‘Lucy at her spinning-wheel,In russet gown and apron blue.’ ”
‘Lucy at her spinning-wheel,In russet gown and apron blue.’ ”
‘Lucy at her spinning-wheel,In russet gown and apron blue.’ ”
‘Lucy at her spinning-wheel,In russet gown and apron blue.’ ”
‘Lucy at her spinning-wheel,
In russet gown and apron blue.’ ”
“I wonder how you kept up the farce so long, Laura; even Ellen thinks you a most exemplary sentimentalist.”
“Oh, it was a pleasant mode of getting rid of time; nothing sharpens one’s wits like a flirtation with a real lover—I have learned twenty new stratagems from my ‘country practice.’ ”
“Are you sure Mr. Beauchamp is rich?”
“He drives blood-horses, sports a tiger in livery, lives at the Astor, drinks wine at $8 a bottle, and, what is more, pays his bills.”
“How did you learn this?”
“From very good authority; he is said to have $200,000 in bank stocks besides a sugar plantation worth $12,000 per annum, and slaves enough to stock a colony; so you see he is a prize worth winning. As for Cecil Forrester, I am sorry he is here, but I must manage to turn him over to the unsophisticated little rustic for the present. I do not wish to give him a downright dismissal, because if I should fail to secure the millionaire it would be as well to fall back upon Forrester’s $30,000. The game will be a difficult one, but the glory of success will be the greater.”
“I hope you will reap some of the spoils of victory, Laura, for our legacy is rapidly diminishing, and when it is gone you know there will be no further chance.”
“Never fear, Mamma; my stock in trade is very good—beauty, tact, and five thousand dollars form a very excellent capital, and I think I can afford to speculate rather largely.”
“But more than half of the most essential part of your capital is already gone, and you have not as yet succeeded.”
“You forget that I have gained a footing in society by its expenditure; leave every thing to me, and if I am not married before next season, then write me down a fool.”
Cecil Forrester heard every word of this dialogue. At its commencement he had started to his feet, and if any one could have witnessed his gestures and contortions he would have been deemed a madman. His face flushed and paled, his eyes dilated with anger and flashed with contempt, his lip curled in bitter scorn, and narrowly escaped being bitten through as he gnashed his teeth in impotent rage; he clenched his hands, he tore off the turquoise ring which he had hitherto worn on his little finger as agage d’amitiéfrom the false beauty, and finally, after exhausting his angry emotions, he flung himself into a seat, with a calm and determined expression of countenance which augured ill for some of the schemes of Miss Laura Oriel.
——
Is there any thing more musical to the ear of the time-sick lounger at a fashionable watering-place than the dinner-bell? Talk of the melody of running streams, the sighing of summer winds, the carol of forest birds! they may be all very pleasant sounds in certain moods of the mind, but for a music which never fails to please, a sound which never falls wearily upon the senses, a voice which is never uttered to a listless ear, commend me to that dinner-bell. The dullest face brightens into something like intelligence, the most confirmed valetudinarian forgets all elegant debility, the most intellectual remember the pressing claims of the physical man, and the most refined of women venture to look somewhat interested in the vulgar duty of dining. The saloon was crowded with company all eager for the summons which was to transform them into eating animals.
“Pray why,” said a gentleman who was somewhat famous for puns, conundrums and such little witticisms, preferring as it seemed to shoot the “rats and mice and such small deer” of literature, because he could draw alongrather than astrongbow; “Pray,” said he in that half suppressed voice which, like a theatrical aside, is sure to be distinctly heard in a crowd, “why is this saloon like the President’s levee? do ye give it up? why it is filled with a crowd ofhungry expectants! ha! ha! ha!”
The joke would have been excellent as an after dinner speech, but the audacity of uttering an idle jest while so many persons were keenly alive to one of the sufferings of frail humanity, was very properly punished. No body laughed, and, to his infinite regret, the great Mr. —— saw that he had wasted his wit. The first stroke of the second bell brought all to their feet, as suddenly as if they had been subjected to the power of a galvanic battery. Cecil Forrester, attired with unusual care, all the lurking dandyism of his character fully but not offensively displayed, had been one of the first in the saloon, determined to give Miss Oriel a lesson in indifference. But she did not appear, and, as the band struck up a march, the usual signal for deploying into the dining-room, he took the hand of his neighbor, who happened to be a very pretty woman, and followed the somewhat rapid pace of the procession.
The important business of the dinner-table was half finished: the soup, the fish, even the joints had disappeared, and the voracity of theélégantshad given place to fastidiousness as they amused themselves with a bit ofris de veau glacéor apetit pâte de Périgord, when a slight bustle at the door attracted universal attention. A dumpy, over-dressed old lady, leaning on the arm of a delicate, fair-haired girl, entered with that fussy manner so characteristic of an out-of-place feeling, while, immediately following her, with a complexion as cool and fresh as marble, if one could only imagine marble tinged with the rose-tint of youth and health—a complexion such as nothing but a morning bath can give—came the elegant Miss Oriel. There was the very perfection of art in her whole appearance. She had chosen for her entrance the moment when the fierce appetites of those who eat to kill time (and sometimes end by killing themselves) were sufficiently appeased to enable them to admire something else beside the reeking dishes. Among the heated and flushed beauties who sat around the table, with relaxed ringlets and moistened brows, she appeared like some fairy of the fountain, some water nymph fresh from her sub-marine grotto, diffusing about her a cool and refreshing atmosphere as she moved gracefully onward. Her dress was white transparent muslin, which displayed rather than veiled the fine form of her arms, while her neck and shoulders, actually dazzling in their snowy hue and polish, were only shadowed by a single jet-black ringlet, which seemed to have accidentally fallen from the clustering mass gathered at the back of her head. A pale, pearl-like japonica was her only ornament. As she slowly paced the length of the hall to a seat near the head of the table, reserved for her by a well-bribed waiter, a murmur of admiration ran through the apartment. All eyes were fixed upon her, and she knew better than to break the spell of her fascinations by condescending to the vulgar taste for eating; (a brace of woodcock had been sent to her room only an hour previous.) Mrs. Oriel, who seemed determined to make amends for past delay by present haste, sent her plate to be filled and re-filled; but her daughter only trifled with some delicate French combination of odor and tastelessness, and finished the meal by a morsel ofCharlotte au russeand Vanilla cream. A glass of icedeau sacréwas her only beverage, and she was thus enabled to retain her cool fresh tint even in the heated atmosphere so redolent of spices, and gravies, and vinous distillations.
It was not until just before quitting the table that Miss Oriel allowed herself to see any one in the room. She raised her large soft eyes languidly and beheld, what she had for some time known, that her young friend Ellen was familiarly chatting with Cecil Forrester. A graceful bend of her fair neck and a most lovely smile marked her consciousness of his presence, while Cecil, with a polite but rather careless bow continued his conversation with Miss Grey; being incited to show her peculiar attention by his consciousness that she, as well as himself, was designed to be the tool of the selfish beauty. Miss Oriel was too well schooled to exhibit any surprise at his cool manner, and as her principal object was to attract the attention of Mr. Beauchamp, she gave herself no further thought about the matter at that time.
