When a friendly hand aids a shipwrecked traveller in reaching the shore, his first impulse is to express his boundless gratitude. Rest is sweet, even on the sand, to him who has just escaped the perils of the ocean; but if he finds no place of refuge on the shore, if his only hope of an asylum is the vague glimmer of some distant beacon, he is tempted to doubt his strength to reach the half-seen light, and if it will really prove a haven. Such had been the mixture of gratitude and apprehension the poor orphan felt the day she accepted from Mademoiselle Josephine the hospitality of the blue chamber, and it did not leave her the whole time of her stay in that first harbor of safety. But to-day, roused from her slumbers by the merry Christmas chimes, her first thought was: “Thank God, I have arrived at port”; and she rose from her spacious couch eager to begin her new life. She began the day by writing to Mademoiselle Josephine. Her old friend must be informed of her happiness before she could enter upon its enjoyment. It seemed only a debt of gratitude to share with her all her new and pleasing impressions. She also wrote to Madre Maddalena: she must without any delay link all the friends and joys of the past with
her present happiness and truly transformed life.
Her aunt, in assuring her the previous evening she was among her own—that is, at home—seemed to have constituted her, as by magic, a child of the house. Everything around her was new and somewhat strange, but everything pleased her as if naturally conformed to her tastes; and yet the walls of her room, hung with sombre colors, the old press of carved wood, which easily contained her limited wardrobe, the high-backed chairs ranged around, the antique bureau in one corner, and in the other a great monumental stove, the spectral aspect of which alone was surprising—all this might easily have offended an eye accustomed to the smiling magnificence of Italy, but not an object in the house seemed capable of imparting any sad impressions. The word welcome appeared inscribed on every side, as on all faces, and in this sweet atmosphere she instinctively felt that the material comfort was only a type of the mental freedom much more necessary than the other to the happiness of life.
“You must not dress in black today, Gabrielle,” said her two fair cousins, as they entered her chamber for the third time since she rose an
hour before, bearing a basket which contained garments similar to their own.
“Why not?” said Fleurange, somewhat astonished.
“Do you not know that, in Germany, mourning is laid aside on great festivals?” replied Clara, the younger of the two. “You must dress like us to-day, as you will always do when the time for this sad mourning is over.”
The elder of the two sisters noticed that her cousin made no reply: she approached her and said affectionately:
“Excuse Clara if she has distressed you. She is so gay and happy herself, that she cannot comprehend misfortune and sadness.”
“I do not wish to remind her of them to-day,” said Fleurange, “and will do as she requests. But you, dear Hilda,” continued she—looking with admiration at her cousin’s golden locks and grave brow, which a queen’s diadem would have suited, or the aureola of a saint—“are you not as gay and happy as your sister?”