“I write to say that you are free—you cannot but wish it, after what has passed. You cannot but hate one so apparently void of all feeling—so wickedly frivolous. Forgive me for the pain I cause you, God knows I am in need of pity! Should the worst happen, I will be guilty of my brother’s blood, a thought that maddens me. Farewell, I will always pray for your happiness.“Minnie de la Croix.”
“I write to say that you are free—you cannot but wish it, after what has passed. You cannot but hate one so apparently void of all feeling—so wickedly frivolous. Forgive me for the pain I cause you, God knows I am in need of pity! Should the worst happen, I will be guilty of my brother’s blood, a thought that maddens me. Farewell, I will always pray for your happiness.
“Minnie de la Croix.”
And she drooped day by day, with a weight of iron on her soul. Her sister’s sorrow—Paul’s suffering, and the separation from her young heart’s treasure were cankers, to eat away its hopes, and wither its freshness. Her father, too—how much he had changed, how gray he had become! How sad her sisters were, how gravely Kenneth spoke! The thought of their now deserted home, of its once happy aspect. She thought of its cheerful, merry-hearted inmates, and the light voices that were now so low and sad. She remembered her mother and the last blessing, the prayer that they might be forever united—she remembered the dead infant and Kate’s return—poor Kate! that she should be the only sufferer! Gladly would she have laid down her now darkened life for her sister—gladly would she have sunk into the tomb, to hide her bursting, breaking heart!
One night she sat at the head of Paul Linden’s bed after entreating Kate to go once around her aunt’s garden and breathe the sweet spring air. Her face was buried in her hands, and by the deep sighs that shook her frame a portion of that young creature’s misery might be conceived. On the opposite side of the bed sat another, watching her, by the darkened light of the sick room, with a look of deep compassion. He had entered unperceived, and there was a start of surprise as his eyes fell upon the drooped figure. He could never mistake it—he knew the outline of that once loved form—he knew the little hands that were clasped across her knees, and he held his breath least even that should rouse her. Involuntarily he held out his arms, but at a movementfrom the invalid she sprung to his side, and her companion bent down to raise him as he asked for some water. Minnie held the glass to his lips, and replaced it on the table without raising her eyes to his face, for she thought it was Kenneth; when she turned to seat herself her eyes fell upon the figure of him she loved! The blood forsook her cheeks, and with a low smothered cry she covered her face once more. When she looked again he was still there, and his hand was held out beseechingly toward her. Slowly she gave him hers, it was no bond of renewed faith, she thought merely that he offered her forgiveness, and he seemed now further from her than ever, as she remembered this and looked at the wounded man upon the bed. Sick at heart she sunk back upon her chair and buried her head in the clothes. The silence around them was painful now in the extreme, and Paul’s heavy breathing fell like a reproach upon her tortured heart. Years seemed to pass, and when Blanche came in to take her place, she breathed a prayer of thankfulness for the relief a change afforded.
She hurried from the room out into the garden to give vent to her wretchedness. She had then seen him again—seen him, she resolved for the last time. She had suffered too much for the last half hour to dare it again, and she dwelt upon the remembrance of his loved features as if to impress them more deeply yet upon her heart. Alas! how wildly she clung to him, now that she had bid him a last farewell! how intense grew the love she had lavished upon him with a woman’s bounty! She returned no more that night to her brother’s chamber, for she knew who watched beside him, but the lowly vigil she kept within her own was an eternity of grief.
Toward daylight Lisa entered with a face of joy. Clasping Minnie in her arms, she burst into tears as she spoke.
“Minnie, my poor child! he is saved! saved at last!”
She sunk upon the floor in a swoon, and during Paul’s convalescence, another of the household lay at death’s door. Day after day her fearful ravings smote their heavy hearts, and a gloom seemed hanging like a vast pall over them. Father, brothers and sisters, grew pale and thin; but there sat one beside that bed who seemed to grow old as he looked upon the distorted countenance of his Minnie. His poor blighted flower!
The physicians did not despair, but they did not bid them hope, and so a week passed—a week that dragged by like a lengthened chain that overpowered them. Then there came a gleam of light—
And Minnie opened her eyes once more to life. Who can tell their joy—their prayers of thankfulness as at length she knew them all? At the door now, sat her lover, not daring to enter lest his presence prove fatal, but as the tones of her sweet feeble voice reached him, he leaned against the wall for support. Rose wept silently at his side, and pressed his hand as he called on Minnie’s name——they might yet be happy!
Minnie’s first coherent inquiry was for Paul Linden, and the news of his recovery was the first and surest step to her own. He came to see her as soon as he heard it, and tenderly kissing that pale thin cheek, remained sitting by her with his hand in hers.
“Will you forgive me, Paul?” she asked, her eyes filling with tears.
“Dear child,” replied he tenderly, “did you imagine all this time that I could ever do aught but love you? So do not speak of forgiveness again, we are all too happy at your recovery to think of any thing but joy.”
How gratefully Minnie listened to all this, and how much she prized the affection each in their turn was striving to prove! She had awakened from a dream of horror to a new existence. She had grown wiser—the trial had purified her, and if at times her thoughts would turn to thehappy hoursof the past—to the blessinghislove had seemed, she struggled against the regret that stung so sharply, and bowed her head to the justice of her punishment. It never occurred to her, poor penitent! that Harry could love her still, she thought her own conduct fully justified his accepting the freedom she had offered him, and heavy as the stroke came—deeply as it was felt, Minnie looked upon it as her due, and bound herself to suffer in silence—to battle with her troubles.
One morning her father carried her out into the garden, and seated her under a climbing jessamine that covered a bower at the side of the house. Few would have recognized the once gay and blooming girl in the delicate creature that leaned back exhausted in the chair—few could have realized the active little sprite, the idol of the ball-room, in this languid, helpless figure; but to her father and sisters there was something sweeter than ever in their suffering Minnie. A placid smile overspread her features at the sight of the sweet flowers that bloomed around her, and she held out her hand toward a cluster of fragrant Lady Banks that grew near.
