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"Half light, half shade She stood; a sight to make an old man young."....Tennyson.

THE dusky shade of a green wood.

Golden bars of sunshine are slanting through the trees; the morning dews gleam from the opening hearts of wild flowers, and on the spear-like blades of waving grasses. Above stretches the wide, warm beauty of a cloudless sky—a sky that glows with rose and sapphire as the dawn touches it with a farewell kiss, and leaves it to the fuller splendour of the waking day.

The wood stands on a southern hill-side in the fair vine country of Lorraine. The land is bright with the new-born beauty of spring—glorious with light, replete with colour wherever the eye wanders. The young vines have just begun to uncurl their delicate tendrils; the breath of budding blossoms weighs on every breeze. Through the corn-fields and bridle-roads there is a delicious, delicate gleam of tender green, or wondrous flushes of pale pink from the almond and peach trees. The grasses are crimsoned with tulips; every nook is sweet with odours of violets, and where the silver light of the winding river catches the sun's rays, there rises the faint blue vapour of the morning mists, or the smoke of a barge lazily drifting on the quiet water, while its owners sleep.

Beyond the wood a broad white road is visible, bordered on either side by flowering chestnuts, and winding downwards into a valley from whence it again ascends, and leads on through breadths of corn-land and fragrant orchards, till it is lost in the distance. In the heart of the wood where the shadows are deepest a tiny brook runs merrily along, singing a song of its own to the lilies and forget-me-nots which grow on its borders; but the lilies are not the only listeners this fair spring morning, and the shy forget-me-nots, as they peep into the waters to see their own reflection, behold another vision there to.

A young girl stands by the brook-side, smiling down at the waters which mirror her own loveliness. Only a girl of some sixteen summers, bare-headed, poorly clad, but beautiful exceedingly, with that beauty which no poverty can hide. The slender form owes nothing to the coarse, ill-fitting garments which may disfigure but cannot conceal its perfect grace and rounded outlines. The lustrous eyes, and tender poetic face, are eloquent with thought and feeling; but the loveliness that makes the face so infinitely witching is something purer and deeper than even its external perfection—it is the beauty of a lovely soul, a pure and noble spirit.

She seems in deep thought, as she lingers there in the warm spring glory of the early day. The light breeze kisses her hair. The birds overhead sing loud and sweet, but she scarcely heeds them. The musing languor deepens in her eyes, and some wave of deeper feeling, some touch of graver thought shadows the innocent calm of the girlish face, and, while taking nothing from its beauty, gives that beauty a sweeter, sadder meaning.

"What a picture for an artist!"

These words, uttered just loud enough to reach her ear, startle her suddenly from her abstraction. Glancing hastily round she observes two figures on the path beyond, attentively watching her. The hot, swift colour flies to her cheek as she becomes conscious of their scrutiny, and as if that scrutiny were in some way offensive to her she turns hastily away, and unheeding the laughing salutation which follows her departure, disappears with rapid steps in an opposite direction.

"Too bad, really! Have I frightened her, De Verdreuil?" questions the younger of the two men who have disturbed her solitude so abruptly. "But I say what a lovely face to find in these woods of yours! Do you know who she is?"

"I can't say I do—a paysanne, or cottager's daughter, I suppose. I have been so long absent from Renonçeux that I can claim no knowledge of its sylvan divinities. Have you fallen a victim to this new face already, Legard? You look moon-struck enough. How you do rave about the beau sexe to be sure! The very sight of a petticoat puts all your ideas to flight with the exception of one—that of making love to its owner!"

"True enough!" laughed the other. "But how am I to help it, Raoul? I was born to adore women—it's my nature. I believe I fell in love with my nurse at the tender age of three, and since then I have gone on improving."

"Improving, Gaston!"

"Well, my dear fellow, don't look supercilious over it. I know what a cynic you are in these matters, but make allowances for others who find charms in the pursuits you despise."

"Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle, in my opinion. Thank goodness I have no time to waste on women, and less inclination than time. Flirtations are only for idle fellows like you, Legard!"

"Lucky for me, I say. Love-making is the poetry and essence of life. Fancy preferring politics to bright eyes, and ministerial embroglerie to boudoir intrigues. It will be all the worse for you one day though, mon ami."

"Indeed—and why?" asked his companion, raising his eyebrows with a faint gesture of disdain.

"Why? Because I never yet knew one of you cold, cynical individuals who despise or affect to despise women, who did not do one of two things; worship hopelessly a very cold one, or fall madly in love with a very bad one. Take my word for it, De Verdreuil, you'll do one or other yet."

