My prostrate soul,—I rose—undid the door,
And rushed down stairs with haste to welcome him.
That eve we left for town, but over since,
I venture not, like others, to adorn
My sitting room with sheets of shining glass,
Or look into a mirror when alone.
BIANCA.
OR
THE YOUNG SPANISH MAIDEN.
"Féicité passé
Qui ne petit revenir,
Tourment de la pensée,
Que n’ai-je en te perdaut, perdu le souvenir!
CHAPTER 1.
It was a cold, drizzling day of February. The bare trees waved their withered branches to the biting wind, in a weird and mournful manner, as if they were wringing their hands in agonised despair.
A funeral procession was winding slowly up the path; two mourners followed the coffin; the church yard was in a lonely place; so there were no half-curious, half-sympathising people following. It was the daughter of Alonzo Garcia a foreign gentleman residing in England, his eldest daughter and his most loved; the youngest was by his side, Bianca. She did not weep; she was calm and quiet, and followed her father with a downcast race; no tear was there in her eye. The Rector, Mr. Smith waited at the vestry he shook Mr. Garcia’s hand but did not utter a word. He also took Bianca’s hand in both of his, in a fatherly way; his grasp, his kindly look, brought the tears to her eyes, and she bent her head lower. Then they all followed the Bad procession. Through the drear wind and falling snow, clear, soft, mournful yet comforting was heard the voice of Mr. Smith.