Mr. Fitzroy Beauchamp, by a kind of “gramerye” which some ignorant people might callimpudence, had early established himself at the head of the table, and assumed the manners of a host upon all occasions. He was in fact that most admired, and courted, and flattered of men—the Beau (par excellence) of a watering-place. Reader, if you have ever seen such a person in such circumstances you will be able to imagine his appearance, for he was only one of a rather numerous tribe of ephemera, who appear every summer and waste their little lives in some fashionable resort, whence they vanish with the first northeast wind, and if they do not die, at least evaporate in something like empty air. Mr. Fitzroy Beauchamp (he was very proud of his name, and was known to have refused to dance in the same cotillion with Miss Phebe Pipkin, until his refined taste was soothed by the intelligence that she was the heiress of half a million) was rather diminutive in size, with a remarkably trim figure, and very small feet. He had flaxen hair, elaborately curled, which no one would have suspected to be a wig; and he wore the softest and silkiest of whiskers, which nobody dreamed were an appendage of the self same wig, ingeniously contrived to clasp with springs beneath his chin. His cheek had that delicate peach bloom which rarely outlasts extreme youth, and, in this case, certainly owed much of its richness to a judicious touch of the hare’s foot. His hands were very white and loaded with rings, the gifts, as he asserted, of various fair ladies; so that he might be said to have the history of his conquests at his fingers’ ends. He wore a black dress coat lined with white silk, snow-white inexpressibles, embroidered silk stockings, and pumps diminutive enough to have served for a lady’s slippers. Mr. Fitzroy Beauchamp was what ladies call “a love of a man,” and he was duly grateful for their partiality. To conceal the ravages of time (alas! he had already numbered half a century) and to decorate himself in the most pleasing manner he considered a compliment due to the fair sex, while the proper display of his wealth and luxury was a duty he owed to himself.
He had been wonderfully attracted by the grace and beauty of Miss Oriel. Absorbed in admiration of her easy and modest self-possession, he forgot to ask his former favorite, the pretty andspirituelleMrs. Dale, to take wine with him, and the lady was quick-sighted enough to discover, and wise enough to smile at the discovery that henceforth her reign over the tilbury was at an end. She was quite right. Soon after dinner Mr. Beauchamp solicited from Cecil Forrester the honor of an introduction to Miss Oriel, and though Cecil would have been ready to fight a duel with a fellow who should thus have presumed after a three days’ acquaintance, had the lady been one whom he really respected, yet he now cordially acquiesced in the wishes of both parties, and with a degree of magnanimity quite surprising to Laura, afforded her exactly the opportunity she had desired. About twenty minutes before sunset—the hour Mr. Beauchamp usually selected for his daily drive—Miss Oriel was handed into the elegant vehicle, and they drove off, leaving several gentlemen in ecstasies at her beauty as she playfully kissed her hand to her dear old fat Mamma, who had bustled out with “my sweet Laura’s cashmere, lest the evening air should injure her delicate health.” Her fears were quite unnecessary. Mr. Beauchamp never drove his horses more than three miles at a time, and had no fancy for hardening his white hands by curbing their impetuosity. He was seldom absent more than half an hour, as his ambition was fully gratified by being envied as he drove off, or dashed up to the door with the best horses before his carriage and the most admired woman at his side.
——
Two weeks passed away, during which time Miss Oriel had shown her skill in female tactics by managing to secure the attentions of Mr. Beauchamp, while she had transferred Cecil to Ellen Grey until she should be able to decide upon his future fate. One evening, Cecil, who had long known and admired Mrs. Dale, invited her to walk with him on the piazza, that they might witness the effect of moonlight upon the distant sea.
“I am indebted to Miss Grey’s headache for this invitation,” said Mrs. Dale, laughing, as she took his arm; “had she been in the saloon my eyes would never have been thus favored with a moonlight scene.”
Forrester entered a disclaimer against the lady’s assertion, and a playful conversation ensued, when Mrs. Dale, suddenly changing the topic, said:
“Pray tell me, Mr. Forrester, if Mr. Beauchamp is so immensely rich?”
“I really cannot take it upon me to determine that delicate question, Madam,” was the reply, “but, as a firm believer in the doctrine ofcompensations, I am bound to suppose he must be very wealthy.”
“Not understanding your premises I cannot clearly comprehend your deductions,” said Mrs. Dale playfully.
“Why, Providence always bestows something to compensate for great deficiencies, and as Mr. Beauchamp cannot boast either mental or physical gifts, I take it for granted that he must have money.”
“Really, Mr. Forrester, I did not think you were so ill-natured. I am sure Mr. Beauchamp has the prettiest hands and feet in the world, and his ardent admiration of the ladies proves him to possess a good heart.”
“To your last argument I can offer no opposition, Madam,” was the gallant reply; “but as to his hands and feet, I can only say that it is not the first time that ladies have been driven to extremities in their search for his good qualities.”
“Well, I suppose,” responded Mrs. Dale, laughing heartily, “that I must allow your wit to atone for your severity, but how long is it since you turned satirist?”
“Ever since I made the discovery which all the experience of others cannot teach us—that ‘all is not gold which glitters.’ I have almost come to the conclusion that nature, like an over-careful house-wife, hides her true gold and silver in least suspected places.”
“In that case Dame Nature might be in the predicament of a queer old lady I once knew who hid her rich plate under the rafters in the garret, and when she wanted it upon occasion of a dinner-party, was obliged to borrow of a neighbor because she had forgotten where she had deposited her treasure.”
“I believe if we want to find a really virtuous and true-hearted woman we must look elsewhere than among the beautiful,” said Forrester bitterly.
“Fie! fie! if I had the slightest claim to beauty I should banish you from my presence for that ungallant speech.”
“You ought rather to consider it a compliment, for there is not another woman here to whom I would have uttered it, or who would have understood me, perhaps, if I had.”
“Ah! now you flatter my intellect at the expense of my person, and no woman ever relished such a compliment. But to return to your assertion; how can you venture to despise the allurements of beauty after feasting daily on such a banquet of loveliness as Miss Oriel offers to our eyes. I look at her, woman as I am, with delight, for I never saw so fresh, so pure, so marble-like a complexion.”
“Your comparison is more correct than you imagine, Madam; her beauty is indeed like that of the marble statue, carved by a right cunning and skilful hand, but wanting the Promethean touch of soul.”
“While Ellen Grey is the delicate alabaster vase, beautifully and finely wrought, and with all its exquisite loveliness brought out in rich relief by the lamp which lights it from within; is it not thus you would have continued the comparison?” said Mrs. Dale mischievously.
“Your illustration is a beautiful one, and perfectly true,” was the reply; “Ellen Grey is full of gentle and womanly feeling.”
“Perhaps you are prejudiced against Miss Oriel, Mr. Forrester; can it be possible that there is no soul shining in those soft dark eyes?”
“There is mental power enough, if that were all, but there is no soul—no heart; the lofty impulses of pure intellect, the tender affections of feminine nature never yet lighted up those eyes or suffused that marble brow with the blush of genuine feeling.”
“Well, as you have known the lady longer than I have, it would be idle to dispute your assertions; indeed, I must confess, when I watch her sweet, unruffled look and manner, I am irresistibly reminded of the old Norse legend of the Snow-Woman—so dazzlingly beautiful, so fatally cold.”
“Yet I have seen her under circumstances which would have given you a very different impression of her. Imagine that beautiful woman attired in the simplest manner, all fashionable airs laid aside, and apparently the very creature of romantic feeling; imagine such perfection of loveliness, with eyes of softness and voice all tenderness, apparently yielding up her whole soul to the sweet impressions of nature, amid the loveliest scenery that even our beautiful land can produce; imagine the effect of such beauty seen beneath the soft light of the summer moon, or gazed upon in the silent sanctuary of the forest glades, or mingling its fascinating influence with the lovely sights and sounds which charm the senses in the sunset dell, when the voice of the singing rivulet makes music on its way.”
“Upon my word, Mr. Forrester, you are almost a poet; you must be in love.”
“Perhaps I am, but Miss Oriel is not the object.”
“How could you resist the fascinations you so enthusiastically describe?”
