University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Harold was on the point of ascending a flight of
marble steps, amid all the attendants that were arrayed,
by the previous arrangements of a relation, to whom the
arrival of Lady Elvira had been made known by the first
boat;—but he hesitated, he could not—it was too publick,
and all that had passed, seemed whirling, and mingling
with the present and future, before his eyes. He grew
dizzy, and caught at the brazen balustrade. The awful
distance to the palace, for so this noble mansion appeared
to his inexperienced eyes, and even the throng of busy
and happy faces about him, oppressed him with an insupportable
feeling of insignificance and melancholy.

A bustle in the hall seemed to indicate that some person
of consequence was approaching. Harold still lingered—and
Elvira, by a significant look, arrested him as he

prepared to go, and to a middle aged, handsome man
that approached, presented him as colonel De Vandereuil—Harold
started—“a French officer,”—adding,
“We shall be happy to see you in the evening, colonel—
you will not disappoint us—the gentleman of the house
seconded the invitation with great cordiality.—“The
carriage will convey you whither you order;”—said he,
and then entered the house.

Harold bowed, and sprang down the steps—but struck
by the appearance of a beautiful horse that stood near,
with a groom holding it, he flung his arm over the animal's
neck, and began caressing it, with his accustomed
ardour. His spirit revived—he forgot himself entirely,
and actually sprang into the saddle, before he had asked
to whom it belonged, precisely as he would have done,
had he met him running wild in the American forest!

The animal leaped upright, and snorted furiously.
“Wo! Cæsar, wo!” cried the groom, abandoning the
reins, and starting, at what he had no doubt was the
freak of a madman. Elvira threw up the window, and
smiled—and the next moment a servant descended, with
sir Edward Armains' compliments, desiring the colonel
to make what use he pleased of Cæsar—but he was a most
perilous animal.

Harold blushed, and bowed—and the creature stood,
under his loose rein, and firm seat, stamping, with affected
petulance, flinging the thick foam over the servants, and
arching his bold neck in the sunshine, as if conscious that
he was the admiration of all that stood around, and waiting
the signal only, to charge, in thunder and lightning,
upon the rabble.

Another window was raised:—the sound started the
horse, and he plunged headlong down the street, his iron
hoofs striking incessant sparkles from the pavement—
while Harold, conscious that he was observed, for he
heard a faint, suppressed cry above him, gave him his way
without any restraint—dashed through the crowd, and
narrowly escaped collision, with a magnificent equipage
that came thundering round the corner of a narrow
street; before his rider, who felt that he had been longer
out of practice than he had at first believed, and was still
giddy with the motion of the ship—had recollected himself

fully. One of his earliest maxims had been, to ride
always as if he expected to be thrown—to be always on
his guard; and he acted upon it, long after it was forgotten,
from habit.

It was but a moment, however, that he was dispossessed
of his habitual self-mastery. The next, by the sudden
compressure of his thighs, he arrested the animal, as instantaneously,
as if he had been shot through the heart.
He reared upright once, and stood stock still, quivering
all over;—his red nostrils, red as raw flesh, shivering as
the hot smoke streamed out, and his heart and lungs
sounding in his chest.

“Zounds!” cried a person joining him, with an expression
of hearty delight in his honest, broad face, “you
have mastered a colt that never was mastered before.
Sir Edward will thank you indeed. He has broken the
neck of one groom for him, and dislocated the collar bone
of a particular friend: has been under the circus riders,
and a score of jockeys, all to no purpose. I never saw
that rascal,” he continued, endeavouring to get near the
horse, and soothe him, but in vain, for he appeared to
disdain all caressing, and wheedling—“I never saw him
in his tantrums, that he did'nt unhorse—crack!”

As he uttered this, he slapped his hands together
smartly, and Cæsar leaped upright at the sound.

“There! there!—I told you so. You have'nt half
done with him yet. He'll unhorse you now, if you dont
mind your eye.”

