EnterGipsy QueenandPascual.Gip. Q.Behold the spot I told thee of, from whenceWe must begin th' ascent. (To Gipsies.) Is all prepared?Gipsies Together.Ay, Queen.Gip. Q.And Father Miguel?A Gipsy.He comes anon.D. Pas.What, even Father Miguel! Will he join?Gip. Q.He is, as ever, our most staunch ally,And doth possess a keen and ready witIn time of need. A soft and oily tongueAnd gentle manner, that may well disarmAll base suspicion. Such sound policyAs may enable him to win the day,When all such brainless braggadocioAs thine might fail.D. Pas.Bravo, Father Miguel!An he be practised in the use of 's tongue,As I am in the use of my good bladeWe shall do well together.Gip. Q.See, he comes.EnterFather Miguel.He walks straight up toGipsy Queen.F'th. M.Pepa, well met. Is this young man your son?D. Pas.(Stepping forward.) Ay, holy father. Dost remember me?F'th. M.But little, son. It is so many yearsWe have not met, and thou art altered much.Thou wert then but a lad—a naughty lad,A very naughty lad.D. Pas.Ha, ha! Ha, ha!The accusation, I admit, is just,But hope, after to-night, that we may learnTo know each other better.F'th. M.So say I.And now, for what doth most concern us all.To Gipsy Queen.I doubt not this youth's courage. Nay, his fault,An I remember right in days gone by.Was being too precipitous and rash.Now listen, both of ye, to what I say;We must not mar our plot with useless showOf ill-timed valour, but hoard well our strengthTill needed, and if possible dispenseWith blood and slaughter, which God grant we may.D. Pas.How, holy father? I don't understand.Are we not here assembled to attackThe tyrant's stronghold. Are the men-at-armsThat guard the castle made of such poor stuff,As let a powerful and armed bandApproach without resistance. Think you,heThe man that I blush to call my father,Is so utterly without resourcesAs let us tamely rob him of his prize,Under his very nose, and not resent?Too old a fox, I ween, our veteran foe,For to be caught asleep.F'th. M.Nay, hear me, son.Gip. Q.Ay, true my, son. Have patience and attendTo the good father's counsel.D. Pas.Father, speak.F'th. M.I have bethought me of a scheme, which, ifWell carried out, will bring us through the guardWithout the loss of blood. Once entered in,And passed the threshold, let me lead the way.Your mother will present herself anon,Assert her rights in presence of them all;Youthen will follow, ready to protectYourself and us, should an assault be madeUpon our persons. (To Gipsies.) You bold gipsies all,Keep close at hand a little in the rearReady for action, but beware to liftA finger until called upon to fightThrough grim necessity. D'ye hear me all?Gipsies(Together.) Ay, ay, Sir Priest.D. Pas.You have not told us yetThe means you will adopt to pass the guardsWithout resistance.F'th. M.Listen, then, awhile.I have to aid me in this daring plotA tried and trusty friend, a mountaineer;This peasant hath across his shoulders slungA keg of choicest wine, by me well druggedWith such a potent powder, that one dropBut taken on the tongue were full enoughIn a few minutes to induce a sleepSo dull, lethargic, heavy, and profound,That earth might quake, winds blow, and thunder growl,And yet the victims of this potent drugWould still sleep on, their long and death-like sleep,And much I doubt me if the archangel's trumpWould fully wake them.D. Pas.'Tis not poison, father?F'th. M.Nay, 'tis harmless. How could you think that I,As priest, could do aught to take human life?I come to hinder carnage, not to slay.D. Pas.This may be difficult, though, nevertheless,The men are many. There are always dogsThat bark and bellow at the foe's approach.F'th. M.Leave all to me, my son. As for the dogs,I've poison brought, most instantaneous,With which I've baited meat, that I have nowAbout my person, whilst this peasant here.What ho! Felipe!Enter aPEASANTwith a keg of wine slung round him.This same honest manWill go ahead with me, but as we nearThe castle we will separate, and chooseTwo divers