The Poor Gentleman Part 12

The simple-minded woman, without meaning it, had touched some tender strings in Gustave's heart; and, as she saw the silent tears coursing their way down his cheeks, she said, entreatingly,--

"Oh, pardon me, sir, for having grieved you so by my talk! but my heart is full, and my feelings force their way without knowing it. If I have done wrong, I am sure you are too kind to be angry with me for loving our young lady so much and bemoaning her misfortune. Have you no orders for me to-day, sir?"

She was about to go, as Gustave raised his downcast eyes and, restraining his tears, exclaimed,--

"I--angry with you, mother Bess?--and angry, too, because you show affection for our poor Lenora? Oh, no, no! On the contrary, I bless you for it with all my heart! The tears you betrayed from my heart have done me good; for I am very unhappy. Life is a burden; and if G.o.d, in his mercy, would take me away from earth, I would gladly die. All hope of seeing her again in this world is gone. Perhaps she is awaiting me in the next!"

"Oh, sir! sir! how you talk!" cried the peasant-woman, in alarm. "No!

no! that cannot be!"

"You grieve, my good woman, and shed tears for her," continued Gustave, without heeding the interruption; "but don't you see how _my_ soul must be consumed with despair? Alas! for months and months I have implored G.o.d for the happiness of seeing her once more! I overcame all obstacles to our marriage, and I became almost mad with joy and impatience as I flew like lightning to the home where I left her; and then my only recompense, my only consolation, was to find her _gone_ and the house of her fathers a wilderness!--to know, alas! that she is poor, and, perhaps, languis.h.i.+ng in want!--to know that my n.o.ble-hearted and beloved Lenora sinks under the weight of misfortune, and yet to be able to do nothing to relieve her!--to be condemned to count in powerless despair her days of affliction, and not even to be sure that suffering has not killed her!"

A profound silence followed this complaining outburst, and the peasant-woman, with her head bent to the earth, sympathized with him truly, till, after a few moments, she attempted to console the sufferer in her simple way:--

"Oh, sir, I understand only too well how much you endure! And yet why despair? Who knows but we may receive some news of our dear young lady when we least expect it? G.o.d is good; he will hear our prayers; and our joy for her return will make us forget all our grief!"

"Oh that your prophecy might be realized, my good woman! But seven months have already gone since they departed. During three of them a hundred persons have been employed in seeking the wanderers. They have been sought for in every direction, and not the slightest intelligence has been obtained; not a trace, not the least sign that they are even alive! My reason tells me not to despair; but my heart magnifies my ills and cries aloud that I have lost her!--lost her forever!"

He was about quitting the garden, when a noise attracted his attention as he pointed toward the road leading to the _chateau_.

"Listen! Don't you hear something?" cried he.

"It is the gallop of a horse," answered Bess, without comprehending why the noise so much startled her master.

"Poor fool!" said the young man to himself; "why am I so startled by the pa.s.sing of a horseman?"

"But see! see! he is coming into the avenue!" cried Bess, with increasing interest. "Oh, G.o.d! I am sure it is a messenger with news!

Heaven grant it may be good!"

As she said this the rider pa.s.sed through the gate at full gallop, and, drawing rein at the door they had just reached, took a letter from his pocket and handed it to the master of Grinselhof:--

"I come," said he, "from your notary, who ordered me to deliver you this letter without a moment's delay."

Gustave broke the seal with a trembling hand, while Bess, smiling with hope, followed all her master's movements with staring eyes.

As he read the first lines the anxious youth grew pale; but as he went on a tremor ran through all his limbs, till with a hysterical laugh and clasped hands he exclaimed,--

"Thanks! thanks! Oh, G.o.d! she is restored to me!"

"Oh, sir, sir," cried Bess, "is it good news?"

"Yes! yes! rejoice with me! Lenora lives! I know where she is!" answered Gustave, half mad with delight, running into the house and calling all the servants. "Quick! quick! Have out the travelling-carriage and the English horses! My trunk! my cloak! Quick! fly!"

He carried forth with his own hands a number of things that were necessary for the journey. His fleetest horses were attached to the vehicle; and, although they strained their bits and pawed the ground as if impatient for the road, the postillion lashed them fiercely as they dashed through the gateway.

In a moment, and almost as if by magic, the coach was on the road to Antwerp and hidden from the staring crowd by a cloud of dust.

CHAPTER XI.

Suppose that we too take a trip in fancy to Nancy, in France, in search of poor De Vlierbeck and his daughter. Let us wind through an immense number of narrow streets in the quarter known as the Old Town and at last halt at the door of an humble cobbler. This is the place. Pa.s.s through the shop, mount the staircase; another story yet; open that door, and here we are.

Every thing indicates poverty; but order and neatness preside over the room. The curtains of the little bed are white as snow, the stove is polished with black-lead till it s.h.i.+nes, and the floor is sanded in Flemish style. Mignonette and violets bloom in a box on the window-sill, and a bird chirps in its cage above them. A young woman sits in front of the window; but she is so intent on the linen she is sewing that no other sound is heard in the silent room but that made by the motion of her hands as they guide the needle. She is dressed in the plainest garments; yet they are cut and put on so gracefully that one may declare at a glance she is a lady.