Harold, however, though somewhat electrified at this
new evidence of rebellion, from a creature that he thought
utterly subdued, instantly brought him to his bearings.
He had no fear of being unhorsed, that was an event,
not within his experience. He had ridden the untrained
colt of the desert, without saddle or bridle, whip or thong,
and never had he been thrown, never had he fallen, but
when the animal tumbled with him. Harold heard a good
deal of speculation about him. “He is so and so,” says
one; “He belongs to the circus,” said another; “No,
no,” said a third, “don't I know him? is'nt it the prince's
groom!”

Harold wheeled his charger abruptly round, and felt
for the hilt of his sword. Luckily for him, it was left

behind, or the speaker would have been made a head
shorter, in the twinkling of an eye.

To be mistaken for one, playing his premeditated
pranks!—it was too bad!

Harold moved on, amid a crowd of ragged boys, perpetually
augmenting on his way, dodging, and running
in an out, among the coal carts, wheelbarrows, and carriages,
and shouting “Hourra for the prince!” “Hourra
for the circus!” “Hourra for Cæsar!” supposing that
was the name of the rider.

The poor fellow was inconceivably mortified. Woe to
his vanity!—never had he indulged in it, but it led him
into some confounded scrape.

His companion was at his side.

“Who the devil are you?” said the irritated Harold,
turning short upon him, wearied to death with his importunity
and gabble.

The man laughed in his face.—“Well, faith, if you
ar'nt a pleasant chap! Here have I been telling you, over
and over again, who I am, and what I am, and now, you
turn snap on a fellow, and snub him up, damned genteely,
I must say,—with `who the devil are you!' Sir, I'll tell
you who I am,—I'm Sir Edward's private chaplain—Sir
—I am so.”

“His chaplain!”

“Yes sir—I've told you so, a dozen times already: but
never mind—where will you go? where stay? I'm at
your service. My nag here, is well broke, and, if you
say so, we'll look about us a while before dinner. I dine
with you—you know?”

“With me!” said Harold, in unaffected astonishment.

“Certainly—certainly, my dear fellow—colonel—a—
a—” Harold could forbear no longer. He laughed aloud
—“a chaplain!—a clergyman!” spunging upon him, so
unaffectedly—so unceremoniously!

“Very well, sir, we will dine together then. And you
shall lead me whither you will,” said Harold, as soon as
he could breathe.

“Done! for a thousand—now that's what I like. I'll
show you the place—such a table!—such wine!—that's
hearty, ye see.”

Harold's appetite for observation began to revive, as
they strolled along the broad and beautiful streets, glittering

with equipages, and encumbered, as he thought,
with all the magnificent lumber of earth and ocean. He
was stunned and wearied too, with the perpetual movement
about him, the giddy whirl of faces, the infernal
clattering, and all his bones ached, with the incessant
effort of his muscles to restrain the mettlesome colt. This
increased, until the throbbing of his temples, and the
rattling of his feet in the stirrups, apprised him of his
danger. He threw himself off—staggered, and well nigh
fainted. His limbs were useless—nor was he aware what
desperate muscular action he had used, until it was necessary
to use them a little in another way.

“You look very pale,” said his conductor, the Rev.
Tom Senclare; “What will you drink?—there is a house
close by.”

“Nothing, sir, nothing. Let us go in here.”

“Here!—damn it! why this is the duke of Bridgwater's.”

“Well, what of that. Come, let us go in a moment—
I only want to sit down, I care not where.”

“Mighty free, 'faith!—but, I say, colonel, had'nt we
better pop into some coffee house, or tavern, hey? may be
his grace may be out.”

“Tavern!—what is that?”

The Rev. Mr. Senclare looked at him for some time,
in consternation. “Poor fellow!—egad, it's all over with
him—not know what a tavern is—wants to step in and
rest himself, in a duke's drawing room—poor fellow!”

