiding heart, wearied and dis- 
 gusted by the wild caprice and untoward violence 
 of Isabella, did not return back to the gone-by 
 days of truth and happiness, when his sweet com- 
 panion and true love made life a paradise. But 
 he knew it not, neither did Isabella ; yet the sight 
 of a son watching by the coffin of his mother, 
 touched the near concern of her heart, and peo- 
 pled her mind with fancies. 
 
 " Did you not think," she asked, " of Margaret 
 and Herman ? There was no other mourner but 
 him, when she died." 
 
 " Talk not thus, my love," said Dalberg, well 
 knowing which way her wild imaginings tended. 
 " That dear Margaret whom we both loved, 
 though a stronger passion mastered our reason, is 
 happy—" 
 
 " Ay, happier than we are, who sent her to 
 heaven before her time. O God ! how sad she 
 looked when last we saw her, and yet how beau- 
 tiful ! Was she not beautiful, Dalberg ? " 
 
 " Infinitely beautiful ! " he replied in a tone of 
 profound tenderness. 
 
 " You think so ; and you have the heart to tell
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 371 
 
 it me! And I am — what am I like? A fiend, a 
 fury, is it not ? Ah, you hate me ! I see that you 
 do, — I have long seen it ; the dead, the living, all 
 are dearer to you than the wretched Isabella ! 
 You will be glad, Dalberg, when I die ; I know it. 
 Be satisfied ; I shall not long cross your happiness, 
 and then, when I am gone, you will think of me 
 too ; you will remember my unbounded love. No, 
 no ; not even that. There will be another, and 
 you will laugh with joy that I am no longer in 
 the way with my pale and fearful visage ! " 
 
 " My dearest friend, how can you say such 
 cruel things?" 
 
 " Do you find them cruel ? I think them kind, 
 soft, gentle. Ah, it is you who are cruel." 
 
 " To you, Isabella? O no ; I would rather die 
 than be so." 
 
 ''Indeed!" 
 
 " Indeed," repeated Dalberg with solemnity. 
 " But why have you ever doubted my sincerity ? 
 Do you not see how your sorrow saddens my 
 heart, and how, when you are happy, I rejoice — " 
 
 "Rejoice!" she repeated wildly; "is not that 
 a new word ? How magnificent is the sound ! 
 like a voice beyond the grave, — up in the heavens ;
 
 372 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 but it is not for me, it will never speak to me in 
 its exulting music." And then came an agony of 
 tears, followed by a tremulous low-spirited calm. 
 
 In this way passed their lives for three more 
 years, when there appeared at Vienna a person 
 whose existence seemed a problem. None knew 
 who he was, or where he came from ; yet all opened 
 their doors to him as if by general agreement. 
 
 Pie was a man already past the prime of life, 
 but of a distinguished appearance, and very 
 remarkable for a singular expression of eye, which 
 those who had the courage to examine it, called 
 appalling. His manners were fine, his habits 
 profuse, his conversational powers of the highest 
 order ; he had seen all things, read all books, 
 visited all countries. His knowledge seemed less 
 like the accumulation of a single mind — a single 
 life, than the aggregate of ages. All wondered at 
 his instruction, all were astounded at the resources 
 of a memory, which seemed like a spirit that had 
 been born with time and gone along with it in 
 watchfulness. He called himself the Count Ca- 
 millo Origo, said he was of Italy, but told no
 
 COUNT DALBEUG AND HIS SON. 373 
 
 more ; nor did any one dare to bait for his secret, 
 for even in his most unreserved moments he was 
 unapproachable to all attempts at familiarity. 
 
 Much was said about him in various ways, — 
 much conjectured ; but in general he was spoken 
 of as an accomplished traveller, in whose society 
 there was a spell for which even the powerful 
 charm of his conversation could not altogether 
 account. It was the mystery perhaps which sur- 
 rounded him, or the rivetting eye, or the melodious 
 voice, — full, and clear, and sweet, like a pipe 
 played on by an enchanted breath ; none knew 
 exactly where the magic lay, but all felt its influ- 
 ence. When he entered a saloon, the great, the 
 brilliant, the beautiful were left without a circle ; 
 all thronged round one to whose name all ears 
 were strangers, and who said nothing for himself. 
 Many imagined him a sovereign prince, travelling 
 incognito, and sought to find out if any such was 
 missing from his habitual station, but without 
 success ; all were accounted for, and the mystery, 
 both of himself and his resources, remained still 
 unexplained. At length, after having been alter- 
 nately set down as a masquerading sovereign, an 
 exiled patriot, and a wandering jew, he was fast
 
 374 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 dwindling into a Venetian alchymist, or a German 
 ghost-seer, when a circumstance took place which 
 turned the tide of curiosity into another channel. 
 
 —IX.— 
 
 Isabella had been for some time in a weak state 
 of health, prone to solitary musings, averse to 
 society, and when in it, silent and thoughtful. In 
 such moments her soul seemed to talk with itself, 
 and to pour back its sorrows, — perhaps its agonies, 
 into the source from which they had flowed. But 
 these mute discoursings were fed by grievous 
 matter, and there were hours when the babble of 
 the day, with which the few who formed her inti- 
 mate circle tried to divert her melancholy, was 
 seized upon with avidity, as off*ering the chance of 
 a temporary distraction from the wild broodings 
 of fixed despondency. 
 
 The Italian count was of course the theme of 
 many a story, and to a mind like hers, — worn out 
 and thirsting for new emotions, the idea of his 
 mysterious position, his unknown name, of the 
 reported magic of his speech contrasted with his
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 375 
 
 close reserve, seemed full of pungent interest, and 
 powerfully excited her curiosity. Dalberg had 
 known the Count Camillo soon after his arrival 
 at Vienna, and, like all others, had been fasci- 
 nated. He had at first conjectured Origo to be 
 the chief, or else the powerful agent of some 
 secret, but widely extended political sect ; but 
 whatever may have occurred, or whether any 
 thing had done so, to strengthen the conjecture, 
 remained a secret which he carefully locked within 
 his breast. But it was remarked by many, that 
 his acquaintance with the stranger had suddenly 
 ripened into intimacy ; and others hinted at their 
 having been known to meet together at hours and 
 places, which gave a suspicious colouring to their 
 intercourse. 
 
 An evening was appointed for the introduction 
 of the Count Camillo into Isabella's private circle, 
 and Dalberg had tried, by many minute details 
 and fine-pointed touches, to make her in some 
 degree familiar with the singular person who was 
 to be on that night presented to her. 
 
 " It is strange," she said, " what you tell me.'" 
 And then, as if in a moment of absence, "I never 
 knew but one, and he is dead."
 
 3/6 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 "Who?" inquired the count. 
 
 " What have I said .?" she cried, in an alarmed 
 tone. 
 
 " Nothing particular — only you spoke of some 
 one who was dead." 
 
 " The dead," she answered, with a strange 
 expression of voice, '^are not babblers; neither 
 am I." Dalberg looked at her thoughtfully, but 
 was silent. 
 
 It grew late. The guests had been long assem- 
 bled in Isabella's apartment ; they had divided 
 into groupes; some played at cards, others con- 
 versed, but the expected came not. The countess 
 had watched the door restlessly, but the common 
 faces of every evening alone appeared at it. At 
 length it seemed as if there were no more to come ; 
 the ante-room was silent, no foot crossed it, and 
 the men in waiting yawned and gathered round 
 the stove, as if the business of the evening was 
 over. 
 
 Isabella felt relieved ; increasing suspense was 
 bringing dread with it, an indefinite shapeless 
 dread, she thought, but knew it by a strange 
 feel at her heart to be gaining size and vigour. 
 She had known too much of mystery, and of the
 
 COUNT DALBERG AN'D HIS SON. 377 
 
 frightful things which make it a necessity, not to 
 fear those who, like herself, had bought its mask 
 and wore it. Two persons were engaged at play 
 in a distant part of the room ; Isabella placed 
 herself beside their table, and seemed to watch 
 their game. On the opposite wall was a large 
 mirror, which reflected the interior of the saloon ; 
 her eyes chanced to rest there. Some one who 
 stood behind her chair was visible in it : there was 
 a low shriek heard, but so quickly smothered that 
 none knew from whence it came, and at the same 
 moment Dalberg approached, and presented the 
 Count Camillo Origo. 
 
