Rose D'Albret; or, Troublous Times.

by G. P. R. James

She then turned all her efforts to calm and soothe the old Commander; and so tenderly, so kindly, did she busy herself about him, that the heart of the rough old soldier was moved, and he exclaimed, "Bless thee, my child, thou art a sweet good girl; and I wish I could but live to do thee some service. But it is in vain, Helen, it is all in vain; not that I mind this burning pain; for that more or less follows every wound, but 'tis the sudden failing of my strength. All power seems gone; and, in an instant, I have become as if I were a child again. I was lame and well nigh crippled with old wounds before; for I never was in battle or combat but I was sure to receive some injury--such was my ill-luck; but still in my hands and arms I was as strong as ever, could bend a double crown between my thumbs, or break the staff of a lance over my knee. Now it is a labour to me to lift my hand to my head; and that has come all in a moment. This means death; Helen, this means death!"

"Nay, perhaps not," replied Helen de la Tremblade. "The body is strangely composed; and the ball may rest upon some sinew or some nerve that gives strength; yet all may be well again."

The old man shook his head, but still he remained cheerful, often talking of death, yet never seeming to look upon it with dread or horror. In about an hour a surgeon arrived, examined and probed the wound, and descanted learnedly upon its nature. But with him, the good old Commander showed himself irritable and impatient, writhed under his hand, declared he tortured him, and seemed to shrink more from pain, than from death itself. The man of healing soon saw that he could do but little. To Helen's anxious inquiries, however, he did not give the most sincere answers, leaving her to hope, that the wound might be cured, and saying, that he would come again at night. He calculated indeed, that his patient would live over the next day, and that there would be time enough for a priest to be summoned. That was all that his conscience required; and he judged--perhaps kindly--that it was useless to torment a sick man with the thoughts of death, for many hours before the event took place.

During the whole of the rest of the day, Helen seldom, if ever, quitted the bed-side of the Commander de Liancourt. Though careless of life, inured by long habit to suffering, and even somewhat impatient of anything that seemed like forced attention to his state, the old warrior was not at all insensible to real kindness. He saw that she sympathised with him, that she really felt for all he endured, that she did her best to soothe and to allay, to comfort and support him. He could not but see it; for though, ever and anon, the shadow of her own fate would fall upon her again, and she would sit, for a moment or two, in gloom and darkness, yet at his lightest word, at his least movement, she was up and by his bed-side. The cup was always ready for his lips, the pillow was constantly smoothed for his head, his wishes seemed anticipated, his very thoughts answered, and even the burning impatience of growing fever could not run before her promptitude. When he obtained a moment of repose, she was calm and silent. When he wished to speak, she was ready to answer, in sweet and quiet tones that sounded pleasant to his ear; when his breathing became oppressed, she was there to raise his head upon her soft arm, to open the window for the air of spring to enter, and to bathe his fiery brow. To another young and inexperienced being, the scene might have been terrible, the task hard; but to her, it was all a relief. A share in any sorrow, was lighter than the full burden of her own; and aught that took her thoughts from herself, delivered her from a portion of her anguish.

More than once, the old man gazed upon her fixedly for two or three minutes, as if there was something that he wished to say, and yet did not; more than once, he sent away his followers, who came and went during the afternoon between his room and the next, as if he were about to speak of something that lay at his heart; but still he refrained, till, just as the light was beginning to fade, he turned painfully in the bed, and murmured, "Helen."

The poor girl was by his side in a moment; and putting forth his now burning hand, he took hers, continuing, "Helen, I wish to talk to you about yourself before I go."

Helen trembled like an aspen leaf. Four-and-twenty hours before, in the first agony of desolation and despair, she would have poured forth her whole soul to any one who offered her a word of kindness and sympathy; but a change had come over her since then; the power of thought had returned, conscience and shame and remorse had made themselves heard, over even the tumultuous voices of grief and indignation and hopeless agony. The still, but all-pervading words of self-reproach, filled her ear continually; and, in the blank wilderness of existence, she saw but her own folly. She shrank then, and trembled when he spoke of herself. There was no name but one that he could have pronounced, which would have sounded more horrible to her ears than her own.

"Oh not now, not now!" she cried, drawing back.

But the old man still held her hand in his, which seemed to scorch her; and he went on, "Why not now, Helen? It will soon be too late. The minutes are numbered, my poor girl. The hand upon the dial seems to go slow, but it will soon point to the hour when this fire shall have burned itself out, and nothing but the ashes will remain.--I have learned something of your story, Helen, from the people who came with my keen, harsh sister, Jacqueline.--Old Estoc heard it, and told it to me; but I would know more,--I would know all--"

"Oh not now, not now!" cried Helen again; and, by a sudden movement of anguish and terror, she drew her hand from him, and, with a gasping sob, ran out of the room.