“I can tell you a secret of the loveliest bouquet you ever saw, Minnie,” said Rose, gathering the bunch of tiny roses for her sister. “A bouquet that was sent an hour ago by a friend of yours and mine. It is the eighth received to-day, and I reserved this one as abonne bouche, after all the rest. Now I am going to get it while you sit here, and papa will watch you until I get back.”
Her father looked tenderly at his poor bird, and stooped to kiss her. She smiled so gratefully in return, that the tears sprung to his eyes.
“We will go home soon, father,” said she, holding his hand; “we will go back to the old homestead. I pine for my native air like a caged bird, and long to be there again.”
He assented with a look of joy, for it was the first time she had mentioned her home, and he fancied she was stronger as she spoke.
Rose came running back with the bouquet, and the sick girl bent forward to receive it. Rare exotics and simple flowers lay lovingly together, and round the edge were rows of double violets—sweet flowers of spring that gladdened her heart. How many timesshe had sought them in the thickly bordered beds at home! How often she had kissed them with childish delight, when the fresh perfume had come like a message to tell her the spring had breathed upon them. And now they whispered of the old place and its past joys—of the time that had elapsed since she had been there, and the warm tears fell upon the leaves like shining drops of dew.
“And who sent this bouquet, Rose?” asked she, as her father walked toward the house. “Who sent it?”
“One who loves you dearly, Minnie, and who longs to see you,” replied she. “Will you let me bring him here, dear sister?”
“Him!” murmured the girl, as the color stole slowly over her cheek. “Him, Rose!”
A rustling among the leaves was heard—Rose fled, and once more Harry Selby and Minnie were alone! She gazed at him for a moment, and burst into tears.
“Harry! why are you here, for God’s sake!” she cried, as he knelt beside her and wound his arm around the fragile form he had so longed to see.
“Why am I here, Minnie?” said he reproachfully. “Can you ask me? Is it not to tell you once more how dear you are to me—how wretched I have been?”
“You love me still, then?” she said feebly, and fixing her eyes upon him. “I am not worthy of your love, Harry; I have deserved to lose it.”
“Minnie! Minnie! say not so! Whom could I ever love as I love you? Whose memory has followed me through long years but yours—what torture have I not endured since last we met?”
A look of gladness beamed from those beautiful eyes, and she clasped her hands together. “My God!” she whispered, “he loves me then in spite of all!” and she bowed her head upon her knees. “Loves me! after all that I have caused him and others to suffer.”
“And have you not suffered likewise, my own Minnie? How little you knew me, if you supposed for an instant that I could ever be happy without you!”
She learned to know him, reader; she learned to feel how deeply he loved her, how noble and just he could be, and the next day he bore her into the carriage that was to take them to Oakwood, and took his seat opposite to her, that he too might watch her through the drive.
It was a gala day that—father and sisters, husbands and the lover, his happy uncle and Mr. and Mrs. Bliss followed Minnie to instal her with new honors in her old home. Winny and Sampson headed the procession that came to meet them, and mingled their tears with the rest. Paul had become a hero to them, Minnie a greater pet than ever, and they both accepted the ovation as kindly as it was meant. After dinner, as Minnie sat playing with her beautiful fan, Harry took it gently from her hand.
“There is a secret in this fan, Minnie, unknown to any but myself. Shall I unfold it for you?”
She assented, and touching a spring in the little mirror at the side of the fan, he held it up to her. It disclosed a small, but perfect miniature of himself!
She gave an exclamation of surprise. “Why, Harry! your own dear self! Now I know who gave me this fan—now I guess the sender of this exquisite gift. To think how often I have used it, too, without knowing its real value.”
He smiled and pressed the soft hand he held. “And do you not think me a vain fellow, Minnie, mine, for having my own self, set into a frame like this? See on the other side, dearest, what I dared to do?”
It flew open there and a ring fell out, a tiny bouquet of the brightest diamonds upon it, and an opal in the centre that changed its hue at every motion of the hand. Harry placed the circle upon that taper finger, and held captive the hand that owned it.
“Now, Minnie! I loved you so dearly that I vowed to strive and win the very privilege I have taken, of placing this ring upon your hand myself. I will not let you go until you now tell me when I may put another where this now is, that will bind us closer yet. Tell me, Minnie, and make my happiness complete.”
And I suppose that Minnie told him, reader, for the last time I was at Oakwood there was the happiest bond assembled that earth can show. Kate, my poor Kate! was the delighted mother of another girl called Minnie, while a little Paul that ran about had a decided resemblance to Harry Selby, the proudest man alive. Blanche was beginning to look matronly with her three treasures, and Rose was wandering down the avenue with another nephew of Mr. Selby’s. Lisa, my queen-bee, was herself still—I could not say more for her, and Mr. de la Croix sat at the hall door watching his children and grand-children with a happy look. “They have suffered enough,” said he to me; “but my crown of jewels, my friend, is brighter than ever, after the breath of adversity for a while dimmed its lustre. Kate and Minnie, poor girls! have been in the storm, and felt its violence, but the rest shared their sorrow until it became their own. It was for the best, as all things are, and God in his mercy chastened them without sending Death among us again. They often recur to it, and while Minnie deplores her fault, Kate weeps at the remembrance of her dead child with a gentle sorrow, that allows her to contemplate its happy fate with a Christian’s view of the two worlds. It is not perhaps my part to praise them, but take them all in all, I do not think you will find a more cheerful, willing, and dutiful band than mine. They have been and are still, my crown of jewels.”
TO A CELEBRATED SINGER.
———
BY R. H. STODDARD.