 Isabella rose and turned a ghastly look upon 
 him. She was as white as death itself, and her 
 black eyes had an expression in them that none 
 had ever remarked there before, — a lurking, deadly 
 look, dragged as it were by sharp occasion from 
 its hiding-place, and human only in its terror. 
 Origo was calm as usual, his voice firm, his coun- 
 tenance motionless. He addressed her in general 
 terms, and in the tone which a man of high breed- 
 ing naturally assumes when conversing with a lady 
 of distinguished station. No one was near enough 
 to observe the strange look of scrutiny that seemed
 
 378 COUNT DALE ERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 to darken the cold enamel of his eye, or the bitter 
 irony that lurked in the corners of the thin com- 
 pressed lip. 
 
 '^ I have been admiring (said he) the rich and 
 beautiful hangings of your saloon; they are of 
 that rare and delicate tissue of the Levant, which 
 is seldom seen but in the East. Once only have I 
 met with it in Europe, and that was at Venice, 
 in an ancient palace of the Contarini. I remember 
 having remarked it ; it was at the time when the 
 strange adventure of the young Olympia Doni was 
 the talk of the day, because there was something 
 woven in the tissue, — a story or a likeness, I 
 forget now what, — that had some accidental link 
 of union with her adventure. You have perhaps 
 been at Venice, madam ? " 
 
 " No, never — yes — once, but long ago.*" 
 
 " Then you do not probably remember that 
 ancient palace.^" 
 
 " The ancient palace," she repeated, starting as 
 if from a dream, "on the dark canal.'' Yes, -I 
 remember it ; I think I see it now, and that its — '''^ 
 
 <' You are ill, madam,*" interrupted the stranger 
 in a peculiar tone ; " the heat oppresses you." 
 
 *' Good heaven !" exclaimed Dalberg, who at
 
 COUXT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 379 
 
 that moment came towards them, " what is this ? 
 How you tremble, Isabella; you must retire, my 
 love." 
 
 " Open the window," said Origo calmly ; " the 
 countess faints." 
 
 She was carried into her chamber, and when 
 her senses began to return, Dalberg dismissed her 
 attendants and remained alone with her. Her first 
 words were incoherent, yet too full of meaning; 
 but as her mind settled, she became silent and 
 buried in thought. At length she said in a solemn 
 tone, 
 
 " Do you know who the guest is, that you have 
 received into your house ?" 
 
 "Who? the Count Origo?" 
 
 " The same." 
 
 " So far as by high report, — the report which the 
 world makes of one who is of fine wit and noble 
 bearing." 
 
 " Noble ! But have you marked the eye ? is 
 it not the eye of a dead man, — of one who died in 
 sin ? Is he alive, think you ?" Then with a wild 
 look, " You would say yes ; but I think otherwise. 
 I, who knew him living, too dearly bought prepos- 
 terous knowledge !"
 
 380 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SOK. 
 
 "You are feverish, Isabella; you want repose." 
 
 " Repose ! O, never more ! But leave me, — I 
 have much to think of. Leave me, I beseech you." 
 
 Dalberg looked irresolute. 
 
 " You do not go. Why do you persecute me ? 
 I shall go mad, — I shall expire at your feet." 
 
 Dalberg moved towards the door. " And yet 
 it is cruel (he said) to leave you thus." 
 
 " Cruel ! O no ; kind — kind," and she pushed 
 him anxiously forward. He would have taken 
 her hand, but she withdrew it. " No tenderness, 
 (she said in a hollow tone,) that would kill me. 
 No good night — no blessing. O Lord ! to talk 
 of blessings now !" 
 
 Dalberg shuddered. There was something in 
 her look and voice that chilled his blood ; but he 
 submitted to her desire, fearing that opposition 
 might goad her into madness. An hour after he 
 had left her, an attendant, who watched by his 
 orders in an adjoining chamber, heard the sound 
 of feet ascending a private staircase that led from 
 the garden into Isabella's apartment, and then 
 voices speaking earnestly, and much, — though she 
 could catch no words, — which she deemed it wisest 
 to keep secret. The next day the countess seemed
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 381 
 
 more even than usually absorbed and gloomy ; but 
 as gloom was her liabitual mood, no curiosity was 
 excited. 
 
 — X — 
 
 There is a certain feeling of mental languor, which 
 is perhaps more insupportable than the sharp 
 torture of active evil, — a state of utter exhaustion. 
 When the mind can no longer renew itself either by 
 hope or by reflection, when new circumstances have 
 ceased to produce new impressions, and habitual 
 ones have been worn down into flatness, honourable 
 men, or those who had been ever counted such, 
 have been known to rush into error, — crime per- 
 haps, to escape from the fearful vacuum which 
 succeeds the intense action of an overworked 
 imagination, the death-like calm which follows the 
 mental tempest. It was in this state of mind that 
 Origo found the unhappy Dalberg, and by the aid 
 of powerful eloquence, skilful deception, and appa- 
 rent nobleness of purpose, worked — for desperate 
 ends — upon an enfeebled and easily persuaded 
 nature, fallen from the height of passion into the 
 depths of inanity.
 
 382 COrjNT DALBEKG AND HIS SON. 
 
 He no longer loved Isabella, but he pitied her ; 
 and that sentiment alone kept down the feeling of 
 horror which sometimes struggled against it when 
 he thought of the past, and reflected on the ties by 
 which he had bound up his fate with hers. But 
 he seldom reflected, and it required some violent 
 stimulus to awaken him from the apathy of ex- 
 hausted sensation. He had worn out every thing 
 with the exception of one dangerous and as yet 
 untried resource, — political excitement. Origo 
 presented it to him under the shape best fitted to 
 enthral a mind, that looked about in despair for 
 some cornice projecting from the smooth-worn 
 surface of life, against which it might jar itself and 
 be quickened, even though lacerated, and saw it 
 seized upon with an avidity which gave ample 
 assurance of future influence. 
 
 What Origo's purpose may have been, it is not 
 attempted to define. It is probable that he 
 did not reveal to Dalberg enough of his projects 
 to endanger his own security ; but only sufficient 
 to obtain that power over his mind and actions, 
 which it appeared to him of vital necessity to 
 secure. With him Dalberg visited dangerous 
 places, and went amongst desperate people, risking
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 383 
 
 his name, even his life, in their foul society ; but 
 finding, in the very hazard and mystery of his 
 present craft, the revival of that capacity of feeling 
 which he had believed extinct. 
 
 There existed at this time in a distant suburb of 
 Vienna, far removed from the splendid residence of 
 the Count Dalberg, a lone house of evil reputation, 
 inhabited by an old man, his wife, and his daughter 
 Ninetta, a quick-witted spirited girl, but already 
 an active agent in the iniquitous traffic carried 
 on in the dwelling of her father ; who, being 
 connected with a gang of desperate freebooters, 
 received their plunder and aided in its disposal. 
 
 It happened that one morning a labourer, going 
 to his work, having occasion to cross a wood 
 in the neighbourhood of the lone house, discovered 
 a dead body thrown amidst some bushes. It was 
 evidently the corpse of one who had been mur- 
 dered. The alarm was given, the people of the 
 neighbourhood gathered round the spot, and 
 Ninetta — being among the foremost, recognised 
 the body for that of a man who had come to her 
 father's house in tlie company of one whom she had
 
 384 COUNT DALBEIIG AND HIS SON. 
 
 understood to be a nobleman of high rank. She 
 also declared that she had seen them quit the 
 house together at a late hour of the night ; and 
 looking from a window, had observed them to take 
 the path near to which the body had been found. 
 More she refused to disclose until brought before 
 the proper authorities ; when there, she repeated 
 her story, and revealed the name of Dalberg. 
 
