and examining the pretty painting upon it, an acquisition in itself. It
represented a young girl in the first bloom of youth with her arm around
the neck of a beautiful greyhound, that looked up wistfully in her face.
The attitude was full of grace, not unlike Minnie’s own, and Rose smiled
as she remarked that Mr. Selby had chosen an emblem of fidelity for her
little sister’s study during ball-room scenes.
“More probably as an example,” said his uncle, with a meaning smile.
“Harry can never be classed among that portion of his sex, ‘to one thing
constant never,’ and he, in my humble opinion, would love to communicate
some of the same spirit to others.” A sly glance at Minnie accompanied
these last words; but she was examining her fan very closely, and did
not perceive it. At length she went and laid her hand upon his arm,
looking up at him with a grateful expression.
“You have been so very kind to me—so thoughtful of my enjoyment in the
world, that I cannot thank you in words. Some of these days, like the
mouse proved to the lion, I may find a way to serve you, but until then
you must believe how deeply I feel all this attention. Now come and
choose my costume for to-morrow night—shall I come out in all the
splendor of my white and silver?”
“No, my dear,” said Mr. Selby, kindly. “You must be like Rose to-morrow,
and wear the other when my sister gets my old-fashioned house in
readiness for another party, where you will receive the guests as your
own. Now let me kiss that soft cheek, and run away to my business in
town.”
“And not see all _my_ presents, Mr. Selby!” exclaimed Rose. “They cannot
equal yours, but I have some very choice specimens of porcelain, besides
collars, capes, etc. Now look at this transparent lamp-shade, with the
angels’ heads; and see these vases. Here is a coffee-cup for papa, one
for Paul and Kenneth, with their initials, and here is an inkstand for
my darling Kate.”
“And what is for Lisa and Blanche?” asked he, admiring each as she
presented them.
“The lamp is for my industrious queen bee, Lisa, the vases for Blanche,
and things innumerable for the rest. You do not care about seeing the
‘dry goods,’ I know, but wait until I show you some of my own work. I
have embroidered three vests for my three pets—papa and ‘the brothers,’
besides a scarf for my friend, Mr. Selby.”
He was delighted at the idea of being remembered by her while in a
distant land, and Rose was forced to send him away to get rid of his
thanks.
They hurried over the rest of the unpacking, as many preparations were
needed for the next day’s fête, and were soon running about from one
room to the other, laughing and singing as in days gone by.
[_Conclusion in our next._
* * * * *
THEODORA.
A BALLAD OF THE WOODS.
BY GEO. CANNING HILL.
With her raven tresses falling loosely down her neck of snow,
And her cheek all flushed with crimson, like the morning’s richest glow,
From a covert, Theodora, like a loosened sheaf of light,
Burst, with wild and ringing laughter, in upon my wildered sight.
Like a golden dream she came to me, and like a dream she fled,
Crushing crystal dews beneath her, as the diamonds in their bed;
And a spirit seemed to linger round the covert whence she came,
As a glow is oft reflected from the brightness of a flame.
Far within the solemn forest disappeared her sylphide form,
As the gentle star of even pales before presaging storm;
Every songster’s notes were silent, all the wild-flowers wore a blush,
And throughout the wood’s dark mazes was a calm and holy hush.
Such a gush of richest melody as then bestirred the air,
In my soul awakened echoes that had long been slumb’ring there;
’Twas a harmony angelic, that her spirit caught at birth,
And she poured it out in mellow floods, as one of common worth.
Straight she hied her to a fountain, that lay sleeping in the glen—
’Twas a fountain hidden deeply from the common gaze of men;
Greenest mosses grew about it, walling up its crystal wealth,
Save a silver ribbon that escaped its velvet lip by stealth.
On its smooth and argent surface fell the tears that Dryads wept;
In its deep, unruffled bosom sweetest dreams serenely slept;
Not a human face could ever have intruded on the calm
That was reigning all around it, like the fragrance from a balm.
As she drew, unguarded, nigh it, gently seemed the waters stirred;
For the music of her voice was as the warbling of a bird:
And the sheet of liquid crystal, that was slipping o’er the rim,
For a moment fairly quavered, ere it parted from the brim.
Coming nearer, then she spied it—this sweet mirror hidden there—
All set round with greenest mosses, and arbuscles fresh and rare;
And she clapped her hands delighted, as she hastened to its side,
And she shouted with a melody that thrilled its mimic tide.