———
Oft have I dreamed of music rare and fine,The wedded melody of lute and voice,Divinest strains that made my soul rejoice,And woke its inner harmonies divine.And where Sicilia smooths the ruffled seas,And Tempe hollows all its purple vales,Thrice have I heard the noble nightingales,All night entranced beneath the bloomy trees;But music, nightingales, and all that ThoughtConceives of song is naughtTo thy rich voice, which echoes in my brain,And fills my longing heart with a melodious pain!A thousand lamps were lit—I saw them not—Nor all the thousands round me like a sea,Life, Death and Time, and all things were forgot;I only thought of thee!Meanwhile the music rose sublime and strong,But sunk beneath thy voice which rose alone,Above its crumbled fragments to thy throne,Above the clouds of Song.Henceforth let Music seal her lips, and beThe silent Ministrant of Poesy;For not the delicate reed that Pan did playTo partial Midas at the match of old,Nor yet Apollo’s lyre, with chords of gold,That more than won the crown he lost that day;Nor even the Orphean lute, that half set free—Oh why not all?—the lost Eurydice—Were fit to join with thee;Much less our instruments of meaner sound,That track thee slowly o’er enchanted ground,Unfit to lift the train thy music leaves,Or glean around its sheaves!I strive to disentangle in my mindThy many-knotted threads of softest song,Whose memory haunts me like a voiceless wind,Whose silence does it wrong.No single tone thereof, no perfect soundLingers, but dim remembrance of the whole;A sound which was a Soul,The Soul of sound diffused an atmosphere around!So soft, so sweet, so mellow, rich and deep,So like a heavenly soul’s ambrosial breath,It would not wake, but only deepen SleepInto diviner Death!Softer and sweeter than the jealous flute,Whose soft, sweet voice grew harsh before its own,It stole in mockery its every tone,And left it lone and mute;It flowed like liquid pearl through golden cells,It jangled like a string of golden bells,It trembled like a wind in golden strings,It dropped and rolled away in golden rings;Then it divided and became a shout,That Echo chased about,However wild and fleet,Until it trod upon its heels with flying feet!At last it sunk and sunk from deep to deep,Below the thinnest word,And sunk till naught was heard,But charméd Silence sighing in its sleep!Powerless and mute beneath thy mighty spell,My heart was lost within itself and thee,As when a pearl is melted in its shell,And sunken in the sea!I sunk, and sunk beneath thy song, but stillI thirsted after more, the more I sank;A flower that drooped with all the dew it drank,But still upheld its cup for Heaven to fill;My inmost soul was drunk with melody,Which thou didst pour around,To crown the feast of sound,And lift to every lip, but chief to me,Whose spirit uncontrolled,Drained all the fiery wine and clutched its cup of gold!Would I could only hear thee once again,But once again, and pine into the air,And fade away with all this hopeless pain,This hope divine, and this divine despair!If we were only Voices, if our mindsWere only voices, what a life were ours!My soul would woo thee in the vernal winds,And thine would answer me in summer showers,At morn and even, when the east and westWere bathed in floods of purple poured from Heaven,We would delay the Morn upon its nest,And fold the wings of Even!All day we’d fly with azure wings unfurled,And gird a belt of Song about the world;All night we’d teach the winds of night a tune,While charméd oceans slept beneath a yellow moon!And when a-weary grown of earthly sport,We’d wind our devious flight from star to star,Till we beheld the palaces afar,Where Music holds her court.Entered, and beckoned up the aisles of sound,Where starry Melodies are marshaled round,We’d kneel before her throne with eager dread,And when she kissed us, melt in trances deep,While angels bore us to her bridal bed,And sung our souls asleep!Oh, Queen of Song! as peerless as thou art,As worthy as thou art to wear thy crown,Thou hast a deeper claim to thy renown,And a diviner music in thy heart;Simplicity and Goodness walk with thee,Beneath the wings of watchful Seraphim;And Love is wed to whitest Chastity,And Pity sings its hymn.Nor is thy goodness passive in its end,But ever-active as the sun and rain—Unselfish, lavish of its golden gain—Not Want alone, but a whole nation’s—Friend!This is thy glory, this thy noblest fame;And when thy glory fades, and fame departs,This will perpetuate a deathless name,Where names are deathless—deep in loving hearts!
Oft have I dreamed of music rare and fine,The wedded melody of lute and voice,Divinest strains that made my soul rejoice,And woke its inner harmonies divine.And where Sicilia smooths the ruffled seas,And Tempe hollows all its purple vales,Thrice have I heard the noble nightingales,All night entranced beneath the bloomy trees;But music, nightingales, and all that ThoughtConceives of song is naughtTo thy rich voice, which echoes in my brain,And fills my longing heart with a melodious pain!A thousand lamps were lit—I saw them not—Nor all the thousands round me like a sea,Life, Death and Time, and all things were forgot;I only thought of thee!Meanwhile the music rose sublime and strong,But sunk beneath thy voice which rose alone,Above its crumbled fragments to thy throne,Above the clouds of Song.Henceforth let Music seal her lips, and beThe silent Ministrant of Poesy;For not the delicate reed that Pan did playTo partial Midas at the match of old,Nor yet Apollo’s lyre, with chords of gold,That more than won the crown he lost that day;Nor even the Orphean lute, that half set free—Oh why not all?—the lost Eurydice—Were fit to join with thee;Much less our instruments of meaner sound,That track thee slowly o’er enchanted ground,Unfit to lift the train thy music leaves,Or glean around its sheaves!I strive to disentangle in my mindThy many-knotted threads of softest song,Whose memory haunts me like a voiceless wind,Whose silence does it wrong.No single tone thereof, no perfect soundLingers, but dim remembrance of the whole;A sound which was a Soul,The Soul of sound diffused an atmosphere around!So soft, so sweet, so mellow, rich and deep,So like a heavenly soul’s ambrosial breath,It would not wake, but only deepen SleepInto diviner Death!Softer and sweeter than the jealous flute,Whose soft, sweet voice grew harsh before its own,It stole in mockery its every tone,And left it lone and mute;It flowed like liquid pearl through golden cells,It jangled like a string of golden bells,It trembled like a wind in golden strings,It dropped and rolled away in golden rings;Then it divided and became a shout,That Echo chased about,However wild and fleet,Until it trod upon its heels with flying feet!At last it sunk and sunk from deep to deep,Below the thinnest word,And sunk till naught was heard,But charméd Silence sighing in its sleep!Powerless and mute beneath thy mighty spell,My heart was lost within itself and thee,As when a pearl is melted in its shell,And sunken in the sea!I sunk, and sunk beneath thy song, but stillI thirsted after more, the more I sank;A flower that drooped with all the dew it drank,But still upheld its cup for Heaven to fill;My inmost soul was drunk with melody,Which thou didst pour around,To crown the feast of sound,And lift to every lip, but chief to me,Whose spirit uncontrolled,Drained all the fiery wine and clutched its cup of gold!Would I could only hear thee once again,But once again, and pine into the air,And fade away with all this hopeless pain,This hope divine, and this divine despair!If we were only Voices, if our mindsWere only voices, what a life were ours!My soul would woo thee in the vernal winds,And thine would answer me in summer showers,At morn and even, when the east and westWere bathed in floods of purple poured from Heaven,We would delay the Morn upon its nest,And fold the wings of Even!All day we’d fly with azure wings unfurled,And gird a belt of Song about the world;All night we’d teach the winds of night a tune,While charméd oceans slept beneath a yellow moon!And when a-weary grown of earthly sport,We’d wind our devious flight from star to star,Till we beheld the palaces afar,Where Music holds her court.Entered, and beckoned up the aisles of sound,Where starry Melodies are marshaled round,We’d kneel before her throne with eager dread,And when she kissed us, melt in trances deep,While angels bore us to her bridal bed,And sung our souls asleep!Oh, Queen of Song! as peerless as thou art,As worthy as thou art to wear thy crown,Thou hast a deeper claim to thy renown,And a diviner music in thy heart;Simplicity and Goodness walk with thee,Beneath the wings of watchful Seraphim;And Love is wed to whitest Chastity,And Pity sings its hymn.Nor is thy goodness passive in its end,But ever-active as the sun and rain—Unselfish, lavish of its golden gain—Not Want alone, but a whole nation’s—Friend!This is thy glory, this thy noblest fame;And when thy glory fades, and fame departs,This will perpetuate a deathless name,Where names are deathless—deep in loving hearts!