 Her evidence was so consistent, that the arrest 
 of Dalberg was immediately ordered, and as 
 speedily executed, without noise or publicity. 
 When confronted with Ninetta, he had on the 
 same clothes which he had worn the preceding 
 evening, and in the inside of one of the pockets 
 were discovered stains of blood. A knife of 
 remarkable form, found near the body, was 
 acknowledged by Dalberg to be his ; but he 
 declared in the most solemn manner, that it had 
 not been in his possession for several days, and that 
 he had believed it either stolen from him, or lost. 
 When taxed with having visited the lone house, 
 he appeared confused, answered evasively, and at 
 length acknowledged that he had been there, 
 though only for a few minutes, and merely to 
 fulfil an appointment. With whom, he refused to
 
 COUNT DALE ERG AND HIS SON. 385 
 
 say ; but alleged that he had left the house almost 
 immediately, and unaccompanied. 
 
 Many efforts were made to extort from him the 
 name of the person to whom he had given a ren- 
 dezvous in so suspicious a place, but in vain. It was 
 Origo ; but a high sense of honour prevented his 
 naming one, whose plans would have been frustrated, 
 and life endangered, by the discoveries which must 
 inevitably have followed. The risk to Dalberg 
 would have been trifling in comparison with the 
 odium which the mystery of denial threw upon his 
 cause ; for he was but partially initiated in Origo's 
 secrets, and still stood on the brink of the flood, 
 into which his bolder leader waded up to the lip. 
 
 While Dalberg's evasive answers, or perplexed 
 silence, momentarily augmented the prejudice 
 which from the first had been strongly against 
 him, Ninetta's evidence became every moment 
 more conclusive. She now deposed, that she had 
 herself lighted him and his companion to the door, 
 and in this point her deposition was strengthened 
 by the testimony of both her parents. It was also 
 proved, that the murdered man had been fre- 
 quently seen to enter Dalberg's house, and had 
 once been known to have spoken with him in
 
 386 COUNT DALBERG A:ND HIS SOX. 
 
 private, and to have been dismissed with threat- 
 ening gestures. 
 
 All these circumstances, coupled with the stains 
 of blood, the knife, the unknown something which 
 it was evident that Dalberg struggled to conceal, 
 weighed heavily against him. His doom seemed 
 inevitable. Origo visited him in his prison, and 
 urged him to make confession of whatever might 
 be likely to better his cause, without considering 
 how he himself might be affected by it. But 
 Dalberg remained firm, replying to Origo's en- 
 treaties, " The blood, the knife, the girPs clinching 
 oath, — is there any thing that we can say which 
 can unhinge such evidence ? No, my generous 
 friend, not a hair of your head shall be touched, 
 not a thought laid open." Origo took the tone of 
 expostulation, even of anger, but Dalberg kept his 
 ground ; he melted into admiration, but Dalberg 
 refused praise. " If (said he) your evidence could 
 save me, I might be weak or wicked enough 
 to push you down, that I might step upon you ; 
 but fate has spared nie this horrible temptation. 
 What, my friend, would your generous sacrifice 
 avail ? Nothing for my preservation ; while the 
 grief of seeing you involved in my danger, would
 
 COUXT DALBERG AXD HIS SOX. 387 
 
 annihilate whatever strength or presence of mind I 
 may yet possess." 
 
 Origo suffered himself to be convinced, though — 
 as it seemed — reluctantly, and then departed to 
 put in action (as he said) the springs over which 
 unbounded confidence had given him power, for 
 the liberation of his friend. But there seemed to 
 exist a counteracting influence stronger than any 
 under his control, which worked secretly, and 
 undermined the scaffolding of hope as fast as 
 he could construct it ; and neither the weight of 
 Dalberg's high name, family influence, or un- 
 blemished character (for a woman's wrongs arc 
 seldom calendered against the wronger) seemed 
 likely to countervail the proofs which thickened 
 round him. 
 
 And now he sat alone in his prison cell, with the 
 errors of his life spread open like a book before 
 him. How foul and dark seemed the pages on 
 which Isabella's name was written, and how lu- 
 minous those pure ones bright with the story 
 of his early love ! The image of Margaret 
 attended him in his dungeon with the solicitude 
 of affection : she was there again — gentle, and 
 young, and beautiful, — in her own atmosphere 
 
 s2
 
 388 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 of truth and tenderness. But there was another 
 Margaret behind her, a pale and shrouded one; 
 and when that image came before him, all the 
 torments of the condemned seized upon his soul. 
 
 —XI.— 
 
 The first snows of winter had fallen, and covered 
 the fields with its white winding-sheet ; the tall 
 pines of the forest, which sheltered the monastic 
 turrets of the Kloster, spread out their funereal 
 arms, dressed in the same monotonous livery ; 
 the glassy lake was now a solid plain, and the 
 w^oodman steered his sledge over its crackling 
 surface; the boats were drawn up under the 
 hollow of a rock, and the thin wreath of smoke 
 alone told that there were still inhabitants within 
 the silent cottage. Outside the walls all was still ; 
 the sound of a distant gun, the flight of a solitary 
 bird, or the track of a wild deer in the snow, alone 
 spoke of life. The dingy sky seemed to rest 
 on the tops of the mountains, and if a breath of 
 wind stirred, the boughs yielded to the gentle 
 movement, and shook off their white burthen
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 389 
 
 in heavy flakes, that melted into moisture as they 
 touched the earth. 
 
 But within, the cheerful wood fire again blazed 
 in the old hall, and Mina stood with Herman beside 
 her, gazing — one with a look of tender curiosity, 
 the other with an expression of sorrowful thought, 
 on a portrait to which Herman had given the last 
 touch. It was the image of Margaret, as love had 
 embalmed it in the recollection of her son, — sad and 
 beautiful, like the tender light of the evening star ; 
 a breathing portrait, for the heart had worked at 
 it, and the accurate memory of affection helped it 
 out with its life touches. 
 
 " I wish it were not so true," said the curate ; " it 
 is like bringing up a shadow from the grave. If 
 the grave were not there, it would be well ; but 
 that stands always yawning behind it. There is 
 the same difference between a portrait in the heart 
 and one on canvas, as between the absent and the 
 dead. When I am alone with my heart, I find your 
 mother there ; I forget that she is gone, I no longer 
 remember the for-ever ! She comes before me in 
 so many familiar ways, that I find in this mysterious 
 correspondence the same ineffable charm, the same 
 going along with the object loved, the same sweet
 
 390 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 variety, which render the letters of dear and dis- 
 tant friends so precious to us. But this portrait — 
 I know not why, — its very identity shocks me : 
 its one look, its one position, the voice which seems 
 to burst from the lips, but whose sound will never 
 be heard ! the deception that does not deceive, the 
 movement that is immobility, — the immobility 
 of death ! But the Margaret of my memory has 
 voice and motion ; we talk together. I speak, and 
 her sweet voice answers me. When I walk in my 
 gafden at evening and look towards the mountains, 
 I often think that she may dwell there in some 
 embowered paradise, and that she will come again 
 to visit me in my solitude, as she sometimes used 
 to do at the close of day. But here she stands on 
 the threshold of promise, mocking the heart with 
 the glow and surface of life, but chained and 
 motionless. O no ! not being life, it is too like it 
 to be gazed on with tranquillity.'' 
 
 '' Yet I," said Mina, in a voice full of tears, 
 " could gaze on it for ever. So she looked when 
 I last saw her, and she put the chain of flowers 
 round my neck which she had woven to please my 
 childish fancy. It is dust now, but I shall keep it 
 for ever."
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SOX. 391 
 
 " Ah," said Waldeck, " we shall never see any 
 thing like her ; she was the woman ! the good, the 
 beautiful ! I cannot think with Reich ter : this 
 portrait of thine, dear Herman, is to me worth a 
 thousand recollections. Often when I have tried 
 to place her image before me, some other has 
 started up and mingled with it, — some turn of 
 countenance that faintly resembled hers, perhaps 
 some figure in a picture that had fixed my attention 
 by a touch of likeness, until my mind became a 
 chaos in which memory lost itself. I was not so 
 blest as our good friend," he added with a sigh. 
 " I could not see her as she had been ; but now she 
 is again before me, and the disjointed recollections 
 which oppressed my heart have taken shape and 
 colouring." 
 