paths, so that in case we meetWith any man we seem not to belongOne to the other. He will chant an airSuch as our mountaineers are wont to sing,And go his way, as one who's light of heart;Myself, will pass on by another route,To meet the peasant at a given pointClose to the castle and within the hearingOf all the soldiers; and if accosted,I have my answer ready. Do not fear.When within hearing of the men-at-arms,I shall call out to this same mountaineer,As to a stranger: "Hold, friend. Where bound?""To the next village, father," shall he say?"Trav'lling with wine. A buyer wants to tryA sample, and I bring him of the best.""Ha!" shall I say, "then, prithee, let me taste.I, too, would buy a barrel, but formeIt must be good indeed, else, keep your wine."Then shall I feign to drink and smack my lips,Swearing 'tis nectar worthy of a king,And straight make offer to buy all he has,While trudging on together by the way.Presently we will come upon the guards,Some of whom know me well. Suspecting nought,These men will easily be lured to tryThe vaunted liquor. Having gone the roundOf seneschal and warder and the rest,I shall find access to the castle hallWithout much trouble, offr'ing as excuse,I come to let Don Diego taste the wine.Once entered fairly in the castle hall,Ere long all hands will sound as dead men sleep,Then shall I blow this whistle. At the sound,March on, and fear not, for the game is ours.D. Pas.Hail! Father Miguel! once again I say.F'th. M.Now to our task. 'Tis just about the hour,And better be too early than too late.D. Pas.True, holy father.F'th. M.Well, go softly onAhead, whilst you all keep well in the rear,Advance ye not until ye hear this call.[ExeuntFather MiguelandFelipe.D. Pas.Why, what an acquisition to our causeIs this same priest! I vow I know not howWe should have done without him.Gip. Q.You say well.Besides our cause, that he has much at heart,He revels in all plotting and intrigue.D. Pas.It suits his peculiar genius. Why,He might have been prime minister of Spain,This same poor unknown priest.[A distant mountaineer's chant is heard.Gip. Q.Hark! Do you hear?D. Pas.Ay. The mountaineer's chant. The game's begun.Gip. Q.List patiently, and we shall hear anonDon Miguel's whistle. Silence, all of ye.[A long pause. All place themselves in listening attitude. Gipsy Queen advances slowly. Pascual in the background, still listening.Gip. Q.The hour fast draws near when my intent,That purpose that the heav'ns have writ in blood,Must be accomplished. Be still, my heart.Shade of my father Djâbel, stand thou near;Nerve thou this arm so that it shall not fail,For work is to be done, and that right soon.That man is doomed, and by this hand he dies;Heav'n hear my oath! Respond, ye elements.[Sky grows dark. Thunder and lightning. Owls and bats flit about. Commotion in the camp.The oath is writ in Heav'n. Recording spritesHave taken down the gipsy's oath of blood;And now shall all men see, all nations tell,How, from the ashes of this trampled heartDid all triumphant rise the gipsy queen.[A distant whistle heard.D. Pas.The signal, mother! Didst hear the signal?Gip. Q.Ay, son. Onward, then;I'll lead the way myself. Be firm and true.[The ascent begins, led by the Gipsy Queen, and the scene closes.
EnterGipsy QueenandPascual.
Gip. Q.Behold the spot I told thee of, from whenceWe must begin th' ascent. (To Gipsies.) Is all prepared?Gipsies Together.Ay, Queen.Gip. Q.And Father Miguel?A Gipsy.He comes anon.D. Pas.What, even Father Miguel! Will he join?Gip. Q.He is, as ever, our most staunch ally,And doth possess a keen and ready witIn time of need. A soft and oily tongueAnd gentle manner, that may well disarmAll base suspicion. Such sound policyAs may enable him to win the day,When all such brainless braggadocioAs thine might fail.D. Pas.Bravo, Father Miguel!An he be practised in the use of 's tongue,As I am in the use of my good bladeWe shall do well together.Gip. Q.See, he comes.
EnterFather Miguel.He walks straight up toGipsy Queen.