Oft have I dreamed of music rare and fine,
The wedded melody of lute and voice,
Divinest strains that made my soul rejoice,
And woke its inner harmonies divine.
And where Sicilia smooths the ruffled seas,
And Tempe hollows all its purple vales,
Thrice have I heard the noble nightingales,
All night entranced beneath the bloomy trees;
But music, nightingales, and all that Thought
Conceives of song is naught
To thy rich voice, which echoes in my brain,
And fills my longing heart with a melodious pain!
A thousand lamps were lit—I saw them not—
Nor all the thousands round me like a sea,
Life, Death and Time, and all things were forgot;
I only thought of thee!
Meanwhile the music rose sublime and strong,
But sunk beneath thy voice which rose alone,
Above its crumbled fragments to thy throne,
Above the clouds of Song.
Henceforth let Music seal her lips, and be
The silent Ministrant of Poesy;
For not the delicate reed that Pan did play
To partial Midas at the match of old,
Nor yet Apollo’s lyre, with chords of gold,
That more than won the crown he lost that day;
Nor even the Orphean lute, that half set free—
Oh why not all?—the lost Eurydice—
Were fit to join with thee;
Much less our instruments of meaner sound,
That track thee slowly o’er enchanted ground,
Unfit to lift the train thy music leaves,
Or glean around its sheaves!
I strive to disentangle in my mind
Thy many-knotted threads of softest song,
Whose memory haunts me like a voiceless wind,
Whose silence does it wrong.
No single tone thereof, no perfect sound
Lingers, but dim remembrance of the whole;
A sound which was a Soul,
The Soul of sound diffused an atmosphere around!
So soft, so sweet, so mellow, rich and deep,
So like a heavenly soul’s ambrosial breath,
It would not wake, but only deepen Sleep
Into diviner Death!
Softer and sweeter than the jealous flute,
Whose soft, sweet voice grew harsh before its own,
It stole in mockery its every tone,
And left it lone and mute;
It flowed like liquid pearl through golden cells,
It jangled like a string of golden bells,
It trembled like a wind in golden strings,
It dropped and rolled away in golden rings;
Then it divided and became a shout,
That Echo chased about,
However wild and fleet,
Until it trod upon its heels with flying feet!
At last it sunk and sunk from deep to deep,
Below the thinnest word,
And sunk till naught was heard,
But charméd Silence sighing in its sleep!
Powerless and mute beneath thy mighty spell,
My heart was lost within itself and thee,
As when a pearl is melted in its shell,
And sunken in the sea!
I sunk, and sunk beneath thy song, but still
I thirsted after more, the more I sank;
A flower that drooped with all the dew it drank,
But still upheld its cup for Heaven to fill;
My inmost soul was drunk with melody,
Which thou didst pour around,
To crown the feast of sound,
And lift to every lip, but chief to me,
Whose spirit uncontrolled,
Drained all the fiery wine and clutched its cup of gold!
Would I could only hear thee once again,
But once again, and pine into the air,
And fade away with all this hopeless pain,
This hope divine, and this divine despair!
If we were only Voices, if our minds
Were only voices, what a life were ours!
My soul would woo thee in the vernal winds,
And thine would answer me in summer showers,
At morn and even, when the east and west
Were bathed in floods of purple poured from Heaven,
We would delay the Morn upon its nest,
And fold the wings of Even!
All day we’d fly with azure wings unfurled,
And gird a belt of Song about the world;
All night we’d teach the winds of night a tune,
While charméd oceans slept beneath a yellow moon!
And when a-weary grown of earthly sport,
We’d wind our devious flight from star to star,
Till we beheld the palaces afar,
Where Music holds her court.
Entered, and beckoned up the aisles of sound,
Where starry Melodies are marshaled round,
We’d kneel before her throne with eager dread,
And when she kissed us, melt in trances deep,
While angels bore us to her bridal bed,
And sung our souls asleep!
Oh, Queen of Song! as peerless as thou art,
As worthy as thou art to wear thy crown,
Thou hast a deeper claim to thy renown,
And a diviner music in thy heart;
Simplicity and Goodness walk with thee,
Beneath the wings of watchful Seraphim;
And Love is wed to whitest Chastity,
And Pity sings its hymn.
Nor is thy goodness passive in its end,
But ever-active as the sun and rain—
Unselfish, lavish of its golden gain—
Not Want alone, but a whole nation’s—Friend!