 " See," exclaimed the curate, turning from 
 the portrait, " how the sun shines out upon us, 
 making diamonds of our snow. You are going 
 homewards, Mina ?" 
 
 " Yes ; will you bear us company ? " 
 
 The curate assented, but lagged behind with 
 Rheinart, while Herman and Mina walked forward, 
 their minds full of gentle melancholy, of tender 
 recollections. They were silent, but their hearts
 
 392 COUXT DALBERG AST) HIS SON. 
 
 understood each other; there was no thought un- 
 answered, — for they loved. 
 
 It was past mid-day ; the sky was now clear, 
 and blue, and the sun in its magnificence, making 
 a sparkling world wherever its bright beams 
 touched the feathery snow, or glistened on the 
 light crystals that Aveighed down every branch 
 and encrusted every briar. What a glorious spec- 
 tacle does a country of mountains offer to the eye 
 on such a day ! what untouched sources are opened 
 to the imagination ! the unbroken majesty of 
 the single tint, the fragile delicacy of the details, 
 and the absence of all the vexing nakedness of 
 winter nature, over which the equal snow has 
 drawn its pure oblivious veil ! But the sun must 
 shine ; when the sky is bleak and heavy, the earth 
 looks like a vast tomb, covered with one general 
 shroud, and the universal silence has a voice of 
 mourning in it. 
 
 "Who is that," exclaimed Rheinart, "who comes 
 down the hill on horseback .^" 
 
 " It is Conrad," said Mina, shading her eyes 
 with her hand and looking forward. " No, it is 
 a stranger ; what can he want with us ?''"' 
 
 But they had not time to speculate on proba-
 
 COUN'T DALBERG AND HIS SON. 393 
 
 bilities; for the horseman, descending rapidly 
 through the forest, approached Herman, and 
 having put a letter into his hands, was out of 
 sight before the tongue could question him. 
 
 The missive contained these words : — " Your 
 father is in prison accused of murder, and con- 
 demned by the opinion of his judges. If by tor- 
 ture, solitude, and privations, he should be reduced 
 to that state of feebleness which may end in self- 
 accusation, he must die ! Reflect on this, and 
 know, at the same time, that he is innocent." 
 
 Herman trembled from head to foot; horror and 
 astonishment paralysed his faculties. The hand- 
 writing startled him ; it seemed somewhat like the 
 Countess Isabella's, but the lines were irregular, 
 and the page blotted. To interrogate the mes- 
 senger was his first thought, but he had vanished ; 
 his next was to prepare for immediate departure. 
 Rheinart and Emanuel both wished to accomj^any 
 him ; but he felt as if, in his actual state of mind, 
 even the presence of those dear and tried friends 
 would have been oppressive to him. 
 
 " Thanks, my kind neighbours," he said, " but 
 I must meet this trial alone : truth, and ni}^ faith 
 in heaven, shall be my armour. My father is 
 
 s3
 
 394? COUNT DALBERG AND lllS SON. 
 
 innocent ; of that my heart assures me, and means 
 will, I firmly trust, be found to prove it. The 
 shade of my mother will go with me, it will be my 
 light and guide ; and the husband of her true and 
 faithful heart shall not perish for an uncommitted 
 crime, while her son has life to defend him." 
 Then pressing a fond and sad farewell on the pure 
 cheek of his trembling Mina, he returned hastily 
 to the Kloster. In three days she was to have 
 been his bride ; but could he have been happy 
 even with her, while his father stood upon the 
 steps of a scaffold ? 
 
 —XII.— 
 
 As Herman passed under the porch of his 
 father's prison, the clock struck. It was exactly 
 at that same hour, that six years before he had 
 quitted Vienna with his mother, when she left it 
 for the last time. He remembered to have heard 
 a clock strike then, and the sound seemed one 
 of evil augury. 
 
 Since that time, his appearance had totally 
 changed ; he was no longer the gay, bright boy.
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 395 
 
 with an open brow and a cheek flushed with the 
 warm glow of hope ; but a man looking three 
 or four years older than he really was, — a fine 
 thoughtful head, with the light of mind and the 
 shading of reflection in it. His hair was darker 
 than it had been, his complexion paler; even 
 his features had undergone a remarkable alte- 
 ration. The rich material beauty of his boyhood 
 had taken another and a more ideal form, and it 
 was only when he smiled that the likeness of his 
 former self could be traced. 
 
 He presented himself under an assumed name 
 at the door of his father's prison, but was refused 
 admittance. He had then no settled plan of 
 defence, but hoped to have found materials for 
 one, had an interview been permitted. The jailer, 
 touched with his evident emotion, allowed him to 
 sit down, and freely entered into the subject of 
 Count Dalberg's imputed crimes. The proofs 
 against him were (he said) too strong to admit 
 of doubt ; but the count's firmness had hitherto 
 defeated justice. Herman listened with intense 
 anxiety, and though he felt convinced of his 
 father's innocence, yet the weight of opposing 
 evidence made his heart quake within him.
 
 396 COUXT DALBERG AND HIS SOX. 
 
 Dalberg was to undergo an examination on the 
 following day, which his judges, fatigued by his 
 obstinacy, hoped would be final. To be present 
 was Herman's most immediate wish, and the jailer, 
 yielding to the temptation of a bribe, and, it might 
 be, to a feeling of humanity, (for without sus- 
 pecting Herman's affinity to the prisoner he saw 
 and pitied his distress,) promised to procure for 
 him the means of admission. With this straw to 
 hold by, he returned to his humble lodging at an 
 inn in the neighbourhood of the prison. 
 
 He lay down, but could not sleep. The image 
 of his father led out to suffer death, his head on 
 the ignominious block, his honour in the dust, 
 his high name confounded with those of the most 
 atrocious criminals, lay like a mountain on his 
 breast. The word father, often pronounced with 
 horror, became once more a dear and reverend 
 sound ; and the same heart whose wrathful feelings 
 had almost engendered vengeful ones, was softened 
 into an entire forgiveness of injury. He rose again, 
 but the same image pursued him. He opened the 
 window, and looked out into the street; a single 
 lamp hung before the door of the inn ; it was the 
 only light visible, and its dreary ray fell upon the
 
 COUNT DALBEBG A^'D HIS SON. 
 
 31)7 
 
 surface of the opposite wall. The wooden image 
 of a white horse, placed over the entrance gate of 
 the inn, stood out in its glare, with the mane float- 
 ing and the hoof uplifted. All the rest was dark, 
 except a small illuminated spot which seemed to 
 hanoj in the air ; it was the clock in the belfry of 
 the neighbouring church, which being lighted from 
 behind, still pointed out the hours to those sad 
 watchers who, like Herman, counted its leaden, 
 but too swift progress. There was something 
 solemn in the marked and measured movement of 
 time going its ceaseless pace, while nature itself 
 seemed to stand still : it was like the wakefulness 
 of eternity, — eternity which never sleeps, which 
 leaves all things behind it, yet remains for ever, — 
 greatest of rewards, most horrible of punishments ! 
 Close to the church was the prison; and though 
 it was shrouded in the general darkness, yet 
 Herman fancied that he could trace the outline 
 of the dismal tower in which he knew that his 
 father was confined. But soon this dreary con- 
 templation became too much for his weakened 
 mind ; importunate fancies thickened on him : he 
 closed the window, but the shade of his mother 
 seemed to move beside him, saying, in her living
 
 398 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 voice, " Save thy father, Herman; save him, even 
 with thy life." His mind became violently dis- 
 turbed ; he lay down, the same words seemed to 
 be again repeated ; they sunk into his soul, and 
 in this brain-heated moment he swore to do the 
 bidding of the shadow, which his own imagination 
 had conjured up from the grave. 
 