Then she sat her down beside it, and with hand pressed to her zone,
Thus a moment sat she silent, in her wonderment alone;
Raven ringlets trembled slightly, lustrous eyes beamed wondrous bright,
As she gazed upon the crystal that lay sleeping in her sight.
Bending downward yet more lowly, till the wave her tresses swept,
She essayed to look beyond the brink, where Heaven’s cerulean slept;
But she started as she caught the face so beautiful and fair
That was looking up into her own from out the lakelet there.
Throughout all her wildered senses sped a feeling of affright;
Yet the tremor was well tempered with a sweet, unknown delight:
And she gazed into the large blue eyes that met her from below,
And she thought they peered from out a world beneath the waters’ flow.
Then a blush of richest crimson mounted up unto her cheek,
And a smile enwreathed her parted lips, as if she fain would speak;
But yet while she looked still steadfastly, the face below it smiled,
And Theodora clasped her hands, with seeming transport wild.
Every day thereafter went she, as a nun within her cell,
To the little crystal cloister there imbedded in the dell:
And as every time she looked within, she saw an angel-face—
Upon each reflected feature read the words of truth and grace.
* * * * *
PEDRO DE PADILH.
BY J. M. LEGARE.
(_Continued from page 236._)
SPAIN, AND TERCERA. }
AD. 1583. }
After the battle in which De Haye, the maître-de-camp was killed, and
the Portuguese ran away to a man, leaving the French to maintain the
honor of the day and their ultimate position on a hill near at hand, the
Spanish army unbuckled their armor and sat down to stretch their limbs
beside the fires at which their suppers were cooking; and if any one in
camp lost appetite that evening, it was not because of the numberless
gaping wounds witnessing to Heaven against him from the field behind. A
mile or so above, a few scattered lights showed where the remnant of De
Chaste’s army held ground, and awaited the morrow with little fear but
much hunger, sending to perdition the viceroy and entire Portuguese
nation the last thing before dropping to sleep: midway between these two
rows of fires, was neither life nor light save such as a crescent moon
gave, and as much as lingered in some poor wretch with more vitality
than was best for him. In which middle space the Damon and Pythias of
this story, Hilo and Carlo, prowled about, turning over the stiff
carcasses in search of valuables, for nothing of convertible worth came
amiss to the pair, whose personal property was staked nightly at dice.
Occasionally an apparent corpse tossed about his arms and legs
convulsively, or prayed in a husky whisper for a little water, for life
and mercy’s sake a single draught; but in either case the Walloon, like
a rough angel of mercy as he was, put an end to their anguish promptly,
saying with a grin to Hilo—“You know it’s for his good I do it: if he
drank any thing it might keep him alive till somebody who aint his
friend comes round. It would be a heap harder to die after making up his
mind he was to live again, wouldn’t it?”
To which Hilo replied with some contempt: the boy was ferocious, as has
been elsewhere said, only on provocation—
“You’re fitter for a hangman than a soldier, serjeant.”
A truth Wolfang took for a compliment.
“Hey?” cried that cidevant free-captain suddenly, “here’s one of our
officers, let’s turn him over. A hole in the back of his casque by
Lucifer; it served him right for turning his back on the enemy.”
Hilo may have recognized the whereabouts sufficiently to make a
tolerably fair guess before the other added:
“Oh—oh—the maître-de-camp, De Haye!” But if he did he held his peace,
and assisted in ridding the dead cavalier of a few personals.
The Walloon was thick-skulled, but his long service in villany had
increased his cunning as a matter of course, and a duller man than he,
acquainted with Señor de Ladron’s peculiarities, might have jumped to a
like conclusion.
“Bah! he wasn’t a coward after all. The arquebuse that sent this ball
was behind him while he faced the Dons. The man you owe a grudge to had
better keep awake, Hilo, my lad.”
“You’re a fool,” Hilo returned. “Hold your tongue. Do you wish to bring
the Spaniards upon us with your noise?”
To which the other answered sullenly—“You talk as if I wasn’t more than
your slave. You’d better mind what you’re about. I aint going to stand
it always, even if—here now, what’s to be done with these papers?”
“What is that shining in your hand?”
“A locket, or something of the sort, he had in his breast. Hang it, you
want every thing!”
