So stealing from the company, engrossed as
they were with their politics, he retired to his chamber, where he set
his palette; and, placing Helen's portrait on the easel, he called his
model, who came without much pressing, and having placed her in the old
carved high-backed chair, he commenced work. The portrait waxes apace. Our host's daughter is in her very best looks. The painter's hand is
inspired not merely by the love of art--great, though that love
undoubtedly is with all artists--but spurred on by another, perhaps more
powerful feeling, which lends such temper to our artist's ordinary
faculties, as to render the painter himself, a rare occurrence, utterly
amazed at his own powers. The first hour passes away like five minutes. Scarce a word has been spoken on either side. To those who feel they
love, few words are necessary, and in many cases, perhaps the fewer the
better. This was a case in point. Our couple loved. Why should we deny
it? How futile, indeed, for lovers themselves to deny it to the world? How utterly hopeless a task it is for lovers to attempt to conceal their
love one for the other, even _when_ they intend to do so! Murder will
out sooner or later. In this, as in many other cases, love given vent to
in words could be productive of no good to either party; and, therefore,
as we said before, the fewer words spoken, the better. But what do I say? Will nature be subdued by mere obstinate silence? Will not the trampled down heart rebel and burst its fetters, seeking an
outlet in the powerful upheavings of the breast; the electric flashes
of the impassioned eye that the strongest efforts of our feeble will in
vain endeavour to render cold and indifferent; the involuntary blush,
the haggard cheek, the pensive look; the smothered sigh--have they no
language? Nay, your very silence speaks for itself. Oh, youth! if you
would hide your passion, do so by flight, there is no other way. This is what McGuilp felt. As for Helen, poor child, her virgin heart
was a stranger to the tender passion. She had heard of love, but just
heard of it vaguely as the world speaks of it, without being able to
realise its power. She would have been incapable of analysing her own
feelings, but a mysterious languishing softness welled forth from her
large blue eyes, which whispered to the painter's heart things that it
dare not acknowledge to her own. Strange, awful, mysterious passion;
instilling thy subtle poison into the veins of thy willing victims. Merciless poisoned dart! Swift as thou art deep, inextricable as thou
art unerring--who can escape thee? But let us leave the enamoured couple to themselves for a while. Far be
it from us to play the spy upon their actions, and let us return to the
club-room, where the members, having exhausted their newspaper, are
interrupted in the midst of a political discussion by an authorative
thump on the table from Mr. Oldstone, who reminds the company that Mr.
Blackdeed has not yet discharged his debt to the club--viz., the recital
of his new play, that he had just finished preparing for the stage. "Ay, ay, the play, the play!" shouted several voices. "Now then. Blackdeed," said Parnassus, "the play is the thing, you
know." Our dramatist, with some show of modest reluctance, or, as Mr Parnassus
observed, "with sweet reluctant amorous delay," produced his manuscript
from his ample pocket, inwardly, nothing loath to declaim his late
effusion before the august assembly, seated himself with an air of
dignity, and having waited till the whole club was fairly settled, and
all attention, he thus began:



THE GIPSY QUEEN. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. DON DIEGO. DON SILVIO. DON PASCUAL, son of Don Diego, in love with Inez. PEDRO, servant to Don Silvio. JUAN, servant to Don Diego. DON ALFONSO, friend to Don Pascual, and student of Salamanca. DONNA INEZ, only daughter of Don Silvio. DONNA RODRIGUEZ, nurse to Donna Inez. LADY ABBESS, sister to Don Silvio. GIPSY QUEEN, Pepa. MIGUEL, a Priest. Another Priest, Gipsies, Soldiers, Guests, Attendants, and Populace. The Scene is laid in Spain in the mountains of Grenada. In Scene III. of Act I., in Salamanca. ACT I. SCENE I.--_Study of Don Silvio, with large open window, through which is
seen the castle of Don Diego on the opposite mountain peak. Don Silvio
is discovered at a table covered with books, papers, and scientific
instruments. Strewn about the floor and on shelves are various objects
of natural science. Don Silvio closes a book he has been reading and
advances._

  D. SIL. In vain the consolations of deep science,
  The chiding voice of grave philosophy,
  To wean us from our earthly fond affections,
  When once deep-rooted in our bosom's core. Paternal love, surviving youthful passion,
  As autumn's deep'ning tints the summer's green,
  Remains mature till the cold wintry blast
  Of death hath scattered its last quivering leaf,
  And driven us, whither? I have a daughter,
  Than whom no saint in heaven purer is. Fair and virtuous Inez! Sole object left
  Me now to love on earth of all my kin. An old man's pride, and only legacy
  Of my late spouse, the sainted Dorothea. Who, giving birth to this fair angel, left,
  After ten years of childless married life,
  This, my poor helpless babe, but in exchange
  For her own precious self. Long unconsoled
  For this, my doleful loss, I sought once more
  Relief from sorrow in those studies deep,
  Abandoned since my manhood's prime, when I
  In Salamanca's university,
  Did strive for honors, my child consigning
  To a certain faithful old retainer,
  The good Rodriguez, who in lieu of mother
  Did rear the tender babe until it grew
  To years maturer, when I thought it fit
  To rescue her from out the hands of one
  Who, whatsoe'er her care maternal be,
  Is yet too full of vanity to make
  A good instructress to my only child,
  Whom I designed to educate in mode
  Far different from that in which Rodriguez
  And all her worldly tribe would seek to do. With this my aim in view, I took the child
  Away from home whilst yet her mind was tender,
  And placing her under my sister's care,
  The Lady Abbess of Saint Ursula--
  A convent distant thirty miles from hence--
  I left her until she should reach such age
  As maidens having made due preparations
  Are deemed fit to marry. Scarce sixteen
  Is now my daughter Inez; far too young
  To face without a guide the many wiles
  And dire temptations of this giddy world;
  I fain would keep her longer there, but then,
  Then comes the thought that harasses my soul.