"My dear Gaston!" laughed the other; "it is no use arguing about it, I know, for we should never agree. It seems to me 'a folly's crown of folly,' if I may venture to use such a parody, for any man to sigh and languish, and make himself an object of compassion and ridicule to all beholders for the sake of a woman. Thank God I have never done it, nor do I mean to begin, if I can help it."

"All very fine to talk," laughed the other. "One of these days, Raoul, you will find that your heart is not so invulnerable as you imagine. Even Achilles had his weak point, you know!"

"Of course as you pass your whole existence in love-making, Legard, you cannot believe that I really mean what I say on the subject. Change, it pray—there's a good fellow. I promised to show you the finest view of the château, did I not? Just wait till we turn this point, and then look at something fairer even than a woman's face—at least, in my opinion."

An exclamation of involuntary admiration fell from Gaston Legard's lips, as he obeyed his companion's directions.

They were out of the wood now, and on the summit of the hill which sloped gradually down to the park and estates of Renonçeux, one of the oldest and noblest possessions in Lorraine, and belonging to a race old and famous as itself. At present it was owned by Raoul de Verdreuil, father of the dark, grave-looking man, who now stood gazing down at his prospective possessions with mingled pride and admiration. The château, with its grey towers and sloping terraces, its famous gardens blushing with roses from end to end, was very old and very beautiful. It looked tranquil and innocent enough now in the clear soft morning light, but it had a host of traditions, of blood-stained records, and terrible deeds surrounding it. Those shady, odorous gardens, full of the murmurs of birds and bees, and sweet with the fragrance of scented winds, bore many and mournful memories; had witnessed scenes of guilt, and woe, and passion; had heard love-tales both reckless and despairing. But there were no voices to speak of it now, for Nature keeps her secrets so faithfully and well, that no living mortal ever yet accused her of confidence betrayed.

Raoul de Verdreuil, whose grave, dark eyes rested with mingled pride and affection on his beautiful home, was the last of his race; a race famous for loyal courage, for a lofty, stainless pride in name and possessions, for dauntless chivalry and unimpeachable honour; yet a race who had won more fear than love, more admiration than regard. Kings had known the value of their services, changing dynasties had felt the terrible influence of their power. The courtly graces and faultless chivalry of the old régime still lingered round them, but their ruling passion was pride—a lofty, self-sufficient pride, that never brooked insult, or forgave dishonour; that held aloof from the follies, and passions, and failings of the day, more because they deemed them unworthy of imitation, than that they really despised them. A pride that had broken many hearts, cursed many lives, and yet was inherent in each successor.

"Well, was I not right in telling you the view was worth the trouble of the walk?" said Raoul de Verdreuil, breaking the silence at length, and turning towards his friend.

"It is splendid—magnificent!" was the reply. "Ah! De Verdreuil, I am inclined to envy you, indeed. Not only have you won a position for yourself in the ministerial world, but you have all this wealth and property in prospect. Truly fortune has smiled upon you to some purpose!"

"Yes; I have not much to complain of," was the answer.

"And yet I daresay you are not content," said Gaston Legard, laughing. "I wonder if any of us ever are content with our life, and sphere, and prospects. I don't believe it. Look at yourself for instance; instead of living quietly at home or enjoying yourself, without any trouble, you must needs plunge into all the embroglia of ministerial life, and worry yourself from morning to night with diplomatic stratagems which carry you off to all parts of the globe, when you might be amusing yourself in Paris. How foolish it seems to me!"

"Only because you are differently constituted," said Raoul de Verdreuil, smiling. "What seems to you delightful and amusing is to me little else than boredom and ennui. I get so heartily sick of the intrigues, follies, and scandals of fashionable life, that I am thankful to fly from it at every opportunity. My ambition lies in winning fame, in achieving distinction, in tasting the sweets of power, and ruling, instead of being ruled. Yours, Legard," he added, laughing, "consists of conquests of which you tire as soon as they are achieved, and sunning yourself in smiles, whose very sweetness palls upon your fancy in the space of a month."

"Quite as sensible a proceeding, it seems to me, as that of playing the part of 'Monkey and roasted Chestnuts' to a Court," was the quick retort, "in settling petty ministerial squabbles, in flying abroad at a moment's notice to fulfil impossible instructions, or suavely endeavouring to pacify countries who quarrel over split hairs. What pleasure can such a life have? To me it is an incomprehensible mystery."

"I suppose so," was the quiet answer. "Well, we won't pursue the subject, Legard; as we only seem inclined 'to agree to differ' respecting it. Shall we go back the way we came, or would you prefer a change of route?"