“A locket!” cried his comrade quickly. “Give it here.” Which the other
did unwillingly, and the other pocketed after holding it up to the
light. Hilo’s mood up to this moment had been none of the sweetest, as
the captain could testify, but some virtue existed in the appropriation
which was quite irresistible.
“Come, old fellow,” he cried to the serjeant, in high good-humor, “I was
rather sharp with you just now, wasn’t I? You know I’m quick and all
that, and musn’t mind me. Here’s a handful of ducats for your locket, as
you found it; I fancy the thing, and don’t grudge paying for it.”
A gift the captain took with a growl half of resentment, for _he_ had
not found a charm for himself, and could not so easily forget an offense
as his master.
It was wonderful what a dog to fetch and carry that uncouth animal was
to Hilo; how he followed him about, drew dagger in his service, and
exposed his life any time rather than suffer the latter to embark alone
in a perilous venture, a thing his youthful friend was much given to. It
would have been an unanswerable proof of the existence in all men of
some good trait, some capacity to love a brother, for a worse rogue than
the captain would be difficult to select. But, unhappily, this
Netherlandish Damon had sounder, if less sentimental, reasons for
sticking by his Pythias. Hilo, a wonderfully precocious youth, had
fallen in with the honest captain some three or four years back, and
dexterously turned to his personal advantage a comfortable sum brought
over from Peru by the other. “I like the boy, he’s full of pluck. I’ll
school him into the ways of the world, look ye,” the captain used to
say, at the very time his protégé was scheming to possess his ingots.
“I knew his father in Peru very well, a man of money. He lent me a
helping hand once, and I don’t mind turning about and lending the boy
any thing I have,” he spoke later. And so, not because of the helping
hand, as the captain wished understood—which, to be sure, was Carlo’s
beginning in life, the elder De Ladron having taken him into temporary
partnership in the matter of a forced _repartimiénto_ which turned out
golden—but because he had entire reliance in the magnitude of the
senior’s estate, he made over to Hilo the bulk of his possessions, on
conditions legally witnessed, of a fourfold return immediately on the
other’s receiving his own. No doubt Hilo acted in good faith, less from
inclination possibly than necessity, his money affairs having become
rather intricate about that time, and there could be no question of the
repayment of the full amount—the original was no trifle—at the season
specified.
But when was that to arrive? A question Carlo asked himself with growing
dissatisfaction not long after the last ducat had slipped through his
debtor’s fingers. Hilo was in no hurry to marry the girl, and since
signing the captain’s bond, had bestowed his affections elsewhere, as
people say. A French countess, black-eyed and brisk, took his fancy much
more than the blonde his betrothed, and during the stay of the French
embassage at Madrid, the young gentleman was on good
behavior—ostensibly at least. Of all her gallants none excited his
jealousy so much as a cavalier who had accompanied the count
unofficially, and stood high in his daughter’s favor.
Don Hilo’s way of removing an obstacle of this sort, was admirably
illustrative of his sense of wrong, although sometimes, as in this
instance, liable to miscarry. He first picked a quarrel with De Haye,
and that gentleman refusing point-blank to fight so disreputable a
party, was waylaid and killed by proxy in the person of Villenos, who
was of much the same figure, and, as it chanced that night, similarly
attired. The eclat of this mistake, added to the departure of the lady,
took him to France, where information of De Haye’s joining the
commandant induced him to enlist under the same knight’s pennon, in
pursuance of his vengeful purpose, and the young blood-hound was of
course nothing molified by the remonstrance of his enemy to De Chaste on
shipboard, which Carlo repeated with some little exaggeration, to be
expected from the mouth of so affectionate a friend.
The heavy, cunning, ex-free-captain was brow-beaten and domineered over
by his former protégé in a truly surprising manner to one not in the
secret. It was wonderful how much he bore, how assiduously followed at
the heels of his junior when off duty, uneasy at losing sight of the
latter. The truth was, the captain having gambled and squandered himself
into poverty again, looked to the money to be derived from Hilo’s
fortune for a means of reputable living, as he said.
“I was an honest soldier till I met that Hilo!” was his lament years
after, while awaiting the hour of his execution. And it was the obduracy
of the same young gentleman, aided by his own failure to win the
heiress, which had reduced him to the necessity of relying upon Hilo’s
attaining his twenty-fifth year and sole right of property; a fib, by
the way, of the party interested, which the captain was by this time too
near gone not to catch at with proverbial eagerness.