“Why, to tell the truth, I narrowly escaped the fate of the silly moth; I came very near singeing my wings in the blaze of her beauty, but I soon discovered that she possessed none but personal attractions. To be sure we had quite a sentimental flirtation, and I remember many very fine sentiments which she uttered, but I early found how thin and poor was the soil in which they had taken root. You know the most luxuriant growth of wild flowers is always to be found in a morass—or perhaps a more graphic illustration of my meaning might be found in the fact that the pestilential Maremma, whose atmosphere is so fatal to life, displays the richest and most gorgeous array of Flora’s favorites. Laura Oriel might be loved for a week or two, but any man with common sense would soon see through her false character. For my own part, I confess that I amused myself with her very pleasantly during the early part of the summer. Indeed, I believe she fancied I was really caught in her snares, and no doubt considers that ‘Cecil Forrester’s $30,000 will do very well to fall back upon in case nothing better offer.’ ”
“Hark!” exclaimed Mrs. Dale, as a slight sound, like a half-suppressed exclamation, struck upon their ears, “I really believe some one has been listening to our conversation.”
“When we first came out here,” said Forrester coolly, “I saw a lady take her seat within the recess of yonder window; she dropped the drapery of the curtain behind her, so as not to be observed from within, and she has been sitting in the deep shadow flung by this heavy column. She has heard every word we said; at least she has heard all I said, because I purposely deferred my most severe remarks until we passed within ear-shot.”
“For Heaven’s sake, what do you mean? you seem agitated; who was the lady?” asked Mrs. Dale.
“Do you not imagine? It was Miss Oriel.”
“Oh, Mr. Forrester, how could you do so? and to make me a party in such cruelty too;” exclaimed the lady, much vexed.
“Now that there are really no listeners, dear Madam, I will tell you the whole story, and you shall decide whether I am so very wrong; at all events I have had my revenge.”
And Cecil Forrester related to his warm-hearted friend the story of his love and its sudden extinction, not omitting a single word of the dialogue which he had overheard between the mother and daughter.
When they re-entered the saloon Miss Oriel had disappeared, but if Cecil could have known the tumult of her feelings he would, perhaps, have regretted his own vindictiveness. All the little feeling which she possessed, all that she had of heart, was bestowed on Cecil Forrester. She did not know how much she had valued him until she compared him with the object of her present pursuit; and, interested, selfish and ambitious as she was, she half determined to turn from the allurements of wealth if she could win back Cecil to his allegiance. To be thus outwitted, made the plaything of his idle hours, foiled at her own weapons, was a bitter mortification, and this, coupled as it was with a sense of unrequited tenderness, aroused her almost to madness. The cold, proud beauty shed tears of vexation and regret. She almost hated Cecil, and yet she was conscious that the most bitter drop, in the cup which had thus been returned to her own lips, was the assurance that he had never loved her. His quotation of her own remark about his fortune convinced her that he had overheard her plans, and she was now stimulated by pride to urge their speedy fulfilment.
——
“Have you heard the news, Mr. Forrester?” exclaimed Mrs. Dale, as, two days after the confidential disclosure of the piazza, he entered the saloon; “Ah, I see by your look of innocent surprise, you are still in blissful ignorance.”
“What has happened?” asked Cecil carelessly, “any thing which serves to break the monotony of a seaside existence must be a blessing.”
“I do not know whether you will think it so,” said the lady laughing, “Miss Oriel has eloped with Mr. Beauchamp.”
“I am glad of it—from my very soul I rejoice at it,” exclaimed Cecil Forrester, while a dark, vindictive smile gave a most disagreeable expression to his usually fine face.
“Why, how strangely you look at me,” replied Mrs. Dale, “what is the matter?”
“Nothing—nothing—when did it all happen?”
“Did you not see her go out with him to ride last evening? Well, it seems Mr. Beauchamp’s servant had been privately despatched to the city with their baggage, and instead of returning the lovers rode directly to the next town and were married.”
“Why did they give themselves so much trouble? If Beauchamp had asked the old woman she would have dropped a curtsy and thanked him for the offer.”
“There is the mystery of the whole affair; Mrs. Oriel pretends to be very indignant, but it is easy to see she is secretly pleased. Miss Oriel has written a letter to Miss Grey in which she entreats her to ‘break the tidings tenderly to poor Mamma;’ excuses herself on the plea of irresistible affection; talks of Mr. Beauchamp’s ardor and her fear of maternal opposition, and finishes by requesting Ellen to ‘allow his favorite Mrs. Dale to acquaint Mr. Forrester with her regret at having been the cause of disappointment and sorrow to him.’ ”
“What the devil does she mean by that?”
“Why to make Ellen jealous of me and distrustful of you, and thus disappoint both your love and revenge,” said Mrs. Dale.
“She shall not attain her ends,” exclaimed Forrester impetuously, “I will tell Ellen the whole story. I am glad she is actually married to Beauchamp, and I know the reason he did not want to ask her mother; he was afraid of inconvenient inquiries.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Only this morning I met here a person who knows him well. His history is soon told. He was originally bred a tailor, but, having a soul above buttons, he cut the shop, and has since been hanging on the skirts of society in a manner very different from that intended by his honest old father. His bank stock and sugar plantation may exist in the regions of the moon, where all things which unaccountably disappear from earth are said to be collected, his negroes are still on the coast of Guinea, and he really lives by his wits. A run of luck at the gaming-table or a lucky bet on the race-course enables him every now and then to pay old debts, and live for a time like a gentleman until his funds are exhausted, when he again betakes himself to his vocation.”
“Can this be possible?”
“There is no doubt of it; he is a mere adventurer, and as Miss Oriel is something very similar, they are ‘matched as well as paired.’ ”
Cecil Forrester afforded another proof of the truth of the poet’s line,
“Full many a heart is caught in the rebound.”
“Full many a heart is caught in the rebound.”
“Full many a heart is caught in the rebound.”
“Full many a heart is caught in the rebound.”
“Full many a heart is caught in the rebound.”
The following winter saw him the happy husband of Ellen Grey; while all trace of Mr. and Mrs. Beauchamp was lost to their view. About two years later, when business had compelled Mr. Forrester to visit one of our southern cities, he strolled into the theatre to get rid of an idle evening, and as he gazed with listless curiosity on the gorgeous spectacle of Indian life which occupied the stage, he was suddenly struck with a familiar tone in the voice and a familiar expression in the countenance of the stately queen of the Zenana. He looked again, the resemblance seemed to grow upon him; he went round to the stage box, and in that near proximity to the actress all doubt vanished. He looked upon the still resplendent beauty of Laura Oriel.
SIGHTS FROM MY WINDOW—ALICE.
———
BY RUFUS W. GRISWOLD.
———
I sit beside my window,And see the crowds go by,With joy on every countenance,And hope in every eye,And hear their blended voices,In many a shout and song,Borne by the spring’s soft breezesThrough all the streets along.And peering through a latticeOf a humble cottage near,I see a face of beauty,Adown which glides a tear,—A rose amid her tressesTells that she would be gay,But a thought of some deep sorrowDrives every smile away.She whom I see there weeping,Few save myself do know,—A flower in blooming blightedBy blasts of keenest wo.She has a soul so gentle,That as a harp it seems,Which the light airs wake to musicLike that we hear in dreams.A common fate is that poor girl’s,Which many yet must share,—In the crowd how little know theyWhat griefs its members bear!One year ago a radianceLike sunlight round her played,Heart felt, eyes spoke of gladness,—She was not then betrayed.There was one of gentle manners,Who e’er met her with a smile,And a voice so full of kindness,That she could not deem it guile,And her trusting heart she gave him,—She could give to him no more,—Oh! daughter of the poor man,Soon thy dream of bliss was o’er!’Twere vain to tell the storyOf fear, hope, and joyous passion;She forgot her father’s station,He forsook the halls of fashion;She loved him well—he knew it,—’Twas a pleasing interlude,Fitting to enjoy more keenlyScenes the poor might ne’er intrude.Hark! the sound of music swelling!—Now the crowd are rushing by,Horses prancing, banners flying,Shouts ascending to the sky!—There’s a sea of life beneath me,Andhisform is there,—For his fearful sin who spurns him?On his brow what sign of care?I seehernow—she trembles—There is phrensy in her eye;Her blanchéd lip is quivering;There is no good angel nigh;—She falls,—the deep-toned bugleBreaks on the quiet air;Look to the calm blue heaven—That sound—her soul—are there!In the cavalcade she saw him,In his plumes and armor drest,And more closely to her bosomHis treasured gifts she prest;Her eye met his—’twas finished—Not a word by tongue was spoken;A cold glance—a look of passion—And her heart was broken!How common are such histories,In the cottage and the hall;From prison bars how many eyesLook on life’s carnival!The joys we seek are phantomsThat fade ere closed the handIn the dark reached forth to grasp them,But the brain receives their brand.