F'th. M.Pepa, well met. Is this young man your son?D. Pas.(Stepping forward.) Ay, holy father. Dost remember me?F'th. M.But little, son. It is so many yearsWe have not met, and thou art altered much.Thou wert then but a lad—a naughty lad,A very naughty lad.D. Pas.Ha, ha! Ha, ha!The accusation, I admit, is just,But hope, after to-night, that we may learnTo know each other better.F'th. M.So say I.And now, for what doth most concern us all.To Gipsy Queen.I doubt not this youth's courage. Nay, his fault,An I remember right in days gone by.Was being too precipitous and rash.Now listen, both of ye, to what I say;We must not mar our plot with useless showOf ill-timed valour, but hoard well our strengthTill needed, and if possible dispenseWith blood and slaughter, which God grant we may.D. Pas.How, holy father? I don't understand.Are we not here assembled to attackThe tyrant's stronghold. Are the men-at-armsThat guard the castle made of such poor stuff,As let a powerful and armed bandApproach without resistance. Think you,heThe man that I blush to call my father,Is so utterly without resourcesAs let us tamely rob him of his prize,Under his very nose, and not resent?Too old a fox, I ween, our veteran foe,For to be caught asleep.F'th. M.Nay, hear me, son.Gip. Q.Ay, true my, son. Have patience and attendTo the good father's counsel.D. Pas.Father, speak.F'th. M.I have bethought me of a scheme, which, ifWell carried out, will bring us through the guardWithout the loss of blood. Once entered in,And passed the threshold, let me lead the way.Your mother will present herself anon,Assert her rights in presence of them all;Youthen will follow, ready to protectYourself and us, should an assault be madeUpon our persons. (To Gipsies.) You bold gipsies all,Keep close at hand a little in the rearReady for action, but beware to liftA finger until called upon to fightThrough grim necessity. D'ye hear me all?Gipsies(Together.) Ay, ay, Sir Priest.D. Pas.You have not told us yetThe means you will adopt to pass the guardsWithout resistance.F'th. M.Listen, then, awhile.I have to aid me in this daring plotA tried and trusty friend, a mountaineer;This peasant hath across his shoulders slungA keg of choicest wine, by me well druggedWith such a potent powder, that one dropBut taken on the tongue were full enoughIn a few minutes to induce a sleepSo dull, lethargic, heavy, and profound,That earth might quake, winds blow, and thunder growl,And yet the victims of this potent drugWould still sleep on, their long and death-like sleep,And much I doubt me if the archangel's trumpWould fully wake them.D. Pas.'Tis not poison, father?F'th. M.Nay, 'tis harmless. How could you think that I,As priest, could do aught to take human life?I come to hinder carnage, not to slay.D. Pas.This may be difficult, though, nevertheless,The men are many. There are always dogsThat bark and bellow at the foe's approach.F'th. M.Leave all to me, my son. As for the dogs,I've poison brought, most instantaneous,With which I've baited meat, that I have nowAbout my person, whilst this peasant here.What ho! Felipe!
Enter aPEASANTwith a keg of wine slung round him.
This same honest manWill go ahead with me, but as we nearThe castle we will separate, and chooseTwo divers paths, so that in case we meetWith any man we seem not to belongOne to the other. He will chant an airSuch as our mountaineers are wont to sing,And go his way, as one who's light of heart;Myself, will pass on by another route,To meet the peasant at a given pointClose to the castle and within the hearingOf all the soldiers; and if accosted,I have my answer ready. Do not fear.When within hearing of the men-at-arms,I shall call out to this same mountaineer,As to a stranger: "Hold, friend. Where bound?""To the next village, father," shall he say?"Trav'lling with wine. A buyer wants to tryA sample, and I bring him of the best.""Ha!" shall I say, "then, prithee, let me taste.I, too, would buy a barrel, but formeIt must be good indeed, else, keep your wine."Then shall I feign to drink and smack my lips,Swearing 'tis nectar worthy of a king,And straight make offer to buy all he has,While trudging on together by the way.Presently we will come upon the guards,Some of whom know me well. Suspecting nought,These men will easily be lured to tryThe vaunted liquor. Having gone the roundOf seneschal and warder and the rest,I shall find access to the castle hallWithout much trouble, offr'ing as excuse,I come to let Don Diego taste the wine.Once entered fairly in the castle hall,Ere long all hands will sound as dead men sleep,Then shall I blow this whistle. At the sound,March on, and fear not, for the game is ours.D. Pas.Hail! Father Miguel! once again I say.F'th. M.Now to our task. 'Tis just about the hour,And better be too early than too late.D. Pas.True, holy father.F'th. M.Well, go softly onAhead, whilst you all keep well in the rear,Advance ye not until ye hear this call.
