Far from any such thought, he merely regarded Keefe as an instrument he was compelled to use in securing Coral’s health and happiness, and after many struggles, he at length resolved to invite the young man to Quebec, and let circumstances direct his future course. But when the moment of Writing the letter had arrived, when Coral’s pleading eyes and earnest tone were gone, a consciousness of the great sacrifice he was about to make came over him more strongly than ever. The pride, principles, and prejudices of a lifetime rose in arms against conduct which, in his eyes, seemed dishonour to himself, and sacrilege against the long line of ancestors from whom he had inherited his name. Had the ancient possessions of his father, whose blood he could trace back to the days of Charlemagne, unstained by a drop of plebeian origin, after all he had suffered, come a second time into his hands, that he might throw them away on an obscure, illiterate, and low-born youth in the backwoods of Canada? He groaned in agony at the thought; but the image of Coral, wasted, wan, dying, again seemed standing at his side,—Coral, whom he loved with that absorbing love we give to the only thing dear to us on earth; and again he felt that could he but save her, the loss of everything else could be borne. Yet still the struggle in his breast between pride and love was strong and terrible, till it was ended in a way of which he had not dreamed.
CHAPTER XXII.
Filled with joy and hope, Coral tied on her straw hat, and wrapped a light scarf round her shoulders, murmuring as she did so wild snatches of song and exclamations of delight. As she passed through the hall, a canary in a gilded cage raised his crest, flapped his wings, and poured forth a strain of pleasure; and when she went up to the cage and opened the door, the little creature flew into her bosom, and nestled there, with low, caressing sounds of joy. The bird was a perfect beauty, of a deep golden hue, with a tiny green crest, glittering like an emerald on the summit of his head,—the survivor of a pair which the Count had bought, in the hope that they would give some amusement to Coral. And Coral soon imagined a sympathy between her fate and that of those beautiful little creatures. Like her, they were lodged in a gilt and ornamented dwelling, fed with delicate food, and attended with sedulous care; but, like her, they were denied liberty, free will, and the scenes and enjoyments of nature. It was not long before one of the little prisoners met with release. One morning, on going as usual to the cage, Coral found the female lying dead, while her mate, with ruffled feathers and drooping crest, nestled close to her side, uttering a low piping note of sorrow, and at intervals caressing her with his beak. And from this time he showed the most passionate affection for Coral, greeting her with his sweetest warblings whenever she appeared, thrusting his little beak through the wires, and the moment she opened the door flying into her bosom, and expressing his delight by caresses. It would have been strange if Coral had not returned this affection; and if, in her forest home, she had delighted to give food and happiness to the little birds of the woods, when she and they were alike free, there was something tenderer in the fondness she felt for the companion of her thraldom, who received all the pleasures his captive life could know from her hands.
“Come, dear Ariel,” she said, returning her fsvourite’s caresses, “you shall not be left in your gloomy little prison; you shall come with me, and feel the fresh breeze and the warm sunshine, without any envious shade between. Sing, Ariel, sing! be glad, be happy, if you love me: everything that loves me should be happy to-day. All the world should be happy if I could make them so. But I cannot make even you happy, my poor Ariel. I cannot restore you to your own bright land; I cannot give you back your dead mate. The little brown birds that hop about the woods of Long Arrow are happier than you. This morning I envied them; but when Keefe comes I’ll envy them no longer. Keefe is coming! Oh, joy! oh, gladness! Keefe is coming; he will soon be here!”
With Ariel perched on her arm, she passed into the portico, and ran down the steps, repeating again and again to herself, “Keefe is coming! Keefe is coming! he will soon be here!”
With eyes newly bathed in the sunshine of joy, she gazed on the light shadowy clouds that floated over her head, and her lips drank in the sweet pure air, as if it had been some divine and immortal elixir.
A veil seemed suddenly to have fallen from her sight—a cloud from her heart—and once more she saw and felt that the world was bright and beautiful, and full of bliss. She followed a winding path that led to the river, watching the last butterflies of the season as they flitted across her feet, and stopping every now and then to gather some bright-tinted leaf which seemed to her fancy more beautiful than the rest; sometimes warbling the little Indian air Keefe liked so well, sometimes uttering words of fondness to her bird; often pausing to clasp her hands together in ecstasy, and exclaim, “Keefe is coming! He will soon be here!”
Her certainty of bliss grew fuller and fuller every moment, and her song seemed higher and higher,
Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun!
