A STUDENT—THE RETURN—GERTRUDE LANGUEVILLE—LOVE.

Day closed in night, and night opened into morning,
for many long and tedious weeks, and still
the old soldier sat by the bed-side of his wounded
child.

The generous boy, too honourable to prevaricate,
yet too forgiving and fond of his brother to expose
all the truth, had told him that he had fallen
against the pedestal, but not that Achille had thrust
him against it.

Their father never knew the agency of Achille in
the accident; yet, bearing testimony to the truth of
the maxim, that suspicion is the handmaiden of
guilt, Achille suspected that he was informed of all
the circumstances connected with the act. This
suspicion, giving its own tinge to the medium through
which he viewed and commented upon his father's
deportment towards him after the accident, led him
to conclusions as unjust as they were unmerited by

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his parent. Acting from these conclusions he shunned
his society, and never entered his presence but
with a sullen air of defiance.

Occasionally he visited the chamber of his brother,
when, in answer to his frequent inquiries of the
nurse, he learned that he slept; and pressing the
fevered hand, or kissing the cheek of the sleeping
sufferer, he would watch over him with the tenderness
of a mother till the restless motions of the invalid,
indicating the termination of his slumbers, or
the heavy footsteps of his father ascending the stainway
in the hall, warned him to return to the seclusion
of his own room, or the deeper solitudes of the
forests.

A few months passed away, during which Achille
became a student within the walls of a university
not far from his paternal home; while his brother,
entirely recovered, accompanied his parent on his
transatlantic voyage.

The period of Achille's residence at the university
afforded no incidents which exerted any influence
over his subsequent years. It glided away pleasantly
and rapidly. He was known by the professors
as one, who, never in his study, or a consumer
of midnight oil, yet always prepared for the recitation
room; and by his fellows, as a young man of violent
passions, honourable feelings, chivalrous in points of
honour, a warm friend and magnanimous enemy.
Often violent and headstrong in his actions, he was
just and equitable in his intercourse with those around
him. With a love for hilarity and Tuscan pleasures,
he never descended to mingle in the low debauches
and nightly sallies, which, from time immememorial
have characterized the varieties of college
life.

At the early age of nineteen, he received its honours,
and bidding adieu to the classic walls within
which he had passed so many happy hours—the

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happiest of his life—he proceeded to an adjacent
port where he expected his father to disembark, on
his return from his long residence abroad.

The little green coasting packet—in that early
day, when steam navigation had not superseded
those teachers of patience to domestic voyagers,
the sloop and schooner—had passed up the river
the previous evening. He crossed to the opposite
shore, in a broad flat wherry, whose representative,
in the shape of a neatly painted horse-boat,
propelled by the Ixion-like labour of a blind Rosinante,
may still be seen plying frequently between
the opposite shores.

The sun had just set in a sea of gold and crimson,
and a rich mellow light hung like a veil of
transparent gauze over land and water, when, after
winding round one of the graceful bends of
the romantic Kennebec, and ascending an abrupt
and rocky eminence, up which the road wound,
the beautiful and wooded glen, with the turretted
chimnies of his paternal roof appeared, lifting
themselves above the oaks, in the midst of which
it stood. Reining in his horse upon the brow of
the hill, he gazed down upon the lovely scene, with
its sweeping river, relieved by a little vessel at anchor
upon its black glassy flood—its surrounding
hills, its venerable oaks, and serpentine walks—
with a thoughtful eye.

Gradually as he gazed, the scene before him faded
into indistinctness, in the approaching twilight,
and the young moon had launched her silver
barque upon the western sky—a timid sailor, venturing
each night, farther and farther up into the
heavens, and spreading her shining sail broader
and broader as she gains confidence from temerity—
before the young horseman shook of the spell
which had rendered him indifferent to external objects—
a spell, whose workings, to judge from the

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knitted brow, compressed lips, and pale cheeks,
were of no pleasant nature. We will not attempt
to analyze his thoughts,—he dared not do it himself—
nor will we. Spurring his restless horse
down the precipice before him, as he perceived the
shades of night thickly gathering. he soon gained
the winding avenue leading to his paternal
dwelling.

Nearly four years had elapsed, and its halls had
echoed to the fall of no familiar footstep. During
that period, he had never visited it but once, when
scenes and events he would fain forget, were too
vividly revived, and he shunned a second time to
recall such unwelcome associations.

