“An hour afterward I saw, from the window of the music-room, a dark blue barouche, drawn by four dapple gray horses, standing before the entrance to the seminary. Lord Clarendon was buttoning up his great-coat, and speaking to a servant, while a liveried footman assisted the young lady into the carriage, presently the gentleman followed also. As the equipage whirled away, she glanced up at the house, and observing me at the window, bowed, and waved her small white hand; they were quickly out of sight. The recollection of that sweet young lady remained fresh in my memory for years; I often wondered whether she ever lived to reach England, or whether death’s iron grasp had seized her in a strange land, and I often wished to see her, but my wish was never gratified.
“Two years glided away: Inez had become a beautiful blossom; Blanche was yet but a half-blown bud; I was a tall, slender child. During this length of time I had made quiet, but steady progress in English, French, and Italian, together with my native language; I had gained the love of my preceptors, and I was happy, because I was occupied. We had become a happy trio of firm friends, and notwithstanding women seldom agree, we continued, from first to last, devotedly attached to each other. It was, perhaps, my first grief of the heart, when Inez was withdrawn by Monsieur Belmont from the school. True, I had suffered many privations in early childhood, but they affected more my physical than mental system; moreover the uncultivated mind of a child is incapable of reflection; but now, from the beneficent influence of education, I could think—in after years, I learned to reason too. Blanche and myself dwelt with sentiments of regret upon our approaching separation from Inez; we seemed to love her more, now she was about to part from us. I presume it was the perversity of human nature, which enhances the value of those objects we are about to lose.
“It was the morning of her departure. Inez stood with her shawl and bonnet on, in our preceptress’ parlor; Madame was also there, conversing, and gesticulating with French vivacity to Monsieur. Inez had bidden farewell to all her acquaintances, and tears dropped heavily from her large black eyes. It was a lovely summer day; I heard the chirping of the birds; the sun shone brilliantly; all nature seemed to wear a gala dress; we kissed her in silence, and stood by her, each pressing one of her hands in ours.
“‘So, children, you are about to be separated,’ cried our mutual master; ‘you all look very sad about it, but Inez will be very happy, I know, when she becomes a gay woman of the world; with her splendid voice, she will make a sensation, and a fortune too. As for you, you will soon forget your grief. Blanche’s turn will come next, and then you will be left alone, Genevra.’
“‘Yes, sir, I know it,’ I mechanically replied, for I was thinking of Inez.
“‘Genevra has improved much in looks of late. Do you not think so, Madame?’ asked the gentleman.
“‘Yes,’ answered she, glancing at me momentarily. ‘I always thought her a pretty child; she is obedient and polite, and very studious; but all the pupils look better in warm weather, than during the cold inclement season of the year; they will miss their schoolmate at first, I suppose, but then they will soon grow reconciled to her absence, for children soon forget.’
“Time demonstrated to me the truth of Madame’s observation, that children, and sometimes men and women, ‘soon forget.’ Oh, beloved companions of my childhood! how often have my thoughts reverted to the innocent hours of pleasure, passed at that school. Where are now the brilliant anticipations of the future? where are the devoted lovers, the unfailing friends we fondly pictured to ourselves? Alas! like the shades of Ossian’s heroes, they have faded into air, thin air.
“Our adieus to Inez were weepingly paid, and we saw her depart with our teacher; he promised to send us an account of her debut, and kept his word. A few months subsequently a literary Gazette was sent to Madame, who, after reading it, showed it to us; a paragraph, marked with ink, indicated an eulogium upon the personal appearance, and exquisite voice, of the beautiful young cantatrice, Mademoiselle Inez Fontana. She had made her debut at Berlin: this was a Berlin newspaper. How delighted she must feel at her triumph. For the first time, it occurred to me that it must be a fine thing to have the world’s applause. Blanche and myself were pleased at her success; almost as well pleased as we would have been at our own. One is generally gratified at hearing of a friend’s celebrity; it flatters our self-love, since it is our friend who has obtained renown.
“The days and weeks, and months, still sped onward. At first, the loss of Inez seemed almost irreparable; in all our amusements we had always formed a little party among ourselves, now our ‘set’ was broken, and we missed her joyous ways; different to my beloved, confiding Blanche; she was apparently more impassioned, but in reality less so; there was an under-current of strong, deep feeling, in the disposition and character of my fair-haired favorite, her more volatile companion never possessed.