I sit beside my window,And see the crowds go by,With joy on every countenance,And hope in every eye,And hear their blended voices,In many a shout and song,Borne by the spring’s soft breezesThrough all the streets along.And peering through a latticeOf a humble cottage near,I see a face of beauty,Adown which glides a tear,—A rose amid her tressesTells that she would be gay,But a thought of some deep sorrowDrives every smile away.She whom I see there weeping,Few save myself do know,—A flower in blooming blightedBy blasts of keenest wo.She has a soul so gentle,That as a harp it seems,Which the light airs wake to musicLike that we hear in dreams.A common fate is that poor girl’s,Which many yet must share,—In the crowd how little know theyWhat griefs its members bear!One year ago a radianceLike sunlight round her played,Heart felt, eyes spoke of gladness,—She was not then betrayed.There was one of gentle manners,Who e’er met her with a smile,And a voice so full of kindness,That she could not deem it guile,And her trusting heart she gave him,—She could give to him no more,—Oh! daughter of the poor man,Soon thy dream of bliss was o’er!’Twere vain to tell the storyOf fear, hope, and joyous passion;She forgot her father’s station,He forsook the halls of fashion;She loved him well—he knew it,—’Twas a pleasing interlude,Fitting to enjoy more keenlyScenes the poor might ne’er intrude.Hark! the sound of music swelling!—Now the crowd are rushing by,Horses prancing, banners flying,Shouts ascending to the sky!—There’s a sea of life beneath me,Andhisform is there,—For his fearful sin who spurns him?On his brow what sign of care?I seehernow—she trembles—There is phrensy in her eye;Her blanchéd lip is quivering;There is no good angel nigh;—She falls,—the deep-toned bugleBreaks on the quiet air;Look to the calm blue heaven—That sound—her soul—are there!In the cavalcade she saw him,In his plumes and armor drest,And more closely to her bosomHis treasured gifts she prest;Her eye met his—’twas finished—Not a word by tongue was spoken;A cold glance—a look of passion—And her heart was broken!How common are such histories,In the cottage and the hall;From prison bars how many eyesLook on life’s carnival!The joys we seek are phantomsThat fade ere closed the handIn the dark reached forth to grasp them,But the brain receives their brand.
I sit beside my window,And see the crowds go by,With joy on every countenance,And hope in every eye,And hear their blended voices,In many a shout and song,Borne by the spring’s soft breezesThrough all the streets along.
I sit beside my window,
And see the crowds go by,
With joy on every countenance,
And hope in every eye,
And hear their blended voices,
In many a shout and song,
Borne by the spring’s soft breezes
Through all the streets along.
And peering through a latticeOf a humble cottage near,I see a face of beauty,Adown which glides a tear,—A rose amid her tressesTells that she would be gay,But a thought of some deep sorrowDrives every smile away.
And peering through a lattice
Of a humble cottage near,
I see a face of beauty,
Adown which glides a tear,—
A rose amid her tresses
Tells that she would be gay,
But a thought of some deep sorrow
Drives every smile away.
She whom I see there weeping,Few save myself do know,—A flower in blooming blightedBy blasts of keenest wo.She has a soul so gentle,That as a harp it seems,Which the light airs wake to musicLike that we hear in dreams.
She whom I see there weeping,
Few save myself do know,—
A flower in blooming blighted
By blasts of keenest wo.
She has a soul so gentle,
That as a harp it seems,
Which the light airs wake to music
Like that we hear in dreams.
A common fate is that poor girl’s,Which many yet must share,—In the crowd how little know theyWhat griefs its members bear!One year ago a radianceLike sunlight round her played,Heart felt, eyes spoke of gladness,—She was not then betrayed.
A common fate is that poor girl’s,
Which many yet must share,—
In the crowd how little know they
What griefs its members bear!
One year ago a radiance
Like sunlight round her played,
Heart felt, eyes spoke of gladness,—
She was not then betrayed.
There was one of gentle manners,Who e’er met her with a smile,And a voice so full of kindness,That she could not deem it guile,And her trusting heart she gave him,—She could give to him no more,—Oh! daughter of the poor man,Soon thy dream of bliss was o’er!
There was one of gentle manners,
Who e’er met her with a smile,
And a voice so full of kindness,
That she could not deem it guile,
And her trusting heart she gave him,—
She could give to him no more,—
Oh! daughter of the poor man,
Soon thy dream of bliss was o’er!
’Twere vain to tell the storyOf fear, hope, and joyous passion;She forgot her father’s station,He forsook the halls of fashion;She loved him well—he knew it,—’Twas a pleasing interlude,Fitting to enjoy more keenlyScenes the poor might ne’er intrude.
’Twere vain to tell the story
Of fear, hope, and joyous passion;
She forgot her father’s station,
He forsook the halls of fashion;
She loved him well—he knew it,—
’Twas a pleasing interlude,
Fitting to enjoy more keenly
Scenes the poor might ne’er intrude.
Hark! the sound of music swelling!—Now the crowd are rushing by,Horses prancing, banners flying,Shouts ascending to the sky!—There’s a sea of life beneath me,Andhisform is there,—For his fearful sin who spurns him?On his brow what sign of care?
Hark! the sound of music swelling!—
Now the crowd are rushing by,
Horses prancing, banners flying,
Shouts ascending to the sky!—
There’s a sea of life beneath me,
Andhisform is there,—
For his fearful sin who spurns him?
On his brow what sign of care?
I seehernow—she trembles—There is phrensy in her eye;Her blanchéd lip is quivering;There is no good angel nigh;—She falls,—the deep-toned bugleBreaks on the quiet air;Look to the calm blue heaven—That sound—her soul—are there!
I seehernow—she trembles—
There is phrensy in her eye;
Her blanchéd lip is quivering;
There is no good angel nigh;—
She falls,—the deep-toned bugle
Breaks on the quiet air;
Look to the calm blue heaven—
That sound—her soul—are there!
In the cavalcade she saw him,In his plumes and armor drest,And more closely to her bosomHis treasured gifts she prest;Her eye met his—’twas finished—Not a word by tongue was spoken;A cold glance—a look of passion—And her heart was broken!
In the cavalcade she saw him,
In his plumes and armor drest,
And more closely to her bosom
His treasured gifts she prest;
Her eye met his—’twas finished—
Not a word by tongue was spoken;
A cold glance—a look of passion—
And her heart was broken!
How common are such histories,In the cottage and the hall;From prison bars how many eyesLook on life’s carnival!The joys we seek are phantomsThat fade ere closed the handIn the dark reached forth to grasp them,But the brain receives their brand.
How common are such histories,
In the cottage and the hall;
From prison bars how many eyes
Look on life’s carnival!
The joys we seek are phantoms
That fade ere closed the hand
In the dark reached forth to grasp them,
But the brain receives their brand.
THE TWO DUKES.
———
BY ANN S. STEPHENS.
———
(Concluded from page 245.)
The duke saw his wife, and at first seemed willing to avoid her, but after moving forward a step or two, he turned back, took her hand in his with an energy that startled her, and pressing his lips to it, turned away and hurried on with the guard still surrounding him.