“Sir!” said Harold, “has a duke no humanity? will
he not suffer a fellow creature to rest himself a moment
under his roof? If not, why go to a tavern; what right
have we to expect another will treat us more kindly? Are
they not all alike?”

The clergyman looked dreadfully blank. His red gills
faded. “I suppose,” said he, playing with his glass,
which dangled at the button hole of his waistcoat, that
was literally buttonless, with the air of united foppery
and nastiness—“I suppose you are not without money.”

“Money?—yes—I am,—what is that?”

“My good fellow,” said Senclare, becoming every moment
more familiar, as he found him more and more
helpless, and losing his awe, altogether, in a burst of

humanity, “Come, come, go with me. I have some cash
left—and what I have, is yours.”

Harold understood nothing of the plan; but, as he
held on the bridle of his horse, he pressed his hand gratefully,
and walked on, saying, “I cannot endure this noise.
It sounds to me like the roaring of the Atlantick. When
I set my foot upon the firm earth, I feel the motion of
the vessel in it—and in these flat stones. Let us begone.”

Whether it was that the Rev. gentleman had no luck
in riding, or that the recollection of some disastrous
evolutions, which he had once been compelled to perform,
with great precipitation, before a multitude of ladies, had
unfitted him for horsemanship, we do not pretend to say;
but this we do know, that he regarded good horsemanship,
with the profoundest veneration, as the ne plus ultra
of science, and wisdom, and breeding. And when he
saw Harold managing the unconquerable colt, as if he
were a part of the animal, it created a sudden and extraordinary
emotion in him. From that moment, he attached
himself to him. Here was another case in confirmation
of Harold's characteristick—he loved to be unexpected.
Whatever he did, he seemed to do well; and he knew
that that seeming would be exceedingly enhanced, could
his display appear the effect of unquestioned accident.
Thus, he danced, and walked, and rode, and wrestled,
and fenced, remarkably well, and yet no one could charge
him with having sought any opportunity for mere display.

It had been insufferably amusing to Harold, to witness
the clumsy attempts of the chaplain at horsemanship,
and yet more irresistibly so, to see his round, honest face,
shining with such perpetual self-complacency, as he would
lean over the bony neck of his pitching and ricketty
charger, whose joints rattled like some crazy enginery
over a rough pavement, pat him, and caress him, and
comb out his grizzly and tangled mane with his fingers,
and cry “woa! woa!—my fine fellow, woa!” as if soothing
some unmanageable charger: and this too, while the
whip and spur might have been applied to him in vain,
after he had been flayed alive.

They were received at a superb hotel, in distinguished
style; the chaplain being perfectly at home, and doing
the honours of the house in a most comfortable manner.
Having secured an apartment, ordered a porter for his

baggage, and dined; a friendly conversation ensued, in
which, the chaplain manifested one of the best hearts in
the world; and, after much questioning, discovered and
explained the use of his letters of credit, promising to
get him advances from some French house directly.

Soon after this arrangement, Harold renewed his rambles,
merely to kill time, until evening; but his feet were
soon sore with the pavements. He stopped and leaned
against a lamp post. The multitude went by, like a
crowded panorama. “A few months since,” said he,
to himself, “a savage—roving the woods of America—
a lover!—and of whom?” His reflections became insupportable;
he rambled, he knew not whither; palaces
and churches past before him, and many nations, peoples,
and tongues, but they passed as before a sleeping man,
in indistinctness and confusion, leaving no vestige behind.
The lamps were lighted—a new cause of wonder
to him—their interminable lines, approaching in the distance—they
reminded him of his engagement. He started—was
it necessary to change his dress? Had he time
to do it? No—he would not—this was a comfortable
one, and why should he change it? Indeed he began to
like it much better than his Indian garb—perhaps because
it was more convenient, lighter, and more beautiful; and,
perhaps, because he was unwilling to profane that garb
of royalty and dominion, by exposing it to a brutal populace.
At home, it was the battle signal—here, in London,
it might be the butt of mockery. He stamped, as
the thought lightened through his brain.