 At an early hour the next morning the jailer 
 came to him, and they went together to the hall 
 where the examination was to take place ; and 
 there, posted in an obscure spot, Herman waited, 
 with feelings wound up to the pitch of agony, the 
 appearance of his father. After the lapse of more 
 than an hour, the doors opened and Dalberg 
 entered, — not with the firm step of other days, 
 but with the same high and noble bearing that 
 distinguished him from all others. 
 
 The interrogation began, and to the adroit and 
 insidious questions put to him, Dalberg answered 
 with the calmness which became an innocent man. 
 Herman's whole frame shook ; all the love, the 
 admiration which he had felt in childhood for his 
 father revived within him, and his heavy faults
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 399 
 
 were forgotten in his eminent misfortune. Nothing 
 fresh could be elicited by the examination ; Dal- 
 berg firmly maintained his innocence, but refused 
 (as he had done before) to explain the motive of 
 his visit to the lone house on the evening of the 
 murder. He was again confronted with Ninetta, 
 whose hardy consistency would have startled any 
 other than Herman ; but his conviction was not to 
 be shaken, and the high enthusiasm which makes 
 self-sacrifice a joy, a glory, was rapidly mounting 
 to its height, when a remark from Ninetta, which 
 seemed to embarrass Dalberg and made the moment 
 a fearful one, caused its instant explosion. 
 
 " If I speak false," she said, " confute me; but 
 before you judge, let the count be requested to 
 state where he first met Conrad Blume, the mur- 
 dered man." 
 
 A shade passed over the face of the count ; his 
 brow darkened, the blood rushed into his cheeks, 
 and then as suddenly retreating, left an ashy 
 paleness behind it. A word seemed to tremble on 
 his lip : Herman was terror-struck ; the thought 
 seized him that in that word was condemnation. 
 He stood forward before it could be pronounced, 
 and called out in a firm tone, " Cease to torment 
 the innocent ; I am the murderer ! "
 
 400 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SOJ^. 
 
 A burst of astonishment, and then a solemn 
 pause, succeeded this strange avowal. Dalberg 
 looked round like one awakened from a dream ; 
 life, honour, name, seemed again his own unfor- 
 feited possessions. Here was a turn of fate which 
 none had counted on, an instantaneous transition 
 from ignominy and death to the full restitution of 
 all those natural and social privileges, of which a 
 base and daring accusation had nearly deprived him. 
 But when the first exulting feeling had subsided, 
 it struck even him — whom the confession had lifted 
 up from death — with horror, that one so young, 
 and of a mien so calm and noble, should have 
 dipped his hands in blood. 
 
 Meanwhile Herman, delivered up by his own 
 words into the hands of the law, thus addressed 
 the administrators of justice, whom astonishment 
 still kept silent : — 
 
 " That I have murdered Conrad Blume, is 
 sufficiently attested by my own avowal ; for where 
 is the man who would willingly brand himself 
 with the foulest of crimes, while he felt that he 
 was guiltless of it ? Of this, therefore, I shall 
 say no more. Why I became against my nature 
 an assassin, is a secret which belongs to my- 
 self alone. Justice, appeased by my acknow-
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 401 
 
 ledgment, can require nothing more, except the 
 last atonement, which I am now prepared to make. 
 But should incredulity demand a confirmation of 
 what I Iiave averred, this is my answer : I it was 
 who, three days previous to the crime, possessed 
 myself of the knife with which it was committed; 
 it was I who, having concealed myself in Count 
 Dalberg's chamber an hour after I had sent my 
 enemy's soul to its account, cunningly put the 
 marks of blood upon his clothes. You would ask, 
 ' How gained you the entrance to that chamber ? ' 
 By the low door hidden behind the arras, over 
 which is hung the small picture of Belshazzar's 
 feast. You would know where I concealed myself.^ 
 Behind the base of the veiled statue which fronts 
 you as you enter from the eastern gallery. To be 
 brief, it was I who waylaid Conrad Blume as he 
 passed alone through the wood ; for that he was 
 alone, that girl who has dared, for some uncon- 
 jectured purpose to swear away the life of an 
 innocent man, well knows," — and his searching eye 
 fixed itself on Ninetta, as though it would look 
 into her soul. 
 
 The girl, appalled by his glance, turned away ; 
 but still steady to her purpose, repeated her asseve-
 
 402 COUINT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 ration, saying, " I stood at the window, and marked 
 the prisoner as he quitted the house with Conrad. 
 I saw them take the path through the wood, and 
 followed them with my eyes till they had reached 
 the spot where the footways cross." 
 
 " And yet this spot — (Herman knew it well) 
 — is full six bow shots' length from the house 
 where the accuser stood, and watched on a black 
 and stormy night the movements of the accused 
 and his victim ? " 
 
 Ninetta appeared for a moment confounded, and 
 Herman, looking at her with more gentleness, said, 
 " Poor girl, your heart is not yet utterly corrupted ; 
 you have been suborned to impeach an innocent 
 man by some one who — for your perdition — you 
 love or fear. You are too young to be perjured 
 for the love of gold ; but one who has obtained an 
 evil influence over your mind, has employed it to 
 infernal purposes. If your eyes did really behold 
 any part of that bloody tragedy, look at me, and 
 say if I am not the man .?" 
 
 Ninetta looked at him, but more like one who 
 did so in admiration than in horror ; and then said, 
 in a firm voice, " You are not the man ; you could 
 not have done it ! "
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 403 
 
 " I could do any thing in just vengeance," 
 said Herman, turning his flashing eyes upon her. 
 
 " Not that!'' she cried, " not that !" 
 
 Here the interrogator, addressing himself to 
 Herman, inquired his name. 
 
 " Frederich Scheffer." 
 
 The usual questions followed, and were answered 
 as Herman's judgment directed; after which the 
 prisoners were dismissed till the next day. 
 
 During the night which intervened, many and 
 various feelings struggled in the breast of Herman. 
 In as far as his life was concerned he willingly, even 
 eagerly laid it down to redeem that of his father. 
 But a young heart, and one that loves and is be- 
 loved, does not resign its fair prospect of futurity 
 without a pang. Perhaps it would be too much to 
 say that Herman felt no regrets, no tugging at the 
 heart-strings ; but his moral courage was great, 
 and in his religious faith he found a support that 
 neither slid nor trembled. His great dread had 
 been lest his father should have discovered him, 
 even through the changes which time, premature 
 care, and manhood, aided by every art of which he
 
 404 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 could take advantage without hazard of detection, 
 had wrought upon his person ; and the feeling 
 with which he saw Dalberg's eyes pass over his 
 face as over that of a stranger, might well be 
 called a joyful one, however ill the word joy may 
 accord with the occasion. 
 
 Herman was an enthusiast in the loftiest sense 
 of the word ; an enthusiast from temperament and 
 from genius ; an enthusiast in virtue. Enthusiasm 
 seemed in him the natural expression of thought, 
 not its awakener ; it was his soul that, enlarged 
 by meditation, overflowed its bounds, and found 
 channels of speech and action. And at that mo- 
 ment so full was that pure soul of its high and 
 holy purpose, tliat he would not have exchanged 
 his prison and his sacrifice for the sceptre of 
 the earth. 
 
 " What a glorious privilege," said he, mentally, 
 *' is mine ! If by the giving up of life a little 
 before the time when nature would have demanded 
 it, I can preserve my father from the glaive of the 
 executioner, rescue his name from obloquy, and 
 surround his redeemed years with honour, ought 
 I not to be thankful to that mighty Providence 
 which has deigned to make me the instrument of its
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 405 
 
 justice?" And in this feeling he slept tranquilly 
 and dreamt of Mina, whose image alone cast a 
 shadow over the almost celestial temper of his 
 mind. For he well knew what her love was, 
 and what her grief would be; but he also knew 
 that her courage was great, and that within her 
 woman's form there lived a soul, of which even 
 the overweening spirit of man might be proud. 
 