The duchess stood gazing after him, filled with strange apprehension. The force with which he had wrung her hand was still painful, and there was an expression in his face which made her heart sink with sad forebodings. What had befallen him? Where was her daughter—and why did he, who so seldom forgot the etiquette of his high station, take leave of her thus, when only going forth for a morning? As the gentle and yet proud lady stood pondering these things in her mind, the old counsellor, whom we have mentioned, returned slowly up the corridor, and approaching her with touching reverence, told her all. She thanked him, tried to smile as she extended her hand—but in the effort her strength gave way, and she fell pale and helpless on the stone floor. The old man lifted her in his arms, and carrying her to the Lady Jane Seymour’s room, placed her on the bed, and bathed her temples with water, which he laved from a silver basin with his hand, till at last he went forth in despair to call assistance, for she lay upon the glowing counterpane pale and still, like a draped statue reposing in the purple gloom which filled the chamber; and for many long hours the lady who had always seemed so quiet, proud, and almost void of feeling, remained as one dead.
It was half an hour before Lady Jane was informed of her mother’s condition. She was still in her father’s closet, with her hand locked in that of Lord Dudley, and her large troubled eyes bent earnestly upon him, as he spoke to her in a voice so deep, so earnest and impassioned, that every tone thrilled through her heart with a power that made it tremble.
“Do not look at me thus. In the name of heaven, speak to me, Jane. I have not done this; it is no fault of mine. Do I not love you?—ay, and will forever! I will follow my father, beseech him, kneel to him if needs be, and put an end to this dreadful contest; but speak to me first—my own—my dearest—say that you will struggle for power to aid me that—nay, Jane, nay, do not shrink from me; one kiss—one look, to prove you love me as before, and I will go at once. All will terminate well—God bless you!”
As the young man finished his hurried speech, he lifted the young girl from his bosom, where she had fallen in utter abandonment to her tenderness and grief, pressed her forehead with his lips again and again—then folding her to his heart once more, he carried her to the chair her father had just occupied, and placing her within it, was about to leave the room. Lady Jane put back the long ringlets that had fallen over her face with both hands, and looked after him through the tears that almost blinded her. Then rising to her feet, she tottered toward him with outstretched arms, and when he turned for a last look, sprang forward and wound them almost convulsively round his neck. It was but the paroxysm of a moment, for scarcely did she feel his clasp together about her, when she drew gently back, checked the tears that gushed into her eyes afresh, and spoke breathlessly, as one whose very heart was ebbing with the words, as they came laden with pain to her lips—
“It is in vain, Dudley, all in vain. There have been words and deeds, this day, between your father and mine, which must separate us forever. Farewell!”
He would have expostulated, have soothed her with hopes which had no foundation in his own mind, for his thoughts were in confusion, and his heart seemed ready to break with contending feelings; but as he spoke, her slender fingers wreathed themselves convulsively around his hand, her face was uplifted to his for a moment, and she glided swiftly through the door and along the corridor to the chamber where her mother was lying, and left him standing bewildered and in pain, as if a guardian spirit had been frightened from its brooding place in his heart.
In an apartment belonging to that portion of the tower occupied by the sovereigns of England sat a pale, slender boy reading. The room was furnished in a style of magnificence, befitting one of high rank and of habits more elegant and studious than were usual to the court of Henry the Eighth during his reign. The books which it contained were richly bound, and some of them encrusted with jewels; all had clasps either of silver or of gold, and a portion were entirely filled with manuscript in the hand-writing of the late King Henry.
Tall windows cut deep into the massive walls in one side of the room filled it with light. The massive stone sills were cushioned with velvet, and upon the cushions, musical instruments of the most precious wood and inlaid with gold, had been flung down, as if their owner had become weary of one amusement only to seek another. The boy arose from his easy leathern chair, and moving toward the window, ran his fingers thoughtfully over the strings of a lute that lay on the cushion, gazing idly through the glass at a court below, as he was thus occupied. After a moment he sauntered back to the chair, took up the volume of manuscript which he had left open on a small and curiously carved table standing near the window, and sinking once more to his seat he began to read again, but the book seemed to fatigue him at last, so allowing it to sink, still open, to his lap, the youth gradually sank to a fit of abstracted musing, and sat with his head resting on his hand, and his large eyes fixed dreamily on the face of a great ebony clock which stood opposite the window, its burnished face glittering through a whole bower of carved wood, and its huge pendulum swaying to and fro with a dull, sleepy motion, well calculated to continue the state of languid thoughtfulness into which the youth had fallen.
As King Edward the Sixth—for the boy was no less a personage—sat musing, thus languid from ill health, and rendered somewhat more sad than usual from the manuscript and book which he had been reading, a page entered, and before he had time to speak, Lord Dudley, son of the reigning protector, followed him into the room. The young nobleman looked pale and much agitated, and Edward himself seemed a little startled by his abrupt entrance, for he was so little accustomed to being consulted on matters regarding the welfare of his kingdom, that any person thus nearly connected with the Lord Protector became an object of nervous dread to him; for such persons seldom interrupted his retirement except to counsel some change of residence, or dictate regarding his personal habits, which to a person naturally shy, and rendered sensitive by illness, was always a subject to be dreaded, but never opposed. It was therefore with something of dismay in his pale features, that Edward received his visiter.
Dudley advanced close to the king’s chair, and sinking to one knee, pressed his lips reverently to the slender hand which the royal youth extended with habitual courtsey, though a languid and deprecatory smile, rather than one of welcome, stole over his lip.
“My lord,” he said in a voice low and almost femininely sweet, “I am not well to-day, but if your good father recommends that we remove to Windsor, let the household be prepared; he is the best judge, though in his strong health and great energy he does sometimes tax our weakness a thought too far with these sudden removals.”
Edward motioned the young nobleman to arise as he spoke, and when he still retained a kneeling posture, looked in his face with something of astonishment.
“My liege,” said Dudley in a respectful and low voice, “I did not come from my father. Alas, since he became Duke of Northumberland and Protector of this realm, there has been little of confidence between us. I have come to you, my liege, on a subject dear as my own life, one which I dare not again intrude upon him, though every feeling of friendship and honor should make him listen to my prayer.”
“Of what speak you?” said Edward apprehensively, while his large eyes wandered from the young nobleman’s face to other objects in the room, as if he would gladly have avoided any subject of interest, “of whom speak you—and of what?”
“I would speak, my liege, of the duke, your highness’ uncle, of his suffering wife and daughter, who now lie with him, prisoned within these very walls; I would claim that justice and clemency at your hands, which I have sought and knelt for in vain, at the feet of my own father.”
The king sank back into his chair, and passed his pale hand across his forehead, as if the subject were not only a painful one but not entirely comprehended in its full import.
“We know,” he said at length, “that our uncle has been found or thought guilty of many evil practices against the good people of our realm, and that our present able protector has seen it best to imprison him for a season; but we did not know that our noble aunt and sweet cousin Jane were the companions of his captivity. Pray, can you inform us, my good lord, how this all happened? Of what wrong has our sweet playmate and cousin been accused, that she too must be drawn from her home? His Grace of Northumberland forgets that the same blood which fills the veins of his king fills hers also; pray explain, my lord. We have no power to sift all the evil practices of our government, but even his grace, your father, must be careful how he deals with one of our mother’s house.”
The feeble youth became animated with a spirit which surprised Lord Dudley, as he uttered these words. A bright flush spread over his cheeks, and his eyes sparkled with the excitement which sprang both from disease and a resentful feeling, perhaps the most violent that ever visited his gentle heart. Naturally kind and most affectionate in his nature, he had always clung with fondness to those members of his family connected with his mother, and, since her birth, the Lady Jane had been his especial favorite. It therefore aroused all the strong feelings of royal pride in his heart to hear that a creature so pure and delicate had been, through an abuse of power, made the inmate of a prison. Nor was he better reconciled to the fact when Dudley informed him that it was through her own affectionate desire to mitigate the confinement of her persecuted parent that she had abandoned all to follow him. The youthful monarch was touched by an act of devotion such as his own heart would have prompted, and he questioned Lord Dudley regarding the arbitrary power by which the fallen protector had been imprisoned, with a degree of energy, and an evident determination to know the exact position of affairs, which astonished as much as it pleased the anxious nobleman.