This is thy glory, this thy noblest fame;
And when thy glory fades, and fame departs,
This will perpetuate a deathless name,
Where names are deathless—deep in loving hearts!
BLANCHE OF BOURBON.
A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY.
———
BY WALTER BROOKE.
———
CHAPTER I.
In the year 1351, the highest nobles of Castile had left their cities, castles, and commands, and met together in the ancient city of Valladolid, the residence of the dowager of King Alphonso; for in this city were to be celebrated the nuptials of Don Pedro, King of Spain, and the beautiful Lady Blanche of Bourbon.
The plaza of the queen dowager’s Alcazar was filled with an immense crowd of knights, citizens, and attendants, through whom the heralds with difficulty forced a passage for the procession which now approached from the cathedral. Waves of joyous music floated wing-like in the air, as a crowd of gallant knights, headed by Don Fadrique de Castilla, entered the square. Not in the stern panoply of war were they clad, for the plumes and gorgeous robes of festival fluttered gayly as the spirited horses bounded and curvetted under the unusual restraint of their slow procession-pace. After these came the trumpeters and other musicians, and these in turn were followed by a band of older knights, the glory of Castile, the pride of chivalry. They were conducted by the dignified and noble Alburquerque, high chancellor of Castile, celebrated not more for his valor than for the purity of his heart, and the power of his intellect.
The cheering of the multitude announced the king. Mounted on a proud and milk-white steed; robed in cloth of gold, which, as it waved in the air, displayed the ermine lining; athletic and graceful in form, and fair in countenance, Don Pedro slowly moved amid the throng. The courteous smile which should have answered the warm greeting of his people bent not his lip; surrounded by devoted subjects, wedded to a beautiful and lovely queen, he yet wore a gloomy frown. But as he passed, his moody demeanor was forgotten, and the cheering hushed to a gentle murmur as peace lulled the storm on Galilee, for who could rudely greet such a surpassing beauty: “The queen! the queen!” Not the dark and gorgeous beauty of the Spaniard, but the peaceful and angelic sweetness of the north dwelt in Blanche’s lovely face; not the glowing life of passion, but the gentler spirit of love inspired her smile. Graciously to the murmuring crowd she bowed the head just circled with the regal diadem. No pride, no elation crossed her features; joy and hope were the queen and the bride of her spirit, and not a thought of doubt or sorrow contested their empire. Her palfrey was led by Pedro’s brothers, Don Enrique and Don Tella, and her two noble knights and champions, Juan de la Creda, and Nunez de Prado closely followed her.
The Queen Dowager of Castile, attended by the Infante of Arragon, seemed, as she gazed around, to be transported to the days of her own youth and triumph, and watched her new daughter with a joyous solicitude, which, however, sometimes gave way to the mournful thoughts which her own sad experience induced.
At last the crowd were passed, and the cavalcade entered the court-yard of the Alcazar. As the young queen passed beneath the gloomy entrance-arch, some unbidden foreboding of evil made her shudder. Was that gloomy court the image of the coming life for which she had sacrificed the joyous light of day? Tears sprung to her eyes as she saw the king dismount, and leave her knights to assist her from the saddle; but she mastered her emotion, and was conducted by the queen dowager and her own ladies to her apartments.
In the evening the banqueting and reception-halls of the Alcazar were gorgeously ornamented and illuminated in preparation for the festival which was to follow the queen’s reception of the court and the nobility of Castile, who had assembled to do her honor. Groups were collected by the windows and recesses, and about the floor, discussing in low and guarded words, Pedro’s singular inattention to his royal bride. Many a lady’s bright eyes flashed the indignation which she dared not utter, when she thought or spoke of Pedro’s coolness.
“Know you not, Señor Inigo,” said an old noble, in confidential conversation with the knight of Estuniga, “that he hath left his love at Toledo?”
“Can it be?”
“’Tis true; and were it not for Alburquerque, he would not have been here this day. Heaven avert all future sorrow from our gracious queen.”
“Hist!” said the knight, “the young Padilla nears us.”
This tall and powerful knight, Garcia de Padilla, cast inquisitive glances at them and other groups as he paced alone about the hall. More than once his dark countenance wore a deeper shade as some chance word reached his ear.
At this juncture the doors of the reception chamber were thrown open, and the king and queen were seen standing beneath the canopy of a double throne, which stood on a low dais at the upper end of the room. Beside the queen stood the Bishop of Burgos in his robes of state, Don Fadrique de Castilla, the Viscount Narbonne, and several noble French and Spanish ladies. Don Pedro was attended by the Archbishop of Toledo, Don Juan, of Arragon, his mother, and the Queen Dowager of Arragon.
Pedro’s mood was more gay than it had been during the day, and Blanche again looked beautifuland happy by his side. “Noble lord,” she said to Alburquerque, who, as chancellor, was the first one presented, “we have known thee well through the mirror of other men’s praises, and hope to know thee better as worthy of our own. Brave knight,” she playfully observed to Esjuniga, “we may yet claim the courage of him who bears thy motto, ‘Faithful to death.’ Could I own thy dignity, Lady Inez, I might more fitly grace a throne. Thy dancing eyes, sweet maiden of Sandoval, recall the valley of home.” Thus, with gracious and courteous words she received the homage of her new subjects, and won the love and admiration of the throng.
The ceremony of the presentation over, Pedro and Blanche led the stately dance of the day; but Pedro’s brow was again clouded, and after the dance he did not approach the queen. Blanche, accompanied by the queen dowager and the beautiful lady of Estuniga, promenaded the rooms, noticing and sympathizing with the conversation and amusements of the various groups of ladies and cavaliers. In the meantime Pedro retired to a recess, and beckoned Garcia de Padilla to him. After a short interview, the king hastily crossed the reception chamber, and taking advantage of a favorable moment, withdrew by a private door. Garcia mingled with his friends and gayly bore his part in jest and dance; but at last he also quietly left the hall. Their absence was at first unobserved by all but Blanche, whose self-possession almost fled at the discovery, but she bore the desertion without an outward change of manner.
“A word with your highness, without delay,” whispered Alburquerque to the dowager, as he passed through a door which led to her boudoir.