By the happiest accident in the world, he was arrested
with the touch of a friendly hand, as he was passing by
a magnificent building, illuminated from top to bottom.
He turned—it was the very house. The chaplain was at
his elbow. “I have been hunting the town through for
you,” said he.

Harold ascended the steps in silence. His heart misgave
him, as the light burst upon him, with the sound of
many voices: but it was too late,—he was expected, and
the doors were flung wide open before his approach—and
he entered the first of a superb suit, of rooms, all of which
were crowded, in a dead silence. What meant it? Was
he to be oppressed, dazzled and blinded at once? Or was

it in kindness, because it is sometimes easier to face a
multitude, than a few?

A gentleman approached, and accosted him with the
accent of inquiry. “Colonel De Vandreuil, I believe?”

Harold bowed, and coloured. That was not his name;
and yet, what other name had he? Logan, it was true,
was his by birthright; but who knew Logan, or cared
for him, in London? “And perhaps,” said he, aloud,
while his eyes flashed fire—“perhaps they may dignify
the Logans, by the title of colonel Logan!—damnation!”

The gentleman saw the working of his nether lip, and
bowed again, as if expecting an answer, in some anxiety.

“Yes sir—so I am called.”

“A card;” said the other, and immediately presented
one to him. It was in a well known hand. “Ask for
the lady Beryl. You will be led to me. Speak to me,
as if you were yet in the governour's family. Be prepared
for every thing. Show no astonishment, whatever
may happen. Let nothing surprise you. Be not intimidated.
Be yourself—be Logan!”

The gentleman left him, and passed out. His heart
beat furiously—stopped—and beat again; a mist came
over his eyes. “I will,” said he, audibly, “I will;” and
turning to a servant, he said, “lead me to my lady Beryl.”

The servant bowed, and led him forward, through two
rooms, blazing with lights. A strange stillness followed
him; and he traversed the last apartment, deliberately,
with a firm step, while every eye was upon him.

A party, who were all busy, very busy, in the sprightly
nothingness of fashionable employment, separated as he
approached, and drew themselves up, in silence, as if to
receive a standard; and a lady, whom he instantly recognized,
advanced to meet him—but, heaven and earth,
how changed!—Harold scarcely dared to lift his eyes to
her face. Her beauty was awful and majestick. She was
glittering in pearl and black—her dark hair was parted
in simplicity, upon her pale forehead, and interlaced with
broad bands of threaded pearl, that passed aslant over
her temples: her sweeping drapery, her perfect waist,
the beautiful dropping of her shoulders, and her look of
encouraging frankness, as she promptly extended her
hand to him, took poor Harold almost off his feet. He
was petrified at her self-command.

`Colonel,' said she, `I am delighted to meet you
again, and acknowledge, in the house of my brother,
how deeply sensible I am of your obliging, and incessant
attentions on the passage, to myself and child.' As
she said this, and he faltered out some unintelligible reply,
she stood more erect. He instantly comprehended
her, and followed her example.

He was then successively presented to the family of
the governour, as he, of whom they had `heard so
much.'

Harold instantly recovered himself. His dark eyes
lighted up, and he threw a glance over the faces
about him, with all the deliberate leisure and nonchalance
of high fashion. They shrunk, however, from his
inquisitive look, but admired his composure. This was
an experiment to him, but he made it the essential
rule of his future conduct, never to doubt, never to hesitate—It
being better to offend, by disregarding custom,
than by being ignorant of it, particularly of fashionable
custom. For the former you are never ridiculed,
though you may be hated; for the latter you are always
ridiculed, and sometimes hated too.

A new face, apparently seeking an opportunity of studying
his, without being seen, soon attracted his eye. It
was, as he caught a glimpse of it, the countenance of one
profoundly acquainted with man—another passed—It
was full of fiery impetuosity—their eyes met—an unequivocal
expression of pleasure passed over the lips of each.
All eyes were upon Harold. All were delighted with
the sudden and beautiful variations of character, to be
seen in his face. An old, and remarkably tall, stately
man, was among them. From the first moment that
Harold opened his lips, he had fixed his eyes upon
him, and kept them there. `Astonishing,' said he, at
last, reluctantly withdrawing his eyes—`De Vaudreuil!
a Frenchman! astonishing!'