[ExeuntFather MiguelandFelipe.
D. Pas.Why, what an acquisition to our causeIs this same priest! I vow I know not howWe should have done without him.Gip. Q.You say well.Besides our cause, that he has much at heart,He revels in all plotting and intrigue.D. Pas.It suits his peculiar genius. Why,He might have been prime minister of Spain,This same poor unknown priest.
[A distant mountaineer's chant is heard.
Gip. Q.Hark! Do you hear?D. Pas.Ay. The mountaineer's chant. The game's begun.Gip. Q.List patiently, and we shall hear anonDon Miguel's whistle. Silence, all of ye.
[A long pause. All place themselves in listening attitude. Gipsy Queen advances slowly. Pascual in the background, still listening.
Gip. Q.The hour fast draws near when my intent,That purpose that the heav'ns have writ in blood,Must be accomplished. Be still, my heart.Shade of my father Djâbel, stand thou near;Nerve thou this arm so that it shall not fail,For work is to be done, and that right soon.That man is doomed, and by this hand he dies;Heav'n hear my oath! Respond, ye elements.
[Sky grows dark. Thunder and lightning. Owls and bats flit about. Commotion in the camp.
The oath is writ in Heav'n. Recording spritesHave taken down the gipsy's oath of blood;And now shall all men see, all nations tell,How, from the ashes of this trampled heartDid all triumphant rise the gipsy queen.
[A distant whistle heard.
D. Pas.The signal, mother! Didst hear the signal?Gip. Q.Ay, son. Onward, then;I'll lead the way myself. Be firm and true.
[The ascent begins, led by the Gipsy Queen, and the scene closes.
Scene V.—A hall in Don Diego's castle communicating with the chapel. The chapel is in the centre of the background. Through curtains is disclosed the altar lighted up, and a priest ready to officiate. In the hall, which is illuminated, a long table is spread with fruit and other delicacies. Music. Enter guests, discoursing animatedly and laughing.
First Guest.(To his Partner.) Have you yet seen the bride? They say she's fair.Partner.They say so, but I have not seen her yet.Howbeit, a friend of mine who knew her wellWhen at the Convent of Saint Ursula,Says she is over young. Just turned sixteen;And how a man of Lord Don Diego's yearsCould fall in love with such a chit, beats me.[They pass on. Two other guests advance.Lady of Second Guest.(To her Partner.) Ay, true, I think it would more seemly beWere he to marry one of years more ripe.Second Guest.(To his Lady.) The older that men grow the more they're pleasedWith youth. I'm sure I should be so myself.[They pass on. Third couple advance.Third Guest.(To his Lady.) Nay, who'd have thought that poor Don SilvioCould thus so easily pay off his debts?He's in luck's way. As for the blushing bride,Not every day doth heaven rain such fortune.Lady.(To Third Guest.) Yet they say that she is most unwilling.Third Guest.Then, she's a fool.[They pass on. Fourth couple advance.Lady.(To Fourth Guest.) Nay; I have heard it saidShe weeps and frets, and hath so desp'rate grown,That nought save violence could aught availTo lead her to the altar.Fourth Guest.What a girl!To throw away so glorious a chance![They pass on. Two gentlemen meeting.First Gent.What, comrade, you invited! Ha, ha, ha!The old boy's got some life in him as yet.Second Gent.And good taste, too. I just now caught a glimpseOf the fair bride; and, zounds! I do begrudgeHer to the veteran. I myself would chooseJust such an one, and were it not her faceWere marred by excess of weeping.First Gent.Indeed!Ha! ha! I never could make out why girlsCry at their wedding. Just the very thingThey've looked for, prayed for, schemed for all their lives;Yet, when it comes to don the bridal veilAnd figure at the altar, then comes straightA bucketful of tears. Hypocrisy!EnterDon Diego,followed byDon Silviopleading.Second Gent.Here comes the bridegroom; and, as it would seem,Not in the best of humours. Let's withdraw.[They pass on.D. Die.