“If my sweet queen, Blanche, will accept the escort of my sister of Arragon in my place, I may crave the liberty of an hour’s retirement. The light and gayety distract my older brain,” said the dowager; and accepting Blanche’s kindly spoken accord, she followed the chancellor.
——
Padilla, when he left the Hall, joined the king in his antechamber, and the two made various hurried preparations for a sudden journey.
“Are the horses ready?” asked Pedro, quickly, as his groom appeared.
“They are ready, sire.”
“And the guard, Fernando?”
“In their saddles, sire.”
“Garcia, we will take a hasty meal ere starting,” said Pedro, leading the way to a small dining-hall which opened on the court.
Scarcely were they seated at a table by the window, when Garcia sprung to his feet, and pointed to the opposite corridor where the dowager and the chancellor were seen moving toward them.
“They turn to the left, Garcia; they do not seek us. How soon shall we reach Madrigala?”
“By four o’clock, if the night holds clear, and we meet with no obstruction.”
“When saidst thou did Maria arrive at Montalban?”
“The third day back, sire.”
As Padilla spoke, a moment’s debate with the guard was followed by the appearance of Alburquerque, who conducted the queen dowager into the room. Overcome by emotion, she knelt speechless at her son’s feet, while tears streamed from her eyes. Pedro, in spite of his surprise, rose and received her with the greatest courtesy, but for some moments she was unable to speak. When at last she told him that she knew of his intention to desert his queen for a former love, he affected extreme astonishment, and disclaimed all such intention.
“Pedro!” she exclaimed, stung still more deeply by his duplicity, “think not I am so easily deceived. If thou seek’st not to join Maria de Padilla, why does her brother accompany thee? Why does thy courier precede thee to Montalban, where Maria now is? Pedro, how canst thou so easily desert thy queen? Bethink thee, thy court is with thee; the French nobles are still here; Blanche’s friends are around her; the ambassador of the French king is in yon hall. What may not be the consequences of such imprudence? Can such an insult be slightly passed?”
Pedro, though very much surprised at the accuracy of her information, was still unshaken, and replied.
“Sweet mother! thou mistakest me entirely. My courier went to say that I should not go to Montalban. I am suddenly called from festal joys to meet a traitorous band who have ventured within two days’ march of this fair city and thy home. Come, Garcia, we must to horse. Señor Alburquerque, I leave my mother in thy charge. Disabuse her of her singular fears.”
The indignant chancellor vouchsafed no reply to such unmitigated falsehood, but led the weeping and disconsolate dowager to her apartments.
Blanche retired early from the feast, and on joining her new mother, her first question was for Pedro. The information which had been acquired by Alburquerque was too precise and certain to admit of doubt; and as the scouts whom he had sent to observe the king’s course, had confirmed it by reporting him as being far on the road to Montalban, it had been decided, perhaps unwisely, to inform Blanche at once. The queen dowager, whose guest Blanche had been since her entrance into Spain, loved her as if she were indeed her daughter, and felt almost as if the relationship were reversed, and Pedro’s course had been the insult of some fickle gallant to her own child.
Blanche had struggled with the auguries of ill which had beset her since she entered the Alcazar as a queen and bride; and her gentle nature, unused to such harsh strivings, had almost sunk beneath the accumulation of coolness and absence on the part of Pedro, who should have shared with her the rejoicings of the time. But when at last the queen dowager, with every care and delicacy which affection could suggest, displayed the unvarnished truth, she was unable to control her feelings longer. “Gone! gone from me!” she exclaimed, in bitter anguish; “how could he leave the love which chained himhere! Burst not, my heart, before thy flood of grief! Oh life! Oh love! Oh worthless crown! your dignity is flown! Idle and hollow. Fierce Tagarote! to plunge thy sharp beak in my life-blood! Oh Heaven! give strength!” Trembling and exhausted she sunk into the arms of the dowager, who placed her on a couch, and covered her hands with tears and passionate kisses. “Oh mother! has he indeed gone!”
“My child, be calm. God is with us. To-morrow we shall know all.”
“To-morrow! to-morrow! how like an evil genius does it promise ill. To-morrow will have its own grief. Tell me all to-night. Tell me his—his—Ah! he is my husband yet. Never will I be false to love and honor. Pedro—” The revulsion of her feelings was more than she could bear, and she fell back insensible.
Through the dark hours which preceded morning the mother watched her with the utmost care; and as the bright dawn streamed through the lattice, the chilled blood bounded once again with the full speed of life, as if it sought the light. Sense and memory returned, both chained forever to the fearful past.
Great was the anger and indignation of the Viscount Narbonne, and the other French lords, when the news of Pedro’s flight was known throughout the city. Those who the day before had rejoiced in the brilliant fortune of the idolized lady of Bourbon, now cursed the hour in which she entered Spain. The Spanish nobles of the court, themselves felt degraded and insulted, and sullenly retired from the city. The chancellor, a politic old statesman, used every effort in his power to allay the fury of the Frenchmen, but in vain. They endeavored to persuade Blanche to return with them; but no entreaty could prevail upon her to remove—and they crossed the Pyrenees without her. Alone in her new country, a wife, homeless and husbandless; a queen, sceptreless and powerless, she did not despair. Duty was the main star of her faith in life, and no consideration of personal ease or even insult could induce her to swerve from the fulfillment of its dictates. Confident in the power of love and virtue, she aimed to bring her erring lord to his allegiance.
The chancellor, disgraced by his master, retired to his fortress near Portugal, whither he was shortly followed by Don Enrique and Don Fadrique, the half-brothers of the king. The three, fully aware of the energy and resolution of Pedro, not only made good preparation for defense, but organized a formidable rebellion, which had for its object the enthronement of Don Enrique.
——
For a time Pedro’s movements were as erratic as his stormy temper. Insurrection here, robbers there, required his attention; but at last he sought a season of repose at the Alcazar of Seville.