He moved, and shook his venerable head, with the
aspect of royalty, repeatedly, as he renewed his gaze,
from time to time. A servant was passing. The old
man touched his elbow, and when he turned and

saw Harold, a sudden exclamation of surprise broke
from his lips.

Harold was exceedingly embarrassed. How strange
it was; go where he would, he was forever thus watched
and assailed. Was it custom? No; for he saw that other
strangers were overlooked. Turn which way he would,
he found himself exposed to the most painful scrutiny
—a perpetual attention too, respectful, it was true, but
nevertheless, of a nature terribly irksome to him. He
felt as if there was henceforth, to be no quiet for
him; no solitude, on this earth. He could not be alone.
He felt as if he were haunted!

He heard a quick cry. Some one touched him, in the
crowd that passed him, and as he turned, whispered,
`be surprised at nothing!' He instantly awoke, and
pressed a hand convulsively—`merciful heaven!' he
cried, and dropped the hand. It was the hand, not of
Elvira, but of an old man—he shook in all his joints,
as a pair of little eyes, preternaturally vivid, were turned
upon his face. He was barely restrained, indeed,
from uttering a cry of horrour; for the last time that he
had seen this apparition was in the blank solitude of
the west—by a voice that he knew. `Be undisturbed!'
it said. It was Elvira's; and he felt as grateful, as if she
had laid, forever, some spectre that had long haunted
him.

She passed on, and Harold followed her, and found
her occupied by, and occupying, a whole room of really
intelligent people. Never had he seen her so fascinating,
so full of spirit, and grace, and promptitude;
her tone thrilled through and through him, at times.

He heard voices in low conversation, near him. He
turned, but there was nobody near him, so occupied.
Could it be his fancy? One said `no, no, a Logan.'
Then a pause followed, and after a few moments, the
same voice continued, in a whisper, that, had his eyes
been shut, Harold would have believed to be within
reach of his arm—`resemblance!' pho! it is he, himself—
the whole family.'

`But why not apprise us of it?' said another, eagerly.

`Oh, that is for you and others, to discover. Resemblances

are always easy to find, when we go in search
of them—we are delighted with our own sagacity, you
know, in guessing right for a portrait, and pained, if
we are wrong. No, they would have it acknowledged,
by all, accidentally, without any premeditation.' Harold's
uneasiness at length, became downright irritation.
To be thus examined, even in kindness, by one
who could not brook any examination, seemed to be
carrying matters a little too far. His face soon showed
what was passing in his mind, and the whispers instantly
ceased. But others, at a distance, were still talking
about him, and they paid no regard to his agitation.
It seemed to give excitement to their remarks; for as
he became more and more impatient, they became more
and more earnest and emphatick, in their gesticulation
and glances.

Harold's patience was now gone. He threw up his
front, with that lofty and intrepid manner, which was so
peculiarly his own, when all his character was about to
break out at once—what was his surprise and mortification?—there
was a general and unqualified burst of
recognition, and Elvira looked at him, as if, at that moment,
he were acting a part, and had exactly touched
out with terrible distinctness, some point, hitherto
held inaccessible, of his original.

`Remember your lesson, Harold!' said she, coming
near him. `You are a heedless pupil—be patient, cool,
and circumspect.'

Harold heard her; and while he wondered the more,
at what she said, stood trebly braced for the conflict,
as her eyes shone upon him. One desperate effort—
one!—and he took her hand, and conducted her to the
group, into which, he immediately penetrated, and began
a conversation, with three or four, at the same
time, partly in French, to a lady, who so addressed
him, partly in Spanish, to an officer that was present,
and partly in English, of such raciness, energy, and
poignancy, that lady Elvira was overpowered, and
overwhelmed, with the display.