Lord Dudley’s was a difficult and painful explanation. It was scarcely possible to place the proceedings against the Duke of Somerset in a favorable light before the young king, without in some degree exposing the conduct of his own parent to condemnation. Still he had entered the presence of his sovereign with a firm resolve to explain all, and throw himself and his hopes on the generosity of a mere boy, and an invalid, who had ever been completely controlled by his guardians, those guardians the very men whom he was called upon to brave. It was with faint hopes, that Dudley undertook this last appeal, when all other efforts to assist his friends failed, and when he had done speaking, when he saw the feeble youth lying back in his chair, pale and exhausted from the emotions which his narrative had excited, he felt almost condemned, that any motive could have induced him to disturb the repose of a being so fragile and sensitive.
“My liege, my kind, gracious master,” said the young man, starting to his feet as the overpowered monarch sank back to his chair, faint, pale, and with his golden lashes quivering upon his thin cheeks as they closed his eyes; “my gracious king, forgive me that I have thus intruded—that for any reason I have disturbed a repose which should be sacred to the whole nation; but the persecution of a being so fair—so good—one whom I have long looked upon as my future wife—who is now suffering and in prison”—
Dudley broke off abruptly, for all at once the hectic color rushed back into the king’s face, and his languid blue eyes kindled with the brilliancy of a spirit, for the first time, thoroughly aroused.
“Were we indeed a king,” he said, “a true, free king as our father was, and not the invalid child which men see in us, these things could not happen. No man would dare to enter the councils of a nation and cast their leaders into prison without the sanction, nay, command of his monarch. But, alas! there is not in the kingdom a being more completely held in thrall than ourself! Until now, we were scarcely made aware of the persecution which has been so ruthlessly urged against our uncle—but it shall not be! The new duke, thy father, must not thus abuse the authority with which the council, rather than ourself, has invested him!”
Edward arose, excited to some degree of strength by the indignation of his generous heart, and walked up and down the room once or twice, as if to tranquilize his spirit, then seating himself once more, he requested Lord Dudley to explain the cause and all the particulars of Somerset’s arrest.
It was a difficult task which the young monarch imposed on his visiter; for Dudley loved his father, and it was impossible to enter into the desired explanation without, in some degree, implicating him; but a sense of justice, and that true love which brought him to Edward’s presence, urged him to obedience, and while he so guarded each word as to cast as little blame as possible on his own parent, he pleaded the cause of his friends with a degree of enthusiasm that aroused all the love of justice and family affection, which were strong and predominating qualities in the heart of the youthful monarch.
Edward sat perfectly still, shading his eyes with his small, thin hand, till Dudley had finished speaking; and even for several moments after, he remained motionless, and as if lost in thought. At last, he allowed the hand to drop from his eyes, and looked up.
“My lord,” he said, in a firm, clear voice, “you have acted rightly and well in laying this subject before us. Our reign may be a brief one, but it shall be marked, at least, by one act of justice. Come hither again after nightfall. Meantime we will consider the subject and decide what can best be done.”
Dudley bent his knee reverently, kissed the pale hand extended toward him, and left the presence. As his fine, healthy form disappeared through the door, and the vigorous footfall of youth and firm health sounded back from the corridor, Edward looked after him, smiled very sadly, and sinking down to his chair, exhausted with the scene, murmured:
“How well he is! how full of life and hope! and I—” He covered his face with both hands, and tears trickled through his fingers, till they fell like rain amid the sables that lined his robe. “And yet,” he added at last, removing his hands and wiping away the tears, while a brighter expression stole over his face, “and yet I have the power to make him happy—and Jane, my sweet cousin. Let me act while I have yet strength!”
Edward arose once more, unlocked a miniature cabinet which stood upon the table, and taking out a small golden flask, drank off its contents. The potion seemed to compose and strengthen him; a color came to his lips, and his eyes had within them that strange, glittering fire which springs from artificial excitement. A small branch of twisted ebony, hung with a cluster of tiny bells, lay upon the table. The king took it up, and rang the bells till the apartment seemed haunted in every nook and corner with a gush of fairy music. As the sound died away, the door was opened, and a page presented himself, evidently much astonished at the energy with which his summons had been rung.
“Go to the lieutenant of the tower,” said Edward, promptly, as the page advanced to receive his orders. “Tell him that the king desires his presence without delay.”
The boy disappeared instantly; and when his companions in the ante-room crowded near to know why it was that a sound so full and bold had summoned him, in place of the faint, silvery tinkle which usually came from the king’s apartment, he put on a look of profound mystery, and, after describing the change which had come upon his royal master, gave it as his decided opinion, that something very tremendous and extraordinary was about to happen, but what the event might be he was not at liberty to inform them. This much he would, perhaps, venture to say. The lieutenant of the tower would soon be ordered to present himself before the king, and after that something might transpire to surprise them all. With these profound sayings, the boy departed from the ante-room, putting on his plumed cap with an important air, and placing a finger to his saucy red lips, in token of secrecy, as he looked back in passing through the door.
After an absence of half an hour, the page returned, following the lieutenant of the tower, for whom he ceremoniously held the door opening to King Edward’s chamber. The lieutenant passed in to the royal apartment, while his young escort closed the door after him, dexterously managing to leave it unlatched, and sufficiently ajar to command, for himself, a view of all that was passing within, while he stood toying with his cap, and, as his companions supposed, retaining his station merely to be within hearing of the king’s bell.
So little had Edward mingled in the affairs of his nation, that, for the first time in his life, he addressed an officer of his kingdom in the man who stood before him, who stood lost in astonishment at a summons so strange and unexpected.
Though a little restrained and shy in his manner, from almost constant illness and seclusion, there was a degree of quiet dignity about the young king’s bearing as he extended his hand to raise the lieutenant from his kneeling posture, that well became his station and his royal nature.
“We have sent to command your presence, sir lieutenant, somewhat against our usual habit; having been informed, to-day, that our uncle, the Duke of Somerset, with the gentle ladies of his household, have been placed prisoners under your care. Our desire is, that they be discharged the tower, at once, and sent, with all due honor in our own royal barge, to the duke’s palace on the Strand. You are commanded to see to this; retaining only, in pledge, the solemn word of our uncle, that he present himself before us, his king, in three days, to be confronted with his accusers, and to answer the charges brought against him.”
Edward slightly waved his hand, when he finished speaking, as if he deemed farther conversation or ceremony unnecessary; and, after thus quietly expressing his wishes, desired to be alone.
The lieutenant was a shrewd man, who held his station under favor of Northumberland, and who had been taught, like most of his fellow subjects, to regard the king as a mere shadow in his own realm. He was taken by surprise—so completely deprived of all presence of mind, by a command totally unexpected, and most important in its nature, that for a moment he stood gazing hard upon the floor, completely at a loss how to act, or what to say. At last, he cast a furtive look on the young monarch, who stood tranquilly regarding him, but instantly turning his eyes away, again bowed almost to the ground, and said, in a soft, deprecating voice, that he would mention the king’s desire to the Lord Protector forthwith, and that he would, doubtless, sign the order necessary for a release of the noble prisoner.
A fire, like that in the eye of an angry falcon, shot into the large, blue orbs which Edward fixed upon his officer. A streak of crimson flashed across his forehead; his slight figure was drawn proudly up, and, as his velvet robe, with its heavy facings of sables, fell back and swept the floor, there was a majesty in his look which well became a son of Henry the Eighth. After regarding the confused lieutenant a second, with a glance, which made that personage more desirous to leave the room than he had even been to enter it, the young monarch turned away, saying, in the same calm and tranquil tone in which his first command had been given—
“The King of England will write his own orders—wait.”