"I suppose there's no chance of the 'pretty paysanne' appearing on the scene again," said Gaston Legard regretfully. "Well, I will trust to your choice, De Verdreuil, you know more of the locality than I do."

"Come this way, then," said his friend, leading the way down the hill, and turning into a broad road shaded by large and magnificent trees, which appeared to run straight in the direction of the château. They proceeded slowly along, discussing subjects grave or gay at intervals, but it was evident their minds were of too dissimilar a nature for any great sympathy to exist between them.

"By the bye, De Verdreuil," remarked Gaston Legard, as they were nearing the entrance gates, "how do you like the new inmate of Renonçeux? Your beautiful and juvenile belle-mère; your manner does not give me the idea of her advent being a pleasant one to you. I suppose the change was not agreeable?"

A flush rose to the dark, handsome face of Raoul de Verdreuil at this inquiry, and a strange light gleamed in his eyes, which might have warned his companion that he was treading on dangerous ground.

"No change could be exactly agreeable that interfered between the close relationship and complete confidence of my father and myself," he said, coldly. "However his happiness is above all selfish considerations, and where it is concerned my own feelings must not interfere."

"I know that very well; your love for your father used to be a byword among us even in your school days, Raoul; but nevertheless, I should scarcely think that the sudden introduction of a young and beautiful woman like the Countess de Verdreuil into your domestic life was quite welcome to such a woman-hater as yourself. What changes she has made in Renonçeux already!"

The calm, grave face of the young count grew paler and harder than its wont at these careless words; it was evident that the discussion was not a pleasant one to him, though he skilfully evaded any expression of his real feelings.

"Changes for the better, you must allow, Gaston," he said lightly. "The old château wanted brightening up, I am sure, and female influence, however much it interferes with the serious interests of life in my opinion, is yet a necessary evil sometimes. The place looked quite dreary and deserted a year ago, and look at it now!"

"It is lively and gay enough, at all events, under the rule of its present chatelaine," answered the other. "She knows how to make life enjoyable, does she not, De Verdreuil?"

"According to your views of enjoyment, yes," said Raoul de Verdreuil; "but you know our opinions differ very widely on that subject."

"And on a good many others, eh, de Verdreuil? Well, we've no more time for arguments or disagreements either, for here comes your fidus Achates to meet you. I suppose I'd better beat a retreat, for you two will be up in the clouds, and raving about celestial chords, and divine harmonies, and goodness knows what."

"Nonsense," said the other, sharply; "Albert Hoffmann can talk about other things beside music, Legard. Don't hurry away like that."

As he spoke the object of these remarks came up to them.

He was a young man, apparently about eighteen or nineteen years of age, but he might have been even less, so fair and boyish was the delicate face, so slight and almost fragile the figure. Many people looking at that dreaming brow, those soft, violet eyes, and tender, mobile lips, called the face "womanish," and womanish perhaps it was in its extreme beauty of form and colouring. Albert Hoffmann looked what he was—a poet—a dreamer—an artist whose whole soul was filled with dreams of some impossible greatness, some beauty and divinity that only vexed the humanity which vainly strove to shape and clothe it in more material forms. Of life in its grosser, harsher phases Albert knew scarce anything. He had been carefully sheltered from all such knowledge by his guardian, Raoul's father, and he had lived at Renonçeux as long as he could remember.

A few words will tell his history as he joins Raoul de Verdreuil and Gaston Legard, and walks with them up to a side entrance of the château. His father was a German nobleman, who had married a beautiful singer, a fair dazzling creature of no known parentage, but of great gifts. They had both died, and the Count de Verdreuil being the chief and only friend of the Graf von Hoffmann, undertook the sole charge and care of his infant son, who seemed to have inherited all his mother's genius and beauty. Albert Hoffman had no remembrance of either of his parents; he had grown up and associated with scarce any one but Raoul de Verdreuil and his father—grown up with an artist's soul within his fragile, delicate form, and a poet's dreams of all things beautiful in his heart.

He loved Raoul devotedly—worshipped and admired him perhaps all the more, for the very contrast his splendid physical powers and cultivated intellect presented to his own fragile strength and dreamy nature. His constitutional delicacy had interfered in a great measure with his education, and his nervous dread of public schools had obliged his guardian to keep him entirely at home. The boy's absorbing passion was music. Of that his soul was full—of that he dreamt unceasingly. He would spend hours in the music-room at Renonçeux pouring out the fancies that filled his brain, wedding the strangest and subtlest of harmonies into that one perfect whole of beauty and of power which calls on music for its sole interpreter; proving the strength and force of his gifts by every trifle that he penned, yet withheld from public hearing for very diffidence and fear.