“If I can only keep him in sight,” he used to think fifty times a day
with an oath, “until I get back my ducats, I’ll take pay for my dog’s
life;” and at nights he would wake muttering the words and feeling the
edge of his weapon, when Hilo would exclaim—“Can’t you leave off
grinding your tusks in that savage fashion, you Dutch boar!”
The captain saw how a little misadventure in the shape of his dear young
friend’s decease, might deprive him of all chance of restoration, and no
mother could be more precious of her charge: Hilo might involve himself
in difficulties and be slain in a brawl; it was this worthy soul’s chief
business to guard against such a mishap, or extricate him when fairly
in: or he might fly into an ungovernable rage and harm himself, or tempt
the captain into doing so; so the latter eschewed all cause of
contention, and humbled himself where humility became a necessity. For
Carlo’s phlegmatic temperament was incapable of fear, and nothing would
have gratified him more than a bout with the young gentleman—who,
seeing his advantage, or from mere recklessness, tried his ability to
bear and forbear to the utmost limit.
“Wait till I get my ducats back!” Wolfang consoled himself with
muttering under his breath on such occasions, champing his jaws and
keeping his fingers stalwortly from his dagger-hilt.
The pair were standing over the body of the maître-de-camp, Carlo with
the papers in his hand taken from the breast of the dead lieutenant’s
doublet, when Hilo cried:
“Hark! the camp is in motion yonder above. Come, Wolf, stir your clumsy
legs before we are missed.”
And Wolfang trotting after his master thrust the crumpled missives into
his own doublet—“It’s no use to throw away any thing in the dark,” he
said; “I did a note of hand once so, and somebody else got the good of
it; one of these days I’ll find time to spell it out”—where they
remained many days, now and then taken out and returned, without much
progress made in their elucidation, for the warlike captain was not much
of a scholar, and found opportunity for only cursory examinations.
A destination very different was the captain’s pocket, it may be
remarked, from that designed by the writer, Don Pedro, who, about the
time Carlo pocketed the letters, was conversing with Señor Inique as to
their efficiency in De Haye’s hands.
No man is absolutely penitent at the start; some fear for character,
personal safety, or the like, is the prime mover, after which—it may be
moments or years after—enters in a godly sorrow for sin committed. Sift
your motives, exemplary reader, and satisfy yourself for once, your
conscience is not the tender prompter to your most virtuous deeds you
imagine: something to the effect, what it, or the world, or the church,
or your wife at home will think, has its due influence. Human nature is
not to be taken to task on this account; we are all more selfish than we
choose to admit even to ourselves, or there would be an end straightway
of all murders, thefts and villanies great and small and of every kind;
and there is so little native good in us it is best not to cavil at the
source of any redeeming trait, whatever it may be.
So Don Augustino after ten years’ penitence of fear, made confession for
the first time of the same; not with the best conclusion or purpose in
view, it may be objected, but the honest knight’s expressions of opinion
were scarcely adapted to producing a better feeling at the beginning.
Sir Pedro thought as much himself when he reviewed the conversation, and
his after arguments were such as the mild expression of his fine gray
eyes lent effect to, a thing they very seldom did when his speech was
pointed with sarcasm. The soldier was first molified, then thoroughly
subdued, and in the end inclined to adopt the counsel of his ancient
companion-in-arms, who now, as always, took the shortest available
course to the doing away of a bad deed by substitution of a good. Not
that all this ripening of virtue in the veteran sinner’s breast was much
hastened by the knight’s eloquence; it was mainly by the inexplicably
swift thaw after the ice has been broken through with throes of
dissolution, and something the knight’s words may have done at the
beginning to aid the breaking up, something at the end to temper the
freshet. What he saw when he entered the inner cabin of Inique’s ship,
of that blank face and imbecility, I have nothing to relate; let the
door remain shut upon him as it was in Inique’s time, and all likeness
and constraint of the unhappy inmate be left to the imagination.
Entire restitution of name and property on one side, and public avowal
of his paternity on the other, was what the straight-forward adviser
urged, and Inique consented ultimately to perform. Avowed penitence
strangely humbled the misshapen pride of the man. Once he said:
“You were right, Padilh; I was a coward from first to last. I begin to
perceive there are two sorts of courage, one infinitely superior to the
other, and God alone knows how much braver than I this poor boy might
have proved.”