Seating himself by the table, Edward took up a pen, and though his fingers trembled with weakness upon the parchment, wrote and signed an order for his uncle’s release, the first and last legal document that his own free will ever originated. After it was written, he took up a small agate cup, perforated in the side, and after shaking a quantity of gold dust over the damp ink, he folded the parchment and held it toward the still irresolute lieutenant. There was something in the manner with which all this was done; so quiet, so firm and full of dignity, that, in spite of himself, the officer was awed by a feeling of respect which could not be resisted. Bending his knee, he reverently took the parchment, pressed his lips to the hand which extended it, and left the presence, irresolute how to act, and yet deprived of sufficient courage to resist the command of his sovereign.
As the page ran forward to open a door which led from the ante-room to a corridor, through which the lieutenant was obliged to pass, he saw, at the farther extremity, the Duke of Northumberland, now Lord Protector, moving toward the king’s apartments, followed by some half dozen retainers whom he left near the entrance, while he advanced to meet the lieutenant with a look of surprise and displeasure at seeing him there. The page observed that when the duke and his officer met, they conversed earnestly and with considerable animation together, but in low voices, and all the time looking suspiciously around to be certain that no person was within hearing. They were thus engaged for more than ten minutes, while the restless page stood, with the door in his hand, regarding them through a crevice thus conveniently created to gratify his curiosity.
“Now,” said he, muttering to himself as he softly swung back the door a little to increase his opportunity of survey—“now, if I could but steal through without making these rusty hinges sound an alarm, it would be rare pastime to creep along the wall and hear what treason those lofty old fellows are plotting. It is no light matter, I’ll warrant—see, how the tall old duke clutches his fingers and bends his dark forehead over his eyes till one can scarcely see them, beneath the hoary brows—see, his lips are pressing hard upon each other like a vice—now is his turn to speak—nay, if I were master lieutenant now, beshrew me! but I should get away from that beautiful old gentleman without waiting to say ‘by your leave!’ There he stands, looking the king a thousand times more than my young master yonder, and I doubt not berating that poor lieutenant, as if he were a hound. See, how slowly, and with what a manner he lifts that right hand, holding the finger up, and shaking it before the poor lieutenant as if it were the blade of a dagger. Beshrew me! but I must learn more of this game—the corridor is half in shadow, and they can but kick me out, like a troublesome dog, if I am discovered—so be quiet, latch and hinge, if you can, for once.”
As the boy half muttered, half thought these words, he gently pushed back the door, and was about forcing himself through the opening, but a noise, created by the rusty hinges, was not the only means of betraying his attempt. A space large enough to admit his body also served to fling a line of light far into the dim corridor, which startled the two persons he was regarding more than a noise could have done. They both turned and looked keenly toward the door. The duke uttered a brief sentence and moved on, waving his hand imperatively to the lieutenant. He also went down the passage, and passing the group of attendants in a hurried manner, disappeared through a door at the opposite extremity, through which the duke had entered the corridor.
Meantime the page, finding himself in danger of detection, had escaped to his post near the king’s chamber. When Northumberland approached, he arose from the bench on which he had flung himself, looked up from beneath the feathers of his cap, with a sleepy yawn, and moved forward to announce the Lord Protector, rubbing his eyes as he went, and laughing with silent mischief beneath the concealment of his drooping plumes. As the duke passed him at the door, he paused an instant and fixed a keen glance on his face, which the boy returned by taking off his cap, and bending his curly head almost to the ground, while, with the most frank and cheerful of all voices, he prayed for long life to the noble Lord Protector.
If Northumberland had any suspicion of the boy at first, it was half disarmed by that clear voice and the handsome face sparkling with intelligence lifted to his. There was something mischievous and yet affectionate and pleasing in it, which brought a smile to his own face as, with careless munificence, he flung a piece of gold into the boy’s cap and entered the king’s chamber.
The page was not so much elated by the gift but that he would have been at his old trick of listening once more; but after advancing a pace into the chamber, Northumberland turned back, looked at the urchin with a half smile, and closed the door himself.
A laugh from his companions, who witnessed his defeat from another end of the room, sent a flood of crimson over the boy’s face, but shaking his curls with an air of good-natured bravado, he gave the golden coin a triumphant toss, which sent it flashing like a star up into the sunshine which poured through a neighboring window, and catching it in his hand again, sprang forward and joined the laugh merrily as the most gleeful among them. Instantly, the noisy troop were silenced by a sharp bell-tone from the king’s chamber.
“Hush!” said the page, balancing the coin on his finger and eyeing it with a roguish look as he bent his head to listen. “That was the crusty old duke! such fellows hate an honest laugh as King Harry did holy water! they would keep us cooped up here like a flock of pigeons without the privilege of a coo. Hark! again, I must keep quiet till the old one is away, and then we will try a game of chuck farthing in the corridor, if we can get this shiner changed into half crowns and farthings.” So, grasping his fingers over the gold, the page nodded to his companions, leaving them half terrified by the thoughts that their merriment had reached—not the king, he was too good and lenient to chide them for harmless mirth—but the stern duke, whom they all feared beyond measure. The page looked back upon them, as he entered the chamber, tried to smile and seem courageous, though he was half frightened out of his wits—and the next instant stood in the presence of his sovereign, with his bright, black eyes—half concealed by their long lashes—bent to the floor, and a brilliant red burning through the ringlets that fell over his cheek. He seemed the very picture of a living and healthy Cupid in disgrace.
“What noise was it that reached us but now from the ante-room?” said the Lord Protector, sternly, as the boy appeared before him. “Is it with this rudeness and riot you surround the chamber of our invalid king? Begone, sirrah! strip off the royal livery at once and return to your mother, if you have one.”
The boy lifted his face to that of the stern duke and his cheek dimpled even while it turned white with fear, a smile was so natural to it. But when the last cruel words were spoken, the long lashes drooped over his eyes again and grew heavy with moisture. He turned away from the face frowning upon him, and, kneeling at the king’s feet, lifted his eyes—now full of tears—to those of his master and said,
“I have no mother.”
Edward’s kind heart was deeply touched by the sadness with which this was said. He was but a youth himself, and forgetful of his dignity and of all but the sweet, pleading face lifted to his, he laid his thin hand upon the curls which fell back from it, and would have kissed the forehead, but an exclamation from Northumberland warned him of the impropriety. Still the page had seen the impulse and the generous tears which filled the mild eyes of his master. His young heart swelled with grateful affection, and, burying his head in Edward’s robe, he sobbed aloud.
“Poor boy! he is an orphan like ourself. You will not send him hence, my lord duke,” said the young king, turning his face with an anxious and almost pleading look upon his guardian. “The offence was not heavy; and see how penitent he is.”
“The offence not heavy, my liege?” replied the duke harshly, “have I not given orders that no sound shall disturb your highness’ repose, and notwithstanding this, am I not distracted almost in my first private audience by the riotous mirth of this urchin and his mates?”
“Nay, we have ourself somewhat to blame in this—having little cause for merriment in our own heart, and pining here day after day—for, alas! kings have no companions—it has sometimes been a comfort to hear the merry laugh of these thoughtless boys—to know that cheerfulness is not shut out from our presence forever. That health and laughter—which is its music—is yet a thing of earth; though, alas! a blessing which we may witness, but never enjoy. Shut out the sunshine which smiles through these windows, the stars which at night time glimmer through that narrow line of glass, and which we have learned to read when pain has made our couch sleepless, till they have become as old friends; break yon lute, whose music is to this faint heart like the voice of a good child to its parent, and, above all, send away the cheerful voices which sometimes fill the next room, and you have wrested from the King of England the only fragment of his inheritance that was ever his.”