Harold was amazed at himself. There was a startling
energy, a promptitude and readiness in all his
thought, that astonished him. It was inspiration to

him. His abruptness of look and language was set off,
by an adaptedness of muscle and action, that made him
appear to think all over. It was a new study to them
that were about him; and his deep, musical voice, without
tone or affectation—the strong emphasis of his unqualified,
and apparently unchosen language, full of vigour
and power, were absolutely thrilling. Whence
came these new faculties? He knew not. True, he had
often felt in the war council, the loud prompting of a
spirit, anxious alike for distinction in the senate, and
the field; and twice or thrice, had he, under the sudden
and ungovernable excitement, produced by wrong or
violence, broke out, in their presence, with what they,
the men of the woods, the elder of whom had listened,
for half a century, unmoved as their own oaks, to the
thundering of their mightiest orators—with what they
considered the voice of denunciation and prophecy.

They shook in their seats. Their hair rose, and their
eyes lightened, as he stood planted before them; his
naked arm outstretched, with every muscle quivering,
as he pointed to the track of the depredating white men.
But then, that was at home—without preparation; for
if he had one moment to prepare, his heart withered,
and he shrunk appalled, from the fearful undertaking
of Eloquence.

True, he could debate, and after he had debated with
irresistible effect, where no formality or preparation had
unsettled or disturbed him, he would quake at the recollection
of his own temerity: but then, it was the rashness
of a vindictive spirit—now, he was no longer in an Indian
council, but standing under a blue canopy, glittering
with other lights than those of heaven—in a vast apartment,
swarming with beautiful apparitions, and peopled
with creatures so heavenly fair, that their very thought
seemed transparent. And yet! here, even here, unaccustomed
as he was, to the blaze and luxury of fashion
and beauty, he was speaking, before he knew it, with
such rapidity and effect, in his strong, poetical, and
awakening manner, that the priesthood of fashion stood
still before him; and he was soon completely environed
by eager and palpitating listeners. Was Harold aware
of their presence, and accumulation? He did not appear

to be—but, having once mounted his chariot, he could
not descend, till he had thundered and lightened to his
heart's content. He finished, and he started, as from a
trance, and the whole room appeared to swim before his
eyes—and the tapestry to be all alive with parting lips,
as he recovered, and saw how entirely he was the
speaker of the assembly. He blushed—faltered—attempted
an apology—and his character was instantly
established forever!

Was ever triumph more complete? One only thing,
Harold then wanted, for consummate happiness. The
wish was feebly, faintly articulated, but it passed over
his fevered heart, like the shadow of something green
and cool. What was that wish? It was, that his Indian
girl were near! He felt himself growing sick; but struggled
and arose. The thought of her would not be dispossessed.
It held its place. The lights burnt dim; he
heard only a confused ringing, and he put his hand to
his forehead, and covered his eyes. `Why?' said he, to
himself, `why comes she to my remembrance, now,
amid intoxication, and delirium?—sweet, blessed creature!
how have I wronged thee!—thy meek, uncomplaining
countenance is before me, now. I cannot shut
it out. I close my eyes, and cover them with my hands
—but thou art still visible—I am glad of it! I love this
secret spirituality of our intercourse—no, no!' he added,
passionately rising up, utterly forgetful of where he
was, and who was looking upon him, and dashing the
cold sweat from his forehead—`I have wronged her—
but, by the living God! I will atone for it, in blood and
tears!'

The company withdrew from him, in consternation.
The apartment was a solitude. One person only remained—the
very lights made the vacancy more melancholy,
nay, even more appalling. They shone, as if
in some of the self-illuminated mansions of the dead—
in silence and immobility—escutcheons and banners,
and spears, and rosaries, perhaps around, but all lifeless
and motionless. Harold turned deadly pale, for he
heard an echo, as he thought, to his own suppressed
groaning. It was lady Elvira. She put her hand upon

his forehead: and when he lifted his dark, mournful
eyes to hers, she fell upon his neck, and wept there.
He thanked her, pressed her hand, and arose, with
lips strongly compressed, and quivering with convulsion,
as if he felt, and would stifle, a mortal agony.