(To Don Silvio.) Silvio, no more! I'll not be flouted thusBefore my guests, in mine own castle, too.I've said that it shall be, and itshallbe.I ne'er take back my word. So bid her haste,And put a better face upon the matter.The time is up, and all my guests attend.Go, bring her, then. (To Guests.) Friends! welcome to this hall.Guests All.Long live Lord Don Diego, with much happiness!D. Die.Thank ye, my friends. I do regret to say,'Fore this august and gracious company,That we are likely to experience,This night, some difficulty on the partOf our fair bride. Some singular caprice;Transient, no doubt, but not the less unfitFor gay festivity. The fact is thatMy youthful bride is of a temperamentToo highly wrought and o'er hysterical.She only late hath left her convent cell;Her education, therefore, until nowHath rendered her unfit to face the world.Impressionable natures, as we know,Recoil before aught that can cause a strongAnd powerful emotion. 'Tis the shockThey dread. 'Tis nothing. Nay, I do condoleWith her; ay, from the bottom of my heart.But yet I think it not well to indulgeYoung folk in such caprice. Therefore, should I,My honoured guests, be forced to assumeAn air of stern severity unmeetThis gay assembly, deem it but as naught;'Tis firmness that is needed in this case.We men must not be conquered by caprice.As for the girl herself, she loves me well;Nay, passionately.Inez.(Within, distractedly.) No! 'tis false, 'tis false.[Titter and commotion among the guests.D. Die.(To Don Silvio.) Silvio! Why stand you there, with folded hands?Did I not tell you to lead forth the bride?D. Sil.She says shewillnot come.D. Die.Willnot? Ha! ha!This to my face!Willnot, indeed. We'll see.My worthy guests, bear with me if I loseMy wonted patience, and in haste let slipSome casual word that may seem unfitThe presence of guests so illustrious.My temper's somewhat choleric, and ifMy will is thwarted I may lose restraint.Silvio, bring forth the maiden straight, I say,Or I will have her dragged to me by force.Inez.(Within.) Oh, mercy! Mercy! Heaven hear my prayer.A Gentleman.Poor little jade! How I do pity her.A Lady.And so do I. It makes my heart quite bleed.D. Die.A truce to this. Ho! pages, drag her forth.[Exeunt two pages, who re-enter, dragging Inez in, who utters a piercing scream. She is dressed in a white dressing gown, her hair dishevelled, and grasping a crucifix. Father Miguel and Gipsy Queen appear at the open door cautiously. Behind lurk Don Pascual and Gipsies.Inez."Oh, Holy Virgin! Save me; save me yet.Thou wilt not thus abandon me."D. Die.(Seizing her by the hair, and dragging her towards the Chapel.)So jade,Since thou hast deemed fit to flout me thusBefore my guests, and spurn'st my tenderness,Learn how obedience can be enforced.Come priest. Be ready.A Guest.Nay, but this is rape!I cannot stay and see injustice done.I repent me that I was invited.Another Guest.True, and so do I. This is no marriage,But filthy lust and mere abuse of power.D. Die.(To Guards.) Help! Hell and Furies! or I'll have her drugged.Guests All.Shame! Shame! Down with Don Diego.Seize the tyrant.D. Die.What! Flouted by my very guests. What next?Guests All.Virtue to the rescue! Save the maiden!EnterGipsy Queenhurriedly, and stands fixingDon Diegowith her eye, who recoils.Gip. Q.Hold! I forbid the banns.Inez.Thanks, Holy Virgin,That hast heard my prayer, and sent an angelDown from your high Heaven in hour of need.What glorious halo do I see aroundThat sainted vision![Inez falls fainting into the arms of Don Silvio.D. Die.Nay, this is madness.Gip. Q.Hear me, swarthy hag. This castle is mine,And not for such as thee. Begone, I say,Or I will have thee hanged, ere breaks the dawn,From the loftiest turret of this pile.Gip. Q.Villain, I fear no threats.Look on this bond.D. Die.What folly's this? Say, who let these men in?F'th. M.