The Disowned | Page 7

common, entered the
wood which skirted it, and, only attended by his guest and his minister
Mim, came suddenly, by an unexpected and picturesque opening in the
trees, upon one of those itinerant vehicles termed caravans, he ascended
the few steps which led to the entrance, opened the door, and was
instantly in the arms of a pretty and young woman. On seeing our hero
(for such we fear the youth is likely to become), she drew back with a
blush not often found upon regal cheeks.
"Pooh," said King Cole, half tauntingly, half fondly, "pooh, Lucy,
blushes are garden flowers, and ought never to be found wild in the
woods:" then changing his tone, he said, "come, put some fresh straw in
the corner, this stranger honours our palace to-night; Mim, unload
thyself of our royal treasures; watch without and vanish from within!"
Depositing on his majesty's floor the appurtenances of the regal
supper-table, Mim made his respectful adieus and disappeared;
meanwhile the queen scattered some fresh straw over a mattress in the
narrow chamber, and, laying over all a sheet of singularly snowy hue,
made her guest some apology for the badness of his lodging; this King
Cole interrupted by a most elaborately noisy yawn and a declaration of
extreme sleepiness. "Now, Lucy, let us leave the gentleman to what he
will like better than soft words even from a queen. Good night, sir, we
shall be stirring at daybreak;" and with this farewell King Cole took the
lady's arm, and retired with her into an inner compartment of the
caravan.

Left to himself, our hero looked round with surprise at the exceeding
neatness which reigned over the whole apartment. But what chiefly
engrossed the attention of one to whose early habits books had always
been treasures were several volumes, ranged in comely shelves, fenced
with wirework, on either side of the fireplace. "Courage," thought he,
as he stretched himself on his humble couch, "my adventures have
commenced well: a gypsy tent, to be sure, is nothing very new; but a
gypsy who quotes poetry, and enjoys a modest wife, speaks better than
books do for the improvement of the world!"
CHAPTER III.
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted
pomp?--As You Like It.
The sun broke cheerfully through the small lattice of the caravan, as the
youth opened his eyes and saw the good-humoured countenance of his
gypsy host bending over him complacently.
"You slept so soundly, sir, that I did not like to disturb you; but my
good wife only waits your rising to have all ready for breakfast."
"It were a thousand pities," cried the guest, leaping from his bed, "that
so pretty a face should look cross on my account, so I will not keep her
waiting an instant."
The gypsy smiled, as he answered, "I require no professional help from
the devil, sir, to foretell your fortune."
"No!--and what is it?"
"Honour, reputation, success: all that are ever won by a soft tongue, if it
be backed by a bold heart."
Bright and keen was the flash which shot over the countenance of the
one for whom this prediction was made, as he listened to it with a
fondness for which his reason rebuked him.

He turned aside with a sigh, which did not escape the gypsy, and
bathed his face in the water which the provident hand of the good
woman had set out for his lavations.
"Well," said his host, when the youth had finished his brief toilet,
"suppose we breathe the fresh air, while Lucy smooths your bed and
prepares the breakfast?"
"With all my heart," replied the youth, and they descended the steps
which led into the wood. It was a beautiful, fresh morning; the air was
like a draught from a Spirit's fountain, and filled the heart with new
youth and the blood with a rapturous delight; the leaves--the green,
green leaves of spring--were quivering on the trees, among which the
happy birds fluttered and breathed the gladness of their souls in song.
While the dewdrops that--
"strewed A baptism o'er the flowers"--
gave back in their million mirrors the reflected smiles of the cloudless
and rejoicing sun.
"Nature," said the gypsy, "has bestowed on her children a gorgeous
present in such a morning."
"True," said the youth; "and you, of us two, perhaps only deserve it; as
for me, when I think of the long road of dust, heat, and toil, that lies
before me, I could almost wish to stop here and ask an admission into
the gypsy's tents."
"You could not do a wiser thing!" said the gypsy, gravely.
"But fate leaves me no choice," continued the youth, as seriously as if
he were in earnest; "and I must quit you