He reclined, one sunny afternoon, in the verandah of the palace, while Maria de Padilla had left him for an hour to enjoy her accustomed siesta. He seemed thoughtful and uneasy; Blanche’s image seemed to contend with Maria’s in his thoughts, and conscience was not entirely at rest. His mood was interrupted by the entrance of a tall and graceful knight, who, with a low obeisance, delivered to him a small missive, and then abruptly retired. Pedro tore open the sealed silk covering, and opening the letter, read the following words:
“My King and Husband,—Were I notthy wife, I should not strive to call thee back. The wild and fickle falcon might rejoice in freedom. But now it is my duty, as it is my happiness, to be with thee in peace and storm, and therefore, by the right our God hath vested in me, do I claim that thou allow me to rejoin thee. What love can live without that heavenly union in the soul which makes us one? What sensual pleasure can bring peace to the o’er-tasked and troubled life of royalty. The sympathy of heart with heart, alone can feed the cravings of the spirit, and bring a joy which Heaven sanctions. Pedro, for thy own sake as for mine, I pray that thou be with me soon.“Blanche.”
“My King and Husband,—Were I notthy wife, I should not strive to call thee back. The wild and fickle falcon might rejoice in freedom. But now it is my duty, as it is my happiness, to be with thee in peace and storm, and therefore, by the right our God hath vested in me, do I claim that thou allow me to rejoin thee. What love can live without that heavenly union in the soul which makes us one? What sensual pleasure can bring peace to the o’er-tasked and troubled life of royalty. The sympathy of heart with heart, alone can feed the cravings of the spirit, and bring a joy which Heaven sanctions. Pedro, for thy own sake as for mine, I pray that thou be with me soon.
“Blanche.”
The trembling hand, the variable brow, but slightly indicated the tempest of the soul. Vague and uncertain were his musings and intentions as Maria entered the verandah. Smiling, she took the letter from his hand, which mechanically yielded it to hers; but her smile fled as she read it, and saw the expression of his face. She handed the letter back, but threw her arms around the irresolute lover.
“And thou wouldst leave me, Pedro,” she said, in a low, deep tone, so plaintive in its modulation, that the tears almost reached his eyes, unused though they were to such a visitation. “Thou wouldst leave me,” she repeated; “but canst thou forget? Oh! not to the hours of dalliance, not to the day when words of love thrilled to our hearts with unearthly power, do I call thy memory now; but to those darker hours when adversity broke in a thousand waves; when death awaited his victim, and hope seemed shrouded in the pall of despair. Whose sympathy consoled thee then? Whose hand wrestled through many fearful trials with the dark destroyer? Whose heart grew cold with thine beneath that awful pall?
“Pedro!” she exclaimed with a wild energy, while the mournful shadow of her eyes gave place to a brighter glow, for even that appeal was ineffectual. “Pedro! if thou wilt go, go freely; but remember that her heart has not yet learned as mine has, to find its life in thine. If I had ever proved myself less than a part of thee, thy true and real wife, thou mightest now hesitate; but canst thou say that I have ever let my own hopes, fears, or projects be apart from thine? My life is thine. Wilt thou tear me from thy heart? ’Tis thy own eye thou blindest, and thy own tongue thou pluckest out.”
She stood before him, stately and magnificent; he quailed before the fearful majesty which crowned that brow with regal power; the kindling fire which dwelt in those dark, glowing orbs beneath, seemed to gleam with supernatural light upon the very inmost motives of his soul.
“Go, go! if thou no longer lovest me I would not have thee near; but my image will be with thee as the mistletoe upon the oak. Thou canst not leave or kill it, till thy own life fails; ’twill rise at every hour of thy life in judgment on the heart which dared not keep the holiest treasure man can win.”
His eyes met hers with a clear firm gaze. “It is over,” he said. “When honor hath two calls love shall be the arbiter.”
——
Alburquerque being now banished from the court, Henestrosa, the uncle of Maria, became his successor, and he and Maria’s brother, Garcia de Padilla, became the confidants and advisers of the love-bound monarch. Fortunately Maria’s love was not so selfish as their ambition, and her empire over Pedro, that of a powerful intellect and an enthusiastic spirit, was often used for the behests of gentleness and mercy.
Pedro felt but too keenly hisanomalous position. His secret marriage with Maria, to whom his honor and his love alike constrained him to be just; his unprincipled conduct towards Blanche; the loss of old and attached friends; the evident displeasure of his subjects, and the machinations of those whom he had so suddenly disgraced, filled his mind with many fearful struggles. Too unprincipled to be capable of sacrifice or concession, his endeavor was to reconcile all parties without compromising himself.
While in this fevered state, and uncertain of his future course, he ordered Henestrosa to remove Queen Blanche to Toledo, and confine her in the Alcazar. The citizens, at first suspicious of Henestrosa from his relationship to Maria de Padilla, at last concluded, with questionable justice, that the unfortunate circumstances which environed Blanche were owing chiefly to his influence; and rising in sudden insurrection on his arrival forced him to allow the queen the choice of her asylum. She chose the church of St. Mary. But the citizens, fascinated by the grace and dignity of Blanche and emboldened by their success, forced the chancellor to retire, and themselves assuming the office of her protection, escorted her with all respect and pomp to the Alcazar.
Established in the ancient palace of Toledo, and faithfully guarded by her loving subjects, she was soon joined by several of the noblest cavaliers of Castile. Don Enrique, Don Fadrique and the ex-chancellor had collected an army, with which they had advanced to Cuidad Roderigo. Hearing of Blanche’s arrival at Toledo, Don Fadrique with a large body ofcavalry joined her protectors, and swore fealty to her cause. He was soon followed by his companions, and the trio made Toledo for the time the head-quarters of their army. Pedro fired with resentment, ordered his forces against them, with the double intention of vanquishing the rebels and regaining possession of his queen.
The preparations for the expected siege absorbed nearly all the attention of the conspirators, and they had no leisure to observe the uneasiness of Blanche. She now began to perceive that they had hidden from her their real object, which was the dethronement of the king. At last, unable to bear longer the pain of even appearing by silence to acquiesce in their designs against her husband, she sent for Don Fadrique and disclaimed all connection with their schemes of rebellion. No arguments could change her determination, and the stern warrior was forced to yield to the resolution of the gentle lady. It was now too late to leave the city, for Pedro’s troops encircled the walls, and Blanche, anxious for the protection of her subjects, while unwilling to countenance any attempt to dethrone Pedro, did not wish to place herself in his power until assured of his good intentions.