He worshipped music with mingled awe and rapture—uncertain of his own powers, yet conscious of a strength possessing him and leading him on to dare the wildest difficulties of his art. Longing for praise, yet dreading discouragement, timid and fearful of his own strength, yet feeling his heart thrill with divine ideals, and tremble with ecstatic joy as slowly and surely dawned upon him the almost certain conviction of his own genius. There was a story for him in the songs of the birds, in the waving branches of the trees, in the brown brook's laughing babble, as it chattered over the stones and kissed the blue forget-me-nots that bordered it. There was a history for him in the opening blossoms, in the tender buds with the dews shut in their virgin hearts, in the golden hues of the corn fields, in the flaming scarlet poppies, in the rich, sweet fragrance of the laden vines. Everything in Nature touched him and appealed to him, for Art is no Art when it cannot bow the heart it rules, to love and reverence that one great Teacher.

Albert had never left Renonçeux; its familial beauty was dear and sacred to him as the only name he had ever known, and neither his guardian's nor Raoul's persuasion could ever induce him to accompany them on any of their visits to Paris. "He was happier at the château," he always said, and when they found he was really in earnest they let him please himself in the matter, and ceased to wonder at, or argue about his strange fancy.

So years had drifted quietly along; then suddenly came a change in Renonçeux, for which neither Raoul nor Albert Hoffmann was prepared. The old Count de Verdreuil, after being twenty years a widower, suddenly married again; a woman, too, whose extreme youth and marvellous beauty were apparently her sole attractions, for no satisfactory account of her birth or antecedents was ever received by the world. Society shrugged its shoulders and wondered and whispered many things about the new Countess of Renonçeux, but to no one did the news of this marriage give such grief and anger as to the proud and haughty Raoul de Verdreuil. He was absent at the time, but came hurrying home with swiftest speed at the first news of his father's marriage.

What passed between them no one ever knew; no whisper of the nature of that interview ever escaped one or other, but that it had been a terrible and agitating one was plainly seen. Raoul left the château immediately afterwards, ostensibly on business of political importance, but Albert, who received his hurried farewell, saw there was some strange and forcible reason for this hasty departure.

"God bless you, my friend," he had whispered in hoarse and uncertain accents, "I am not coming back for another year; it is best so. Look after my father for me, and don't let him believe ill of me!"

Then he was gone, and Albert Hoffmann in no small wonder and surprise was left to puzzle over this mysterious conduct on the part of his friend. At first he thought it must arise from jealousy. He had loved his father so deeply that he could not bear any one to step between him and his father's love and confidence. "Yes, that must be the reason," thought Albert to himself, "and perhaps in time when the first pain and jealousy wears off they will be reconciled, and as good friends as ever."

He did not know that men once estranged by a woman's influence can never again be quite the same. The world has proved that over and over again.

A year passed, and then news reached the château that the young count was coming back to Renonçeux once more, and great joy filled Albert's heart at the news. There had been changes innumerable since the installation of the new countess. The reception-rooms had been altered and redecorated to suit her taste, the gardens laid out in improved style and on improved system, but she had sense enough to see that the antique and faultless beauty of the château itself could be in no way improved by modern art, and so she suffered it to remain with the severe and time-worn character of its architecture untouched and undisturbed. But she filled it with guests. She made the most of her first Parisian season, and having conquered coldness and smiled down distrust, was pronounced by the World of Fashion to be a success in her way. She was too beautiful, too bewitching, too full of life, and joy, and vitality herself to mingle in society and not captivate it; and when, for the first time since her marriage, she threw open the long-closed portals of Renonçeux to the élite of the world of fashion, her invitations were eagerly accepted, and people affected to forget they had ever styled the lovely Blanche de Verdreuil "a designing adventuress."

But to return to the trio on the terrace this bright spring morning. Albert Hoffmann came eagerly up to his friend, and seemed longing yet hesitating to make some request to him which the presence of Gaston Legard interfered with. Raoul's quick eyes read the restraint in his manner immediately, and helped him out of it.

"Excuse me now, Legard," he said, as they reached the broad flight of steps leading to the entrance; "I am going to the music-gallery till breakfast time. I promised Albert to hear and see all he has been doing during my absence. Oh! there comes Beaumarchais; he will be delighted to have a chat with you, I'm sure;" and nodding gaily in the direction of the gentleman in question, who was sauntering along with a cigar in his mouth, Raoul linked his arm carelessly in that of Albert Hoffmann's, and entered the château with him.