The main obstacle now to be overcome was the will of the supposititious
Hilo, whose rage at finding himself heir to nothing would be likely to
exceed all bounds.
“It must be opened gently,” said the knight. “The boy has an ill name
for violence, and some gain must be shown as an equivalent for so much
pecuniary loss; which last, I fear, will be the chief occasion of regret
with him.”
“I have some little property of my own remaining,” answered the other,
“and would gladly relinquish it in his favor, but for the claims of my
other child. As for me, I am sick of this world’s honors—”
“Pooh!” cried Padilh cheeringly, “is this your new-found bravery? Look
how you retreat before the enemy, and hope to shelter yourself behind a
wall with monks. And as for your blue-eyed daughter, have no concern at
all, for by this time I am sure that motherless countess of mine would
stand a siege rather than surrender her unconditionally: we have more
than we want in property and less in children, so you and I can each
satisfy the other’s need and our own pleasure, which will be stealing a
march at the start.”
The man of care and crime was sensibly touched by this offer.
“Many thanks!” was all he said, but he took his associate by the hand
with a grasp that would make you or I wince.
“I think with you; he must be appealed to indirectly at first, that his
suspicions may not be awakened too soon,” Don Pedro said shortly after,
in answer to Inique. “In the French camp is a gentleman whose honor is
unquestionable, and who entertains such friendship for me, he would not
hesitate to undertake the service. If you do not oppose the design, I
will write him a short narrative of the events, leaving the manner and
time of communication to his judgment to determine. Until his jealousy
of your present purpose is overruled, we may scarcely hope to meet the
wretched boy in person, and I can see no better way of gaining our end.”
“Let it be so, I oppose nothing honorable,” replied the maître-de-camp.
“I am not referring to my old scale of honor,” he added presently, with
something like a blush. There is hope for the man, thought Padilh
thereupon; which was true enough.
The knight wrote the letter in accordance with this agreement, a brief
recapitulation of the events of Inique’s life and his own, many of which
De Haye already knew, urging that cavalier to use his discretion in
acquainting the false Hilo de Ladron with so much of the truth as would
suffice to induce an interview, by assuring him of no harm being plotted
against his person, but rather some gain intended. Which letter Don
Pedro contrived to have placed in De Haye’s hands the night before the
battle in which the latter fell by the arquebuse of the boy whose cause
he had at heart; for very nearly the last thought of this generous
fellow, forgetting the enmity of Hilo, and perhaps rather careless of
his rivalry even when disencumbered of the Señorita Inique, was that,
after the day’s work was over, he would play the ambassador to what
purpose he might: but it was Capt. Carlo that returned to camp with the
letter instead.
The gallant captain hurrying back with his gay companion, found
preparations making for a night attack, which were, however,
countermanded before the column began the descent. The men had had their
fill of fighting for the day, and turned in again wondering and
grumbling at the useless disturbance. Meanwhile the commandant and the
viceroy were discoursing of what had best be done, in the former’s tent.
Senhor de Torrevedros, after the battle, had arrived with about a
thousand of his countrymen, and one fourth or so the number of cows.
“The viceroy has brought milk for his babies at last,” the French
soldiers said sarcastically; and the officer on duty who announced the
arrival to De Chaste, prefixed an epithet to the count’s title by no
means delicate or complimentary.
“In the devil’s name, sir count,” the commander exclaimed, with a red
spot in either sallow cheek, “do you fetch these cattle to mount your
cuirassiers or feed our troops?”
“Neither, at present, Senhor Commander,” the unabashed viceroy replied;
“for in neither way could they so much benefit you as in their present
condition.”
“Speak your mind freely, we are friends here, sir count,” the commandant
answered coldly.
“Our valor is too well known to be questioned—second only to that of
the French nation,” the count said braggartly, lifting his plumed cap by
way of salute; “and I bring you, Senhor Commander, what no man may cavil
at, a thousand men brave as lions and pledged to fall in defense of
their king’s honor.”
At which speech a sarcastic smile passed round the group of attentive
officers.
“Bah!” cried one to his comrade, “the fellow’s talk sickens me. Let’s go
to sleep again, there will be nothing but gabble to-night.” And the two
strode away. “Stay,” whispered the more curious, “we must hear the end
of this bull story.”
Regardless of all which the viceroy continued.