The page looked up as his master was speaking, the tears were checked in his eyes, and he knelt breathlessly, as one who listened to the voice of an angel. The proud Northumberland turned his eyes from the pale, spiritual face of his royal ward, and bent them on the floor. There was a look of patient suffering in those features which touched his better nature; something in the sad, broken-hearted feelings which filled that voice, which found a passage to his soul, even through the selfishness and ambition that encased it. Other thoughts, too, were busy in his mind. He had a point to carry with the young monarch—a difficult and doubtful one. His animosity against the page only arose from resentment, excited by his conversation with the lieutenant, and some faint suspicion that he had played the listener while that conversation was held. A moment’s reflection convinced him that to have heard any part of his conference, from the distance at which he had caught a glimpse of the boy in the corridor, was impossible; so, resolving to make his concession the means of obtaining a much greater one from the king, Northumberland determined to seem won to mercy by sympathy and regard for his ward.
While these thoughts were passing through the mind of that crafty man, Edward remained in his chair, supporting his head with one hand, while the other still lay caressingly, and half buried amid the bright ringlets of the kneeling culprit, who gathered the royal robe between his small hands, and kissed the glowing velvet with grateful eagerness, while his bright face was again deluged with tears—such tears as can only know their birth in a warm, wayward, and affectionate nature.
“Forgive the pain my zeal in behalf of a health so precarious has occasioned,” said the duke, advancing graciously to the king, while his face relapsed into one of those bland smiles which sometimes beamed like magic over his proud features. “Heaven forbid that anything which is dear to your highness, however faulty, should be condemned by one whose first aim is to render his king happy! Let the boy go at once! Far be it from me to desire his chastisement. Go, sirrah,” he added, taking hold of the boy’s arm and lifting him from his knees, but still giving to the action and words a tone of good-natured encouragement, “go to the ante-room; here is another piece of gold to repay the fright we have given you.”
The page stood up; his checks flushed once more beneath the tears that stained them. He looked upon the proffered gold, and, with a motion of the head, betraying both pride and boyish petulance, seemed about to refuse it, but a glance from his master, and something in the duke’s eye which awed him, checked the resentful impulse, and taking the gold, with half muttered thanks, he knelt once more at Edward’s feet, kissed the hand which was kindly extended, and bursting into tears again, left the chamber.
The moment he reached the ante-room, our page flung himself on a bench, and burying his face in the tapestry that cushioned it, sobbed aloud. His companions gathered about him in dismay, anxious to learn the cause of his tears; but it was a long time before he would reply to their questions. At last he started up, dashed the two pieces of gold on the stone floor till they rang again, and told his friends to take them up—fling them into the court below—toss them for farthings—do anything with them—but protested that he would never touch them again. After this ebullition of boyish wrath, he gave a glowing description of the tyranny which had been practised upon him by the duke; of the goodness of his royal master; and of the great danger which had threatened them all. Whereupon, they jointly and severally entered into a contract never to laugh again during the whole course of their lives—a resolution they persisted in keeping for a full half hour, when our young hero set them all into convulsions by a most ludicrous imitation of the protector’s manner as he took leave of the lieutenant. When this new burst of merriment died away, the group of youngsters stood for a while frightened by their own boldness, and expecting each moment to hear another summons to the royal chamber; but instead of the sound they feared, came another which overwhelmed them with surprise. It was the voice of their royal master, louder than any one had ever heard it before, and powerful with strong feeling. The duke’s voice was also heard, sometimes stern and almost disrespectfully harsh, again soothing and persuasive, with something of that cajolery in its tone which one might expect from the hired nurse of a wayward child.
While these unusual sounds were continued in the king’s apartment, the pages gradually drew nearer to the door, till they could command some broken sentences of what was passing within. At length the king’s voice grew fainter and less distinct. Northumberland now and then uttered a brief sentence, and his heavy footsteps were plainly heard as he strode up and down the room. At last a sharp ringing of the bells sent the listeners to a distant part of the room, where they stood gazing in each other’s faces, uncertain whether they ought to obey the summons or not. Their doubts were speedily relieved, for the door was flung open and the Duke of Northumberland appeared, looking pale and much agitated. He beckoned with his hand, and the page that we have mentioned so often entered the chamber. He found the king lying back in his chair, faint and pale as death; his lips were perfectly bloodless, and though he seemed insensible, the silken vest worn beneath his robe was agitated by the quick and terrible beating of the heart it covered.
With instinctive affection, the page untied the silken fastenings of his master’s dress, and exposing the delicate neck and chest, which heaved and throbbed as if the heart were forcing a passage through, he commenced chafing it with his hands, till the agitation became less painful and apparent.
At length, Edward unclosed his eyes and drawing his doublet together with a trembling hand, tried to sit up. Northumberland advanced and seemed about to address him, but he shrank back with a nervous shudder. After a moment, he got up again and would have spoken, but his lips only trembled; he had no strength to utter a word. Northumberland walked to a window, where he stood some time with his arms folded, gazing gloomily through the thick glass. Still the page knelt by his master, chafing his hands, and folding the robe over his feet with that kind assiduity which bespoke an affectionate nature.
At length Edward spoke, and the duke turned eagerly from the window, evidently relieved by this proof that his late attack would not be immediately fatal.
“My lord,” said the king, faintly, “you see how impossible it is that this subject can be discussed farther. I beseech your grace, have my wishes obeyed, both regarding your son and all the parties concerned.”
Again Northumberland’s brow darkened, and he seemed about to expostulate, but Edward looked him gravely in the face and added,
“Itmustbe so, my lord duke, or England will not brook the imprisonment of a protector who, with all his faults, knew how to respect the rights of his king.”
The color forsook Northumberland’s face, but still he frowned and looked unyielding. Edward arose feebly from his chair, and leaning upon the shoulder of his page, moved toward an inner bed-chamber. The duke saw by this movement that all hope of further conference was cut off, and feeling himself baffled and forced to act against his wishes by a mere youth, he once more forgot his usual crafty composure and the respect due to his sovereign.
“My liege,” he said, almost imperatively, “this is requiring too much; I cannot grant it.”
Edward turned so as to face the angry noble, and while still supported by the page, answered mildly, but with the same steady will as before,
“My Lord of Northumberland,” he said, “either our uncle, the Duke of Somerset, returns to his palace to-morrow as we have directed, or on the next day he goes there Lord Protector of England.”
With a slight wave of the hand, and with his features contracted with the pain which his effort to speak occasioned, Edward turned away and passed into his bedchamber without waiting for a reply, which, in truth, Northumberland was unable to give, so completely was he astounded by what had already been said.
The page would have called other assistance when Edward reached his bedchamber, but the invalid prevented him, and after having the points of his dress untied, lay down upon the bed, faint and exhausted. The boy moved about him with that soft, gentle tread so grateful in the chamber of an invalid. He smoothed the pillows, drew the counterpane of embossed velvet over the recumbent monarch, and, taking some scented woods from a closet, flung them into a brasier that stood in the fire-place, and nursed the flame beneath till the chamber was filled with a soft, drowsy atmosphere, grateful to the sense, and almost certain to produce tranquil sleep. Then he would steal once more to the bed, pull back the voluminous curtains, and bend over the pale form resting there till his dimpled cheek, so damask and healthy, almost touched that of the monarch, and the wreath of his bright curls fell amid the damp masses of hair which swept over the pillow, in a contrast that was lovely and yet painful to behold. When satisfied that his master was asleep, the boy stole softly from the chamber, as had always been his habit, to await the time of his waking in the next room. He started with surprise on seeing it still occupied by the Duke of Northumberland, who stood before the window gazing sternly into the court below, and evidently lost in a train of most unpleasant thoughts. When the boy entered he started impatiently, and, clearing the frown from his face with an effort, crossed the room.