His brain whirled. He had been eloquent—but the
spell was broken, his subjects scattered, and his dominion
gone. He recalled a part of the drama—he saw
himself, distinctly, like a disembodied spirit, pass before
him!—he shuddered—turned to Elvira, and pointed
with his hand. But she saw nothing—nothing! Yet
there he was!—the same stately, cold silence—the deep
musing of his step—the folded arms, the haughty lip,
rebuking, with an inward scorn, the childish hilarity
and revelry about him. He saw the apparition of a
crowd. They stood awe-struck, before a black shadow
that declaimed before them, with a simple and strange
motion. He felt, the next moment, something like a
cold serpent, sliding over his heart. He was now
fronting a group of dancers—he paused, and lifted his
foot, as if he had set it, unshod, naked, upon a coiled
adder!

`Who can he be?—curse his familiar impudence!'—
he cried—`let me but reach him, and I will strangle him
before her eyes! Gracious heaven! he has taken her
hand—nay, I will abide here—he holds it too: holds
Elvira's hand, before an assembled multitude!'

This spectacle brought him to his senses at once. A
tenfold state and solemnity sat upon his brow. He suffered—O!
that he did, to the extremity of mortal sufferance;
but he was too proud to let any one suspect it
—no! though his heart were dissolving in its own agitation.
He approached, and attempted to renew the
conversation—but his very voice had changed. It was
mournful, and deep, and thrilling—but unsustained—
he was absent, distressed, and his countenance was ashy
pale—but his words were even more composed and
steady, than ever. No! no! he could not conceal his
agony. His fits of silence, suddenly broken, with a
melancholy earnestness to be occupied, and then resumed,
as if merely to distract the observation of the

company, from himself—there were enough for the
youngest and least experienced to judge by. No! no!
Harold was a bad player. His distress was visible, immediately,
where he least wished it to be, to Elvira,
herself. Others saw it, too, but they attributed it to
sudden illness—She, alone, of all that were near him,
felt and knew the real cause.

`I fear, my dear sir—I fear,' said a gentleman that
was near, in a tone of the most friendly and affectionate
concern—`that you are seriously ill, my young
friend.' As he said this, he extended his hand, as if to
feel Harold's pulse.

Harold bared his wrist, and stretched his arm over
the chair, with a smile; but the effort to be cheerful, at
such a moment, was worse than all. His eyes filled, in
spite of himself: and he was unable to speak for an instant;
but it was only for an instant—his soul rose like
an abused monarch, and he was himself again!—master
of his feelings, his looks, his tones, and his speech;
but still, above the affectation of appearing cheerful.

He arose to depart. The evening had been, O, how unlike
what he had expected—a time of weariness and pain.
Yet there was an involutary accompaniment, in all that
were near. They felt, and showed in that unequivocal manner,
a deep interest in the dark stranger; some had other
ways of showing it—some by silence—some by earnestness
of look—others, and they were all women, (for men
have no such delicacy) by diverting the attention of the
company from his distress, and embarrassment.

`Farewell!' said Harold, at last, rising abruptly,
as if he dared not trust his mind to linger on the
thought, and speaking in a low voice to his host, while
he bowed to the circle around, without once lifting his
eyes to her, the object of all his inquietude.

His host pressed his hands in silence. `Colonel! I am
sorry—(this was said with uncommon emphasis) to
part with you. I am a man of few words. But I expect
to see you every day, while you are here. My carriage
is at the door.'

Harold bowed, and was soon in his own apartment—
ignorant almost by what magick, the removal had been

made so quickly and silently, for he had heard nothing,
seen nothing, as they thundered along the streets.