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Old Froissart tells us, in his Chronicles, that
when King Edward beheld the Countess of Salisbury
at her castle gate, he thought he had never
seen before so noble nor so fair a lady; he was
stricken therewith to the heart with a sparkle of
fine love, that endured long after; he thought no
lady in the world so worthy to be beloved, as she.
And so likewise thought Paul Flemming, when he
beheld the English lady in the fair light of a
summer morning. I will not disguise the truth.
She is my heroine; and I mean to describe her
with great truth and beauty, so that all shall be in
love with her, and I most of all.

Mary Ashburton was in her twentieth summer.
Like the fair maiden Amoret, she was sitting in

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the lap of womanhood. They did her wrong,
who said she was not beautiful; and yet


“she was not fair,
Nor beautiful;—those words express her not.
But O, her looks had something excellent,
That wants a name!”

Her face had a wonderful fascination in it. It
was such a calm, quiet face, with the light of the
rising soul shining so peacefully through it. At
times it wore an expression of seriousness,—of
sorrow even; and then seemed to make the very
air bright with what the Italian poets so beautifully
call the lampeggiar dell' angelico riso,—
the lightning of the angelic smile.

And O, those eyes,—those deep, unutterable
eyes, with “down-falling eyelids, full of dreams
and slumber,” and within them a cold, living light,
as in mountain lakes at evening, or in the river of
Paradise, forever gliding,

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I dislike an eye that twinkles like a star. Those
only are beautiful which, like the planets, have a
steady, lambent light;—are luminous, but not
sparkling. Such eyes the Greek poets give to the
Immortals. But I forget myself.

The lady's figure was striking. Every step,
every attitude was graceful, and yet lofty, as if
inspired by the soul within. Angels in the old
poetic philosophy have such forms; it was the
soul itself imprinted on the air. And what a soul
was hers! A temple dedicated to Heaven, and,
like the Pantheon at Rome, lighted only from
above. And earthly passions in the form of gods
were no longer there, but the sweet and thoughtful
faces of Christ, and the Virgin Mary, and the
Saints. Thus there was not one discordant thing
in her; but a perfect harmony of figure, and face,
and soul, in a word of the whole being. And he
who had a soul to comprehend hers, must of
necessity love her, and, having once loved her,
could love no other woman forevermore.

No wonder, then, that Flemming felt his heart

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drawn towards her, as, in her morning walk, she
passed him, sitting alone under the great walnut
trees near the cloister, and thinking of Heaven,
but not of her. She, too, was alone. Her cheek
was no longer pale; but glowing and bright, with
the inspiration of the summer air. Flemming
gazed after her till she disappeared, even as a
vision of his dreams, he knew not whither. He
was not yet in love, but very near it; for he
thanked God, that he had made such beautiful
beings to walk the earth.

Last night he had heard a voice to which his
soul responded; and he might have gone on his
way, and taken no farther heed. But he would
have heard that voice afterwards, whenever at
evening he thought of this evening at Interlachen.
To-day he had seen more clearly the vision, and
his restless soul calm. The place seemed
pleasant to him; and he could not go. He did
not ask himself whence came this calm. He felt
it; and was happy in the feeling; and blessed the

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landscape and the summer morning, as if they
possessed the wonder-working power.

“A pleasant morning dream to you;” said a
friendly voice; and at the same moment some one
laid his hand upon Flemming's shoulder. It was
Berkley. He had approached unseen and unheard.

“I see by the smile on your countenance,” he
continued, “that it is no day-incubus.”

“You are right,” replied Flemming. “It was
a pleasant dream, which you have put to flight.”

“And I am glad to see, that you have also put
to flight the gloomy thoughts which used to haunt
you. I like to see people cheerful and happy.
What is the use of giving way to sadness in this
beautiful world?”

“Ah! this beautiful world!” said Flemming,
with a smile. “Indeed, I know not what to think
of it. Sometimes it is all gladness and sunshine,
and Heaven itself lies not far off. And then it
changes suddenly; and is dark and sorrowful, and
clouds shut out the sky. In the lives of the

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saddest of us, there are bright days like this, when
we feel as if we could take the great world in our
arms and kiss it. Then come the gloomy hours,
when the fire will neither burn on our hearths nor
in our hearts; and all without and within is dismal,
cold, and dark. Believe me, every heart has
its secret sorrows, which the world knows not,
and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is
only sad.”

“And who says we don't?” interrupted Berkley.
“Come, come! Let us go to breakfast.
The morning air has given me a rude appetite. I
long to say grace over a fresh egg; and eat salt
with my worst enemies; namely, the Cockneys at
the hotel. After breakfast you must give yourself
up wholly to me. I shall take you to the
Grindelwald!”

“To-day, then, you do not breakfast like Diogenes,
but consent to leave your tub.”

“Yes, for the pleasure of your company. I
shall also blow out the light in my lantern, having
found you.”

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“Thank you.”

The breakfast passed without any unusual occurrence.
Flemming watched the entrance of
every guest; but she came not,—the guest he
most desired to see.

“And now for the Grindelwald!” said Berkley.

“Why such haste? We have the whole day
before us. There is time enough.”

“Not a moment to loso, I assure you. The
carriage is at the door.”

They drove up the valley of Lauterbrunnen, and
turned eastward among the mountains of the
Grindelwald. There they passed the day; half-frozen
by the icy breath of the Great Glacier,
upon whose surface stand pyramids and blocks of
ice, like the tombstones of a cemetery. It was a
weary day to Flemming. He wished himself at
Interlachen; and was glad when, towards evening,
he saw once more the cone-roofed towers of the
cloister rising above the walnut trees.

That evening is written in red letters in his
history. It gave him another revelation of the

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beauty and excellence of the female character and
intellect; not wholly new to him, yet now renewed
and fortified. It was from the lips of Mary
Ashburton, that the revelation came. Her form
arose, like a tremulous evening star, in the firmament
of his soul. He conversed with her; and
with her alone; and knew not when to go. All
others were to him as if they were not there. He
saw their forms, but saw them as the forms of inanimate
things. At length her mother came; and
Flemming beheld in her but another Mary Ashburton,
with beauty more mature;—the same forehead
and eyes, the same majestic figure; and, as
yet, no trace of age. He gazed upon her with a
feeling of delight, not unmingled with holy awe.
She was to him the rich and glowing Evening,
from whose bosom the tremulous star was born.

Berkley took no active part in the conversation,
but did what was much more to the purpose, that
it is to say, arranged a drive for the next day with
the Ashburtons, and of course invited Flemming,
who went home that night with a halo round his

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head; and wondering much at a dandy, who stood
at the door of the hotel, and said to his companion,
as Flemming passed;

“What do you call this place? I have been
here two hours already, and find it devilish dull!”

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