The Poor Gentleman | Page 7

a gentleman and his
daughter, who, without a single servant, companion, or attendant, led
the lonely lives of hermits. The neighbors said that it was avarice or
ill-humor that induced a person possessed of so beautiful an estate to
bury himself in such a solitude. The farmer who worked on the
property carefully avoided all explanations as to the conduct or purpose
of the proprietor, and sedulously respected the mysterious habits and
fancies of his master. His business prospered; for the soil was fertile
and the rent low. Indeed, he was grateful to his landlord, and, every
Sunday, lent him a horse, which carried him and his daughter, in their
weather-beaten _calèche_, to the village church. On great occasions the
farmer's son performed the duty of lackey for the proprietor.
It is an afternoon of one of the last days of July. The sun has nearly
finished his daily course, and is declining rapidly toward the horizon;
still, his rays, though less ardent than at noontide, are hot enough to
make the air close and stifling. At Grinselhof the last beams of the
setting luminary play gayly over the foliage, gilding the tree-tops with
sparkling light, while, on the eastern side of the dense foliage, the long,
broad shadows begin to fall athwart the sward, and prepare the groves
for the gentle and refreshing breeze that springs up at twilight.
Sadness and gloom hang over the sombre château and its grounds; a
deathlike silence weighs like a gravestone on the desolate scene; the
birds are songless; the wind is still; not a leaf stirs; and light alone
seems to be living in that dreary solitude. No one could observe the
entire absence of noise, motion, and vitality, without being impressed
with the idea that nature had been suddenly plunged in a deep and
magic sleep.
Suddenly the foliage at the end of a thicket in the distance is seen to stir,
while a cloud of twittering birds, frightened from the herbage, flies
rapidly across the little path, which is immediately occupied by a young
female dressed entirely in white, who dashes from between the
branches with a silken net in pursuit of a butterfly. The beautiful

apparition, with loose and streaming hair, seemed rather to fly than run,
as her light and rapid steps, full of eagerness and animation, scarcely
touched the earth while darting after the gaudy insect. How graceful
she is, as, halting for an instant beneath the coquettish moth, she looks
up to behold its gold-and-purple wings dancing round her head,
mocking and playing with its gay pursuer! She thinks she has caught it;
but, alas! the edge of her net only touched the butterfly's wings, and
away it dashes, over hedge and copse, far, far beyond her reach! How
beautiful she is, as, in that golden light, warmed with exercise and
excitement, her eyes glistening, her lips parted, her graceful arms
stretched upward, she stands gazing, half pleased, half disappointed,
after the departing insect, till it is lost in the evening sky! Wind and
sunshine have slightly tanned her delicate cheeks, but their roses are
only heightened into the glow of perfect health. Beneath her high and
polished brow, coal-black eyes shine through long and silken fringes,
while a chiselled mouth discloses rows of faultless pearls between lips
which shame the coral! Her stately head is framed in masses of long,
curling hair; and, as the locks are floated over her ivory shoulders by
rapid motion, the proud and arching lines of her swan-like neck are
fully displayed in all their splendor. Her form is lithe and supple, and
its graceful contour is modestly marked by a snowy dress. As she lifts
her head and gazes at the sky, a poet might easily fancy her to be some
fanciful "being of the air," and convert her into the fairy queen of the
solitary realm!
For a long while this beautiful woman wandered about the paths of the
lonely garden, seemingly absorbed in reveries of various kinds. At
times she was gay, at times sad. At length she approached a bed of
violets, which, from the training of the plants, had evidently, been
carefully tended, and, observing that they languished under the intense
heat of the past day, began to grieve over them.
"Alas! my dear little flowers, why did I neglect to water you yesterday?
You are very thirsty, are you not, my charming pets?"
For a moment or two she was quiet, still gazing at the violets, and then
continued, in the same dreamy tone:--

"But then, alas! since yesterday my mind has been so disturbed, so
happy, so--" Her eyes fell, and a blush crimsoned her cheeks, as she
murmured, softly, "GUSTAVE!"
Motionless as a statue, and absorbed in her enchanting dream, she
forgot the poor