The day of battle was for her a day of trial. Though she prayed for the success of the king’s forces, she feared that success for them would place her in the power of him who had attempted to imprison her in the very palace she now occupied. Sometimes she could hear the noise and shouting of the combatants, and for several hours she awaited with the greatest anxiety the messengers who should announce defeat or victory. Her suspense was ended by Don Fadrique himself, who at the head of a guard of knights rode suddenly into the palace court and besought her to fly immediately with him to a place of safety before Pedro’s troops entered the city. But she had resolved to be no longer a tacit partner with those who were Pedro’s enemies. In this she was inexorable, and Fadrique went alone.
Scarcely had Fadrique passed the gate of the city, when a guard of Pedro’s knights rode rapidly to the Alcazar. As the iron hoofs of their steeds resounded in the court-yard, the heart of Blanche quailed before the gloomy picture of her future. The gentle strength with which she had borne the uncertainty of the hours of battle gave way, and for a time she lay on her couch in an agony of tears, but mustering all her fortitude, she prepared to meet the envoy of King Pedro.
The singular dignity and grace which had shone prëeminent in the brilliant court of Charles, were with her now, though blended with a quiet sadness, which by adding a softer element, enhanced her beauty. Her grief had pictured a dark and fierce janitor, and great was her surprise when the noble and generous knight of Estuniga approached, and bent the knee in homage. He was so deeply affected as to be unable to utter a word, and the dignified composure with which Blanche had armed herself, fled at the unexpected rencontre. At last the knight spoke, though in a low and broken voice—
“My liege, I come to redeem the claim you did once make upon my motto, ‘Faithful to death,’ and you shall never find it dishonored. Though I am ordered to be your governor, you are henceforth my guest.”
“Oh, noble knight! thy presence came as light in the storm. Where we had pictured the sharp flash and the rude thunder, came the gentle air of peace. May Heaven visit thee with the reward we cannot give.”
“Nay, speak not so, my honored liege. It will benecessary for your safety, that you appear as my prisoner till we leave these walls.”
“As thou wilt, Señor Inigo, I trust all to thee.”
——
It was a bright and glorious day. The sun shone in an unclouded sky, and lighted brilliantly a deep and lovely valley of the Tagus, some two days to the westward of Toledo. A gallant cortege had just halted on the mountain’s brow to gaze at leisure on the beautiful vale which lay outspread beneath. To the left the Tagus foamed through a gorge, and then meandered through the more level ground till it was hidden among the mountains which again approached its banks a few miles on its course. In the centre of the valley on the bank of the river, rose the towers of a stately castle, which lay embowered in thick groves of evergreen. It was evidently not intended for defense against a serious force, and had the appearance of a winter retreat from the cold and nipping air of safer military positions.
“Behold thy new home,” said Estuniga to his queen, who gazed in admiration on the landscape. As they slowly descended the mountain many a scene of wild and remarkable beauty met their gaze.
In the castle of Estuniga Blanche led a life of peace for a time, and obtained the title of “the good” from her exemplary charity and beneficence. The Lady Leonora de Estuniga, generous and hospitable as her lord, bestowed every care, and performed every office which could minister to the happiness of her idolized guest. Still she was not happy: she yearned for that sweet communion of wife with husband, than which there is no greater joy, and often resolved to present herself to Pedro and claim her rights by the wiles of love and eloquence. But Estuniga knew his master better than to permit her to place herself so rashly in his power. He hoped that Pedro’s romantic love for Maria would fade from his heart; he knew not that a deeper tie than that of romance bound them, that the peculiar and spiritual sympathies of character which mark the true marriage, linked them irrevocably together.
He never relaxed the guarded discipline which was required to prevent surprise, and his scouts daily traversed the country on the look-out for enemies and information. One day they reported that a dozen knights, bearing the banner of the Maestro of St. Jago, approached the castle. Estuniga knowing not whether they came as friends or foes—as foes they had last met—and with some anxiety for his royal guest awaited their mission. At the castle gates Don Fadrique de Castilla, theMaestro of St. Jago, announced himself a friend to the King and to Estuniga, and accordingly he and his friends were received with honor.
Fadrique soon explained the cause of his presence on the Tagus. After his defeat at Toledo, he suspended all hostile proceedings, and meeting the king before St. Catherines, and proffering his allegiance, he was freely pardoned for all past offences and was promised favor for the future. Soon after this he received a command from Pedro, and acting in his service took for him the fortress of Jumilla. He was now journeying from his commandery to Seville at the earnest invitation of the king.
Queen Blanche graced the evening feast with her presence, and in truth two such noble ladies as the queen and Leonora were rarely seen. The stronger lineaments and more splendid presence of the hostess enhanced the delicate and graceful beauty of her guest, and themselves received advantage from the contrast. The maestro took occasion to renew the offer of the services which Blanche had refused when he fought against the royal power. After a consultation with her host, she decided to make the maestro her advocate with Pedro, and gave him full power to arrange the renewal of the nuptials which had been so suddenly and harshly suspended. Fadrique was eloquent and resolute, and she hoped much from those qualities, and from Pedro’s former attachment for him. Hopeful and expectant she saw him depart upon his mission, and consecrated it with many a silent prayer.
——
The Moorish Alcazar of Seville was situated on the banks of the Guadalquiver, and its bowers were renowned as the most delightful in Spain; yet they did not always resound to tones of joy and gladness. Sometimes Pedro’s violent temper displayed itself there, and the arching groves were silent witnesses of the fatal words of death. Oftener, however, they were graced by the presence of the king and Maria, and her gentle lute breathed a harmony which sometimes found a response in Pedro’s stormy spirit. At such moments he was singularly fascinating and graceful, and all that had in youth been gentle, seemed to flow into his maturer manners.
The king and Maria reclined upon a flowery bank which sloped down to the river, and Maria, touching her lute, attempted to dissipate the portentous gloom of Pedro’s sadness, and at first with a proud and lofty voice, and afterwards in a sweet and harmonious manner, sung these verses.