 He employed the first moments of daylight in 
 writing to his friends, to whom he recommended 
 eternal secrecy as to the motive and results of his 
 hasty departure from the Kloster. This he well 
 knew would be religiously observed, and with the 
 natural feeling of an honourable mind, he rejoiced 
 to think that in the awful destiny of the obscure 
 Frederich Scheffer, no trace of the fate of Herman 
 Dalberg could be found ; and that amongst the 
 simple and credulous neighbours of the Kloster, 
 entirely removed from all communication with the 
 world, whatever colouring his friends might wish 
 to give to his story would be implicitly believed. 
 "Grieve not, my Mina," he said; "but think of 
 me as one who has gone but a little time before 
 you, and whom you will — as I devoutly trust — 
 rejoin in that bright world of which we have so
 
 406 COUNT DALBEllG AND HIS SON. 
 
 often talked with hope and wonder in our lonely 
 walks. Think of me, and of my mother whom 
 you so tenderly loved, as of two imprisoned spirits 
 who now, released from bondage by the same 
 mighty and merciful hand which led them through 
 the desert, wait for you on its confines. Beloved 
 Mina ! when you walk at evening in the old forest, 
 
 or by the side of the lake But I must not think 
 
 of that ; I must not indulge in the dangerous 
 luxury of recollection. Let us look forward with 
 hope, and that firm confidence which a Christian is 
 permitted to place in the goodness of him in whose 
 hands are the destinies of man, and who will, I 
 trust, pardon the deceptions of which I have been 
 guilty." 
 
 When the prisoners were remanded, Herman 
 appeared serious but undismayed, — with the calm 
 countenance of one who waited certain death, but 
 did not fear it ; and Dalberg, altered more by the 
 strong workings of surprise, of joy, of pity, for a 
 man whose unexpected avowal had saved him from 
 the scaffold, than he had been the day before by 
 imprisonment, disgrace, and the horror of ap- 
 proaching death. But the utterly changed was 
 Ninetta. A few hours before she had been fresh
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 407 
 
 and blooming: now she was pale and haggard, 
 like one who had dreamt of crime — or done it ; 
 her eye was wild and hollow, and the audacious 
 tone of her voice was changed to a guilty tremble. 
 It was evident that all her efforts were directed 
 to exculpate Herman, and in her zeal to do so, she 
 seemed to have forgotten that the only way to 
 obtain the desired end was by confirming Dal- 
 berg's guilt ; but her mind seemed troubled, and 
 for the first time discrepancies appeared in her 
 evidence, which strengthened the idea — now gain- 
 ing ground — of Dalberg's innocence. Indeed the 
 calm determination with which Herman affirmed 
 himself to be the murderer, left but little room for 
 doubt on the minds of his hearers. What might 
 have been the nature of an injury which could 
 have roused one so young, and of a mien so calm 
 and noble, to the commission of such a deed, none 
 could conjecture ; and neither threat of torture, or 
 lure of pardon, could extract from him another 
 word beyond the avowal of the crime. " I am the 
 murderer," he would repeat ; " and the terrors of 
 a conscience not yet inured to guilt have wrung 
 from me this disclosure. I prefer death to the 
 pangs I suffer ; I prefer it to the awful sight of a
 
 408 COrXT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 fellow-creature brought to judgment for an act of 
 which I alone am guiltv. What those wrongs 
 were which drove me to do that which I abhor, 
 concerns myself alone, and shall be buried with me."*" 
 
 While he spoke, the eyes of Ninetta followed 
 him,, glaring with wild impatience ; her divided 
 lips seemed bursting to express the words that 
 worked on them, and as he ceased speaking she ex- 
 claimed, in a voice that rung through the building, 
 '^ He must not die ! He too is innocent, — both 
 are innocent ! It was Frantz Speigler who did it I" 
 
 " Let Frantz Speigler be instantly arrested,"" said 
 the judge : who, accustomed to mark the signs of 
 the mind in the variations of the countenance, had 
 been forcibly struck with the altered appearance 
 of Ninetta. The order was immediately obeyed, 
 and Frantz, -uhose haunts were well known, was 
 speedily brought forward. He entered the hall 
 with a bold countenance ; but when abruptly 
 charged with the murder of Conrad, and suddenly 
 confronted with Ninetta, his courage failed, and 
 giving himself up at once for lost, the shuddering 
 terror, which is observed so frequently to possess 
 the guilty, got the better of his sturdiness, and he 
 confessed the murder.
 
 COUNT DALBERG AXD HIS SON. 409 
 
 " It was he," said Ninetta, " who basely using the 
 power he had obtained over my mind, tutored me 
 to the task which till this hour I have performed 
 too faithfully. On the evening of the murder, a 
 quarrel took place between Frantz and Conrad, — 
 provoked by the former. To this quarrel my 
 mother and myself were the sole witnesses. Conrad 
 left the house first, and Frantz a moment after, 
 vowing vengeance. In a short time he returned ; 
 there was blood upon his sleeve and on his hands. 
 We washed it off, and he made us swear a dreadful 
 oath never to disclose what we had seen. Then 
 sending my mother away, he by frightful threats, 
 and the wicked influence with which he ruled my 
 very thoughts, obtained from me the promise of 
 inculpating Count Dalberg, who had come that 
 night to our house, accompanied by a man whose 
 face I did not see. It was the only time the count 
 had ever been there, and I should not have known 
 that it was him, if Frantz had not told me, charging 
 me to mark his features well, so that I might 
 swear to them again if needful. I did so; but 
 those of his companions were too closely muffled 
 for my scrutiny." 
 
 She then proceeded to state, that a Ion arrear
 
 410 COUNT DALBEIIG AND HIS SON. 
 
 of wrongs had influenced the mind of the murdered 
 man against the prisoner, whom he frequently 
 taunted in the presence of others ; and she had 
 often heard Frantz swear that he would one day 
 silence his calumnious tongue. She had once 
 known Conrad to do Frantz a great kindness ; 
 after which Frantz became his mortal foe, feeling, 
 as it seemed, exasperated that his enemy should 
 have found the means of laying him under obliga- 
 tion. But in murdering him, she believed that 
 Frantz had not only gratified his own deep and 
 wakeful spirit of revenge, but was also the instru- 
 ment of another ; and that this other, whom she 
 knew not, designed for some purpose of vengeance, 
 likewise unknown to her, to use his agency towards 
 effecting Count Dalberg's destruction. To for- 
 ward this intent, he had made Frantz master of a 
 knife of remarkable form, which had long been in 
 the count's possession, and which the former had 
 shown her on the night previous to the murder. 
 She further added, that Frantz had frequently 
 boasted that he was employed by one who possessed 
 mountains of gold ; and having done so once in the 
 presence of Conrad, the latter — not to be outdone — 
 replied that he too had his employer, and that he
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 41 1 
 
 was master of many secrets which concerned high 
 nobles of Vienna, who dared not refuse to see him 
 even in their own houses. From all which she 
 judged that both were, unknown to each other, the 
 tools of some mighty and wicked man, who used 
 them as the active instruments of his vengeful 
 designs. 
 
 It was in the interval between Ninetta's de- 
 nouncement of Frantz and his apprehension, that 
 these disclosures were made. When he was brought 
 in and placed face to face with her, habitual dread 
 appeared for a moment to obstruct her utterance ; 
 but she looked at Herman, and immediately felt 
 her courage revive, and the passionate earnestness 
 with which, while unveiling crime, she justified 
 innocence, proved that in the midst of guilt, in the 
 heart of infamy, there sometimes exists a germ of 
 tenderness, which sagacious treatment might ripen 
 into fruit. 
 
 Frantz, taken by surprise, and astounded at the 
 unexpected declaration of Ninetta, confessed his 
 crime; but refused, with a sentiment of fidelity 
 which sometimes lingers in the basest minds, to 
 disclose the name of the master whom he obviously 
 served. But the approved means of subduing 
 
 T 2
 
 412 COUNT DALBEKG AND HIS SON. 
 
 obstinacy had not yet been resorted to, and he was 
 conducted to prison, where solitary confinement, 
 torture, and utter darkness, — the sure keys which 
 unlock the closest secrets of ignoble minds, and 
 sometimes, alas I of those more finely organized, 
 were still to be tried. 
 
