The Disowned — Volume 01Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
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The Disowned — Volume 01
Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
English fiction -- 19th century
The reader will figure to himself a small chamber, in a remote wing of
a large and noble mansion. The walls were covered with sketches whose
extreme delicacy of outline and colouring betrayed the sex of the
artist; a few shelves filled with books supported vases of flowers. A
harp stood neglected at the farther end of the room, and just above
hung the slender prison of one of those golden wanderers from the
Canary Isles which hear to our colder land some of the gentlest music
of their skies and zephyrs. The window, reaching to the ground, was
open, and looked, through the clusters of jessamine and honeysuckle
which surrounded the low veranda, beyond upon thick and frequent
copses of blossoming shrubs, redolent of spring and sparkling in the
sunny tears of a May shower which had only just wept itself away.
Embosomed in these little groves lay plots of flowers, girdled with
turf as green as ever wooed the nightly dances of the fairies; and
afar off, through one artful opening, the eye caught the glittering
wanderings of water, on whose light and smiles the universal happiness
of the young year seemed reflected.
But in that chamber, heedless of all around, and cold to the joy with
which everything else, equally youthful, beautiful, and innocent,
seemed breathing and inspired, sat a very young and lovely female.
Her cheek leaned upon her hand, and large tears flowed fast and
burningly over the small and delicate fingers. The comb that had
confined her tresses lay at her feet, and the high dress which
concealed her swelling breast had been loosened, to give vent to the
suffocating and indignant throbbings which had rebelled against its
cincture; all appeared to announce that bitterness of grief when the
mind, as it were, wreaks its scorn upon the body in its contempt for
external seemings, and to proclaim that the present more subdued and
softened sorrow had only succeeded to a burst far less quiet and
uncontrolled. Woe to those who eat the bread of dependence their
tears are wrung from the inmost sources of the heart.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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