Poor Lenora! And this was what fate had in store for thee! To hide thy n.o.ble birth under the humble roof of a mechanic; to seek a refuge from insult and contempt far from thy childhood's home; to work without relaxation; to fight against privation and want, and to sink at last into shame and poverty, heart-broken by despair! Misery, doubtless, has cast a yellow tinge upon thy cheeks and stolen its radiance from thy glance. But no! thank G.o.d, it is not so! Thy heroic blood has strengthened thee against fate, and thy beauty is even more ravis.h.i.+ng than of old! If a cloistered life has chastened thy roses, their tender bloom has only become more touching. Thy brow has grown loftier and purer; thine eyes still glisten beneath their sweeping lashes; and that well-remembered smile still hovers around thy coral lips!

Suddenly Lenora stopped working. Her hands rested on the work in her lap, her head bent forward, her eyes were riveted dreamily on the ground, and her soul, wandering perhaps to other lands, seemed to abandon itself on the current of a happy reverie. After a while she placed the linen she had been sewing on a chair and got up slowly.

Leaning languidly on the window-frame, she gathered a few violets, played with them a while, and then looked abroad at the sky over the roof-tops, as if longing to breathe once more the fresh air and enjoy the spring. Soon her eyes fixed themselves compa.s.sionately on the bird that hopped about its cage and ever and anon struck its bill against the wires as if striving to get out.

"Why dost thou want to leave us, dear little bird?" said she, softly.

"Why dost thou wish to be gone, dear comforter of our sadness? Sing gayly to-day; father is well again, and life is once more a pleasure.

What is it makes thee flutter about so wildly and pant in thy cage? Ah!

is it not hard, dear little one, to be captive when we know there are joy and freedom in the open air?--when we are born in the fields and woods?--when we know that _there_ alone are independence and liberty.

Like thee, poor bird, I am a child of nature; I too have been torn from my birthplace; I too bemoan the solitudes where my childhood was pa.s.sed!

But has a friend or lover been s.n.a.t.c.hed from thee--as from me--forever?

Dost thou grieve for something more than s.p.a.ce and freedom? Yet why do I ask? Thy love-season has come round again, has it not? and love is the greatest blessing of thy little life! I understand thee, poor bird! I will no longer be thy fate! Fly away, and G.o.d help you! Begone, and enjoy the two greatest blessings of life! Ah, how thou singest as thy wings bear thee away,--away to the sky and woods! Farewell! farewell!"

As she uttered these last words Lenora opened the cage-door and released the bird, which darted away like an arrow. After this she resumed her work and sewed on with the same zeal as before, till aroused by the sound of footsteps on the staircase.

"It is father! G.o.d grant he may have been lucky to-day!"

Monsieur De Vlierbeck entered the room with a roll of paper in his hand, and, throwing himself languidly into a chair, seemed altogether worn out with fatigue. He had become very thin; his eyes were sunk in their sockets, his cheeks were pale, and his whole expression was changed and broken. It was very evident that sickness or depression, or perhaps both, had made fearful ravages on his body as well as spirits.

The poor old gentleman was wretchedly clad. It was evident that he had striven as formerly to conceal his indigence, for there was not a stain or grain of dust on his garments; but the stuff was threadbare and patched, and all his garments were too large for his shrunken limbs.

Lenora looked at him a moment anxiously. "You do not feel ill, father, do you?"

"No, Lenora," replied he; "but I am very wretched."

Lenora said nothing, but embraced him tenderly and then knelt down with his hand in hers.

"Father," said she, "it is hardly a week since you were ill in bed: we prayed to G.o.d for your restoration, and he listened to our prayers; you are cured, dear father, and yet you give way anew at the first disappointment. You have not been successful to-day, father? I see it in your face. Well, what of it? Why should it interfere with our happiness?

We have long learned how to fight against fate. Let us be strong and look misery in the face with heads up: courage is wealth; and so, father dear, forget your disappointment. Look at me. Am I sad? do I allow myself to be downcast and despairing? I suffered and wept enough when you were ill; but, now that you are well again, come what may, your Lenora will always thank G.o.d for his goodness!"

The poor old man smiled feebly at the courageous excitement of his daughter.

"Poor child!" said he; "I understand very well how you strive to appear strong in order to keep me up. May heaven repay your love, dear angel whom G.o.d has given me! your word and smile control me so completely that I may say a part of your soul pa.s.ses with them into mine. I came home just now quite heart-broken and half crazy with despair; but you, my child, have restored me to myself again."

"That's right, father," said she, rising from her knees and sitting down on a chair close beside him; "come, father, tell me now all your adventures to-day, and afterward I will tell you something that will make you laugh."

"Alas, my child! I went to Monsieur Roncevaux's academy to resume my English lessons; but during my sickness an Englishman was put in my place: we have lost our best bit of bread."

"Well, how is it about Mademoiselle Pauline's German lesson?"

"Mademoiselle Pauline has gone to Strasburg and will not come back again. You see, Lenora, that we are losing every thing at once; so, have I not cause to be anxious and downcast? This news seems to overcome you, my child, strong as you are!"

In truth, Lenora was somewhat appalled by the dejecting words; but her father's remark restored her self-possession, and she replied, with a forced smile,--