 Dalberg and Herman remained behind, and 
 Ninetta, who was detained to serve if necessary as a 
 future witness, stood near them. Strange thoughts 
 passed over Dalberg's mind. " Who is this man — 
 this Frederich SchefFer — this utter stranger ? who, 
 to defend my life, would have offered up his own ? 
 Do strangers make such sacrifices for strangers ? 
 My son indeed, were he near me," said Dalberg half 
 audibly, and then pausing as if startled at some 
 sudden suggestion, looked towards Herman. But 
 Herman had drawn his cap over his eyes, and 
 the pale cheek and dark mustachio concealing the 
 curve of the lip, contradicted Dalberg''s memory. 
 
 Meanwhile, Ninetta approached tremblingly, and 
 addressing Herman in a timid voice, said, " I am 
 a guilty wretch, not fit to look upon you ; but I 
 would take with me one remembrance. Let me
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 413 
 
 touch your hand." Herman gave her his hand, 
 which she grasped with eagerness, and would have 
 kissed, but shame withheld her. " I am no! worthy," 
 she said, and dropped it timidly. 
 
 " Poor girl !" said he, with gentleness, " there is 
 still much that is good about thee; much that I 
 would save if I could." 
 
 " Save me !" she cried, grasping his hand, '' save 
 me ! and I will follow you on my knees ! I will be 
 your slave, and you shall be my master, — I will 
 serve and die for you !" 
 
 " No !" interrupted Herman, " you shall live, — 
 live too, I trust, to be something far different from 
 what your wicked guides would fain have made 
 you r And as he spoke, he looked kindly on her 
 and smiled. 
 
 It was the first time, since his sudden apparition 
 in that spot, that a smile had played upon his lips, 
 and Dalberg, whose eyes had never wandered from 
 his face, and whose perplexed feelings had been 
 momentarily rising to agony, caught it as it passed. 
 At the same instant the truth flashed upon him, 
 and shrieking out, " My Herman !" he dropped 
 back as if ecstasy had snapped the thread of life. 
 Restored again, he threw himself on his son's neck, 
 
 t3
 
 414 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 embraced him closely, looked in his face as if he 
 would have spelt his features, and then turned 
 away and wept. 
 
 " My father !" said Herman, deeply affected, 
 " you will not cast me from you .?'' 
 
 '' Cast you from me ! " exclaimed Dalberg. 
 " You ! my brave son, who would have sold your- 
 self to death for me ! O no I once — but you have 
 forgiven me — you will no longer — '''' 
 
 'vMy father!'' interrupted Herman in a sup- 
 plicating tone. 
 
 . " He is your father," exclaimed Ninetta, who 
 bad listened breathlessly. " Glorious creature ! 
 and you would have died for him ! O power of 
 •duty ! power of love ! how long have ye been 
 hidden from me! But he was good, no doubt, 
 and virtuous, or you could not have loved him 
 thus." 
 
 Herman would have drawn away his father, but 
 he advanced towards Ninetta. 
 
 " Far otherwise," he said, in a tone of solemn 
 accusation ; " his noble act is the repayal of a deep 
 and grievous injury. The father, v/hose life he 
 would have ransomed with his own, had cast him 
 off — had abandoned him, and his sweet and vir-
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 415 
 
 tuous mother." Here Herman seized his father's 
 hand, and would again have turned him from 
 Ninetta, but could not. 
 
 "No !'' he cried, " let me tell her what a wretch 
 I have been, and how she rose above me in her 
 purity. Angel of heaven ! did she think of me, 
 Herman ? Did she say, « God forgive the sinner, 
 the terrible sinner," for it was I who killed her — 
 murdered her witk neglect ! worse than the dag- 
 ger — worse than the dagger ! " he repeated, in a 
 wild hurried way ; then falling at the feet of Her- 
 man, hid his face and wept. 
 
 "My father, my dear father ! do not kneeL at 
 my feet — at your son's, who should kneel to you. 
 O my father ! let this end ; I cannot bear it ! "" and 
 he raised Dalberg from the ground, embracing 
 him tenderly, and as he pressed him to his heart 
 repeating, " Let this end, let it be forgotten if 
 you love me, — if you pity me."" 
 
 " Rather let it be remembered for ever," re- 
 turned Dalberg, in a calmer tone. "Never be it 
 forgotten that a son, cast off, rejected, almost dis- 
 owned — or worse, forgotten, — came with his young 
 life, so full of hope and promise, and offered it foe 
 the redemption of his inj urer ! "
 
 416 COUNT DA LBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 " Lord hear me !'' exclaimed Ninetta, with 
 strong emotion. "If in thy great mercy thou 
 didst ever intend good for me, who am a sinner, 
 let it be bestowed on these men ! I have had 
 enough in seeing them, in knowing that there is 
 such a thing as virtue, — I, who have mocked it in 
 my bitter guilt ! " 
 
 " You have not mocked it in your heart," said 
 Herman, in a voice of kindness. " Take courage, 
 poor Ninetta ; this day has saved thee from 
 sin. Who knows what to-morrow may bring 
 with it.?" 
 
 The morrow brought with it many things, — but 
 of these more hereafter. 
 
 —XIII.— 
 
 Dalberg returned to his home free and justified ; 
 but his heart was sad, for Herman was not with 
 him. The mission of the son was fulfilled. He 
 had seen his father restored in honour to his high 
 place in society ; and refusing steadily to become 
 a sharer in his restored fortunes, had returned to 
 his hermitage, and to his gentle Mina. Nor could
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 417 
 
 Dalberg press him, even on the threshold of his 
 door, to enter ; for within was the Countess 
 Isabella, whose name came upon his ear like the 
 tolling of a death-bell. 
 
 The Count Camillo was there too, and advanced 
 to welcome Dalberg, but with a pale, still look 
 in his eyes that startled him. Isabella lingered 
 longer, but came at last, and so horribly changed, 
 that Dalberg shuddered as she approached. 
 
 " You are safe," she said, taking his hand 
 between her bony ones ; " they have not killed 
 you ! " Then looking round, as if afraid of some- 
 thing, she marked the eyes of Origo fixed upon 
 her, and dropped the hand of Dalberg with a 
 terrified movement. She had never visited Dal- 
 berg in prison, a circumstance which in other 
 moments might have pained him ; but he had felt 
 relieved by her absence, and only regretted to hear 
 that it had been caused by grief and illness ; but 
 he was not prepared for the shocking change 
 which had taken place, and his heart dissolved 
 into pity when he saw her. 
 
 " This Frantz,'' said Origo, when Isabella had 
 retired, " seems a timid villain ; more may be got 
 from him."
 
 418 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 " I doubt it ; the name of his employer — for he 
 has had one — will, I think, die with him." 
 
 "It were best it should not,"" observed Origo 
 calmly. " Is he ironed ?" 
 
 « Heavily." 
 
 "And in the dungeon near to the water's edge ?" 
 
 " I think they said so." 
 
 Origo paused a moment, and then muttered 
 inwardly, " To night — ^or never ! " 
 
 Night came, and Dalberg sat by the couch of 
 Isabella, who gently pressed him to quit her. 
 " To-morrow, my love," she said, " you will come 
 to see me. I shall be better then ; 1 feel that I 
 shall; but now good night!" Then advancing 
 her cheek towards him, " One kiss — one kiss," she 
 said, while her voice trembled. " O Dalberg, how 
 I have loved you ! and what a sinner that love 
 has made of me !" Then raising herself from her 
 couch, she fell on her knees before him. " Say 
 that you pardon me, Dalberg, — that you forgive 
 her who has involved your honour and destroyed 
 your peace. Speak, as I tell you, my beloved ; 
 it will lighten my poor heart."
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 419 
 
 Dalberg complied with her wild fancy, and 
 repeated the words of pardon which she dictated 
 to him. " Now," she said, " good night. Kind and 
 dear Dalberg, I will go to bed and sleep, for you 
 have blest me." He would have staid with her, 
 but she insisted on his retiring, and after a fond 
 " good night," they parted. 
 