Now, as he rode forward the retrospection of the
past was clouded by a reminiscence that weighed
depressingly upon his spirits. Entering the bridlepath
which led to the dwelling, he slackened his
rein and moved slowly onward, musing upon the
approaching interview with his long absent parent
and brother, when the sudden glare of a light
flashed from one of the windows of the library full
upon his face, and roused him from his meditations.

Dismounting at the spacious gateway, he traversed
the broad gravelled walk to the house, with a
rapid step, anxious to hasten the meeting, which
his heart foreboded, would be tinged with both pleasure
and pain. He had placed his foot upon the
first step, to ascend to the portico, when the apparition
of a graceful female figure, gliding past the
brightly-illumined window, stayed his ascent, while
emotions of surprise and curiosity usurped for the
moment every other feeling.

“Who can she be?” was his mental interrogation
as her retreating figure disappeared. But
he had no time for conjectures, for the old greyheaded
gardener Phillipe, who had followed his

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exiled master, through all his fortunes, recognized
him as he was taking his evening round about the
grounds, and by a loud exclamation of joy, intimated
his arrival to the whole household. The next
moment he stood in the presence of his father and
brother!

We will briefly pass over the interview between
them. By the former, his reception was dignified
and condescending; yet there was absence of affection
in his manner as he received his congratulations,
imperceptible to an ordinary observer, but to
which the lively feelings of the young man, were
keenly sensitive—a cold politeness in his look and
tone, such as a father should not wear to greet a
long absent son. And such was the proud spirit of
Achille, that he assumed a bearing of hauteur
and distant respect, which measured his parent's
coldness.

Henri, whose slight form and girlish beauty
were lost in a manlier elegance of person, met him
as brother should meet brother—frankly, affectionately,
and ardently. Achille returned his embrace
as cordially and sincerely as it was bestowed;
but a cold chill curdled the blood in his veins, as
unfolding him from his arms, the purple scar glaring,
half-hid by his flowing hair, upon his beautiful
forehead, caught his eye.

Days and weeks glided by, and Achille loved!

M. Langueville, a distinguished Frenchman, his
maternal uncle, and the only brother of his mother,
had married an American lady of eminent beauty,
and princely fortune. They both died within a
short period of each other, leaving an only daughter,
appointing his father the guardian both of her
person and inheritance. To receive this trust, was
the object of his visit to Europe; and on his return,
his ward accompanied him to make her uncle's
mansion her future home.

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The lovely vision of the library was this cousin.
Gertrude Langueville, at the period of our tale, was
a noble creature, with a form of faultless symmetry,
voluptuously rounded, and just developing into woman-hood—
a rich bud bursting into a full-blown
rose.

Neither too tall, nor too short, her figure was of
that indefinite size, which a graceful poet has termed
“beautifully less.” In her manner she combined
the dignity of a woman with the naturalness
and infantile grace of a wayward child. The infinite
delicacy of her chiselled features, and the finely
turned contour of her expressive head, were unsurpassed.

Just turned sixteen, she knew the power to charm,
while she seemed not to use it, as, with the bewitching
grace of a girl and the refinement of a woman,
she enchained the admiration of those around her,
while they bent forward to listen to the rich, harp-like
tones of her voice in conversation. Her eyes were
of the mildest blue of heaven—the indices of a
pure and faultless mind. They spoke of a spirit
mild and gentle; yet her lofty forehead told that also
a spirit proud and high, slumbered within their gentle
radiance. Intellectual, she was both romantic
and imaginative. Few of her sex were gifted
with a mind of higher order, or more accurately
cultivated.

Obedient to the waywardness and contrarieties
of her character, she was at one moment a Hebe,
charming by her grace and vivacity, heightened by
the sparking expression of her eloquent eyes and
beaming face, upon which every thought brilliantly
played, like the reflection of sunny landscapes upon
a shadowed lake, mantling it with a richer beauty—
or, now a Minerva, commanding admiration and esteem
by her originality of thought, and the lofty
character of her mind.

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Achille admired—loved—worshipped her!

We will not linger over the recital of his first
meeting with this charming girl, and the wild impassioned
progress of his love. With the impetuosity
of a mountain torrent, it merged every passion
in itself, absorbing all the faculties of his soul.

His love was unrequited.

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