 Voices and bitter weeping were again heard that 
 night in Isabella's chamber, and steps descending 
 the small staircase. At midnight the bell rang, 
 and was answered by an attendant, who found the 
 countess standing before a table, white as a ghost 
 and with the death-look, as the woman expressed 
 it, in her eyes. Her voice, too, was slow and 
 hollow, like a funeral knell. 
 
 " Is it not true," she said, " that Catharine Matt 
 is dying ?" 
 
 " I fear so, madam." 
 
 " Take this lamp, and light me to her cham- 
 ber." The attendant did as she was ordered. 
 
 Isabella entered the sick room with a cautious 
 step. Two women watched by the bed-side ; she 
 motioned them to retire. They did so ; and then 
 kneeling down, she took the pale hand that lay 
 upon the bed-clothes, and pressed a kiss mingled
 
 420 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SOX. 
 
 with tears upon it. The dying woman was still in 
 full possession of her senses. 
 
 " O madam,'' she said, " how good you are to 
 visit your servant in her hour of trial." 
 
 " Dear Catharine, say not servant, but friend, — 
 have you not always been my best and truest ? 
 
 Had I listened to your counsel, I should not 
 
 But it is all over now. And you, my Catharine, 
 surely you must feel better to seem so tranquil." 
 
 " I shall be better, madam, I humbly hope ; 
 but there is a struggle yet to come, an awful one. 
 Heaven will, I trust, assist me. But, dearest 
 lady, how pale you look ! " 
 
 " Has your life been a happy one, Catharine .f^" 
 
 " I have great reason for gratitude, madam, 
 but no one is completely happy. If we were per- 
 fectly happy here, death would be too bitter ; but 
 religion promises us a better world ; it teaches us 
 to hope — " 
 
 " Hope ! the death-bed hope ! How fine, and 
 yet how fearful!" said Isabella, shudderingly. 
 "Catharine, you have been a good and virtuous 
 woman ; give me your prayers. You will not be 
 long before me, but shall we meet ? or will the 
 great gulph be placed between us ? Ah, there's
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 421 
 
 the question, to which no answer can be given. 
 But your prayers, dear Catharine, your prayers!" 
 and she clasped her hands together, and prayed 
 aloud. 
 
 The dying woman prayed also, in a weak but 
 earnest voice. Then Isabella rose from her knees, 
 and imprinting a kiss on the forehead of her servant, 
 said, in a hollow tone, " Go in peace, thou good 
 and faithful one i I came here to beg thy blessing, 
 but I dare not give thee mine. Farewell ! your 
 prayers have given me comfort. When you are in 
 heaven, cry with a loud voice, ' Have mercy on her 
 who is a sinner.' " Then quitting the room with a 
 slow step, she regained her apartment. 
 
 At four o'clock, before the day had dawned, a 
 sentinel on duty near to the river saw something 
 white rush by him. He had just shaken the ashes 
 from his pipe, and had struck a light to re-kindle 
 it; and by its glare he could distinguish enough 
 to imagine that it was the ghost of the Countess 
 Isabella, with whose figure he was familiar from 
 having often been on guard at the palace when she 
 had come there on days of pageantry. That it was 
 nothing living, he had judged from its deadly 
 whiteness, and its whizzing by as if it had no feet.
 
 422 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 A moment after he heard a strange noise in the 
 waters, and at the same instant the clouds opened 
 and a Hvid moonbeam falling on the stream, he 
 saw something like a human body carried rapidly 
 down with the current. But again there was dark- 
 ness, and his eye could no longer follow it. 
 
 The Countess Isabella was never seen after that 
 night, and the soldier's story gaining credit, it 
 was believed, — and is to this day, — that she had 
 drowned herself in the Danube. On that same 
 night another violent death was consummated 
 within the city walls. The murderer Frantz was 
 found strangled in his dungeon ; but whether by 
 his own hand, or by that of some one who had 
 found means of secret access to his prison, still 
 remains doubtful. 
 
 Nor was the Count Origo ever afterwards heard 
 of at Vienna, though he was known to exist at a 
 much later period ; having been seen and recog- 
 nised at Rosetta, in Egypt, by a man who remem- 
 bered him as one mixed up with Dalberg's myste- 
 rious story. To this stranger he was pointed out 
 by a Venetian then at Rosetta, as the betrayer of 
 the fair Olympia Doni, who having been leagued 
 with him in many evil deeds, — foreign perhaps to
 
 COUNT DALBEIIG AND IIIS SON. 423 
 
 her early nature, — had in a moment of horror and 
 disgust fled from his revolting tyranny ; an aban- 
 donment which, it was said, he had afterwards 
 deeply revenged. Whether the Countess Isabella 
 was in any way connected with this story, the 
 speaker knew not, nor was any further light ever 
 thrown upon the history of her youth ; neither did 
 the Venetian know any thing more of the circum- 
 stances of Origo's life. The name he had borne at 
 Venice was a different one ; he had come there a 
 stranger, had imposed on society by his specious 
 manners, silenced inquiry by his splendour, and 
 had disappeared before he had become an object 
 of suspicion. 
 
 Ninetta's repentance was profound and lasting ; 
 if it had begun in passion for an object lifted as 
 much by virtue as by station above her, it soon 
 took another and a safer colouring. Her return to 
 virtue was not the result of a transient feeling of 
 casual remorse ; but of a sincere and entire consci- 
 ousness of her deep and heavy guilt, and a convic- 
 tion that by divine assistance alone its weight 
 could be removed. With this feeling she entered 
 a religious community, whose members devoted
 
 424 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 
 
 their lives to offices of charity, — ^going amongst the 
 criminal, the sick, the needy, — exhorting, watching, 
 comforting, praying; and years, as they passed, 
 found her still daily strengthening in rehgious 
 hope, and happy in the exercise of virtue. 
 
 Herman — now the husband of his beloved Mina 
 — found within the woods of the old Kloster the 
 ' Mount Araara,' the true paradise of his heart ; 
 and resigning firmly and for ever a station con- 
 nected in his mind with associations too painful 
 to be gilt into brightness by its splendour, and a 
 world by which he had been long considered dead, 
 gave to the name, which he afterwards adopted as 
 his own, the undying lustre with which genius can 
 surround the most obscure appellation. That 
 name is known wherever the high powers of mind 
 and the gifts of wisdom and eloquence are honoured ; 
 and some, believing that they read the author in 
 his works, and who had therefore loved and wished 
 to know him, made pilgrimages to his solitude, and 
 returned edified by the sight of the good and 
 simple man; who, living like a patriarch in the 
 midst of his fair and virtuous family, seemed to be 
 the only one who had not heard of his own fame.
 
 COUNT DALBERG AND HIS SON. 425 
 
 Dalberg having often and vainly endeavoured to 
 change Herman's resolution, at length resigned 
 himself to it. The episode which had darkened the 
 story of his life was, as far as the charge of murder 
 was concerned, known but to a few, his family 
 having had interest enough to keep the proceedings 
 secret. It is not written in the archives of the 
 house of Dalberg, nor was it ever bruited in the 
 world. For a time, the dark events connected 
 with it threw a gloom over his mind ; but his im- 
 pressions were always rather strong and sudden, 
 than deep and permanent ; and after a sharp agony, 
 and a short retirement from society, he found that 
 his stock of recollections were not fitted for solitude. 
 He had been all his life a lover of the world, 
 spoiled by it and dependant on it. It reclaimed 
 him, and he returned at its call, no longer as a 
 man of gallantry, or a secret supporter of mys- 
 terious associations, but as a minister and court 
 favourite. 
 
 But over one green spot in his heart the world had 
 no power ; the sentiment of admiration, of tender- 
 ness, which he felt for his son, bloomed there like 
 the palm-tree in the desert and freshened the waste
 
 4 26 
 
 COUNT DALBEIIG AND HIS SON. 
 
 that surrounded it, — a dreary waste, yet not a 
 desert, but too often frightfully peopled with the 
 shadows of the past. In society he was still the 
 high-bred, courtly Dalberg ; but in the solitude of 
 his chamber! — ah! the injured are well avenged, 
 even in this world ! 
 
 Maurice and Co., Fenchurch-street. 
 
 <r/
 
 i