(Advancing.) I, Don Miguel, whom you basely thoughtTo use as instrument in your foul plot,Twenty-two years ago, when you did planThe mockery of a marriage to induceThis trusting gipsy to accede to whatYour own dark soul did lust for; thinking that'Twere easy work to dupe the innocent.So, writing to a worthless boon companion,Already in your debt, you promised himTo cancel all his debt, and further addAnother sum in recompense, were heTo condescend to sink himself so lowAs to enact the part of priest in thisFalse marriage. But that letter never reachedIts destination. Djâbel, gipsy king,This woman's father, once suspecting guile,As well he might, did send his spies abroad,And so this letter, fell into my hands.I quick conceived the plan to pen reply,As coming from the tool you sought to use,In which 'twas stated that he lay in bed,Ill of a fever, and so could not come,And therefore he would send a substituteTo act for him. That substitute was I.I, Father Miguel, with dissembling mien,By you too fully trusted, had accessUnto your presence, as you fondly thought,To help you in your plot of the feigned match.But know, base villain, you alone were duped,Your marriage was a real one, and holds good.D. Die.This is some false concocted tale, got upFor some hellish purpose.Priest.(At the altar, advances.) Lord Don Diego,I tell you this is no invented tale,This Father Miguel is well known to me,A worthy priest of our most holy Church.The bond is valid.D. Die.Flouted on all sides!How now! Do I dream? Am I master here,Or am I not?F'th. M.Another Master there'sAbove us all, more powerful than thou,Dispensing justice and avenging wrong.D. Die.What cant is this? Ho! guards, cut down the rabble.[Some halberdiers advance. D. Pascual and gipsies put themselves on the defensive.F'th. M.Raise but a finger, or cause to be raisedAn arm in thy defence, and dread the worst.D. Die.This from a shaven crown! A pretty plightFor feudal lord to be in! What ho! guards.[A skirmish ensues, and guards are beaten back by gipsies.On, cowards, on! Where are my men-at-arms?F'th. M.All drugged, and powerless by my device.They sleep like dead men. Seek no help from them.D. Die.Damnation! Am I worsted by a priestAnd gang of squalid gipsies? Ho! my men,Go, rouse the sluggards! Bring my armour, quick.F'th. M.(To Guards.) Budge but an inch, and not a man of ye shall see to-morrow's sun.D. Die.How now! Who's heThat threatens and gives orders in my hall?Have I no friends among these honoured guestsTo save me from these insults? Who am I?F'th. M.A sinner, made amenable to law.D. Die.(Laughs diabolically.) Ha, ha! This craven's insolence is suchIt well nigh moves my laughter. How now! guests,Not one sword drawn! No single arm upraised.A Guest.My Lord Don Diego, in a cause that's justMy sword is at your service. So say allThe others. But we will not fight for wrong.Let us be first persuaded if this priestHave right upon his side. Show us the bond.D. Die.The bond is but a forgery.D. Pas.'Tis false,Thou lying knave. I'll make thee eat thy words.D. Die.Who is this mongrel gipsy, bold of tongue,Who beards us with drawn sword.F'th. M.Your lawful son,Of this poor gipsy born in holy marriage.D. Die.The tale is too preposterous.Officiating Priest.Nay, lookWell on the bond, Don Diego.Guests All.Ay, the bond.D. Die(To Officiating Priest.) And thou, Sir Shaveling, didst thou not come hereTo-night to draw up deed of legal marriage?And dost thou now come forward and take partWith this base priest, who for some plan of his——Off. Priest.My compliance was but in appearance.I came, well knowing of your former marriage,Twenty-two years ago, as saith the bond,With her they call the Gipsy Queen. All thisI had from Father Miguel; and besides,Have well perused the bond, which, being valid,I could not undertake to tie the knotIn conscience, and have no intent to do 't.D. Die.I was but mocked, then?Guests All.Come, the bond! the bond!D. Die.Give me the bond. I'll soon cut short this work.[Snatches the bond from the hands of Gipsy Queen. Glances hastily over it, and proceeds to tear it.'Tis false. This is no signature of mine.Gip. Q.Darest to deny thy bond? Die, villain, then,In this thy perjury![Stabs Don Diego.D. Die.Help! help! I bleed.[Falls.Guards.Don Diego to the rescue! Seize the hag.[Guards and a few guests lay hands on Gipsy Queen.D. Pas.(Furiously.) Leave go, my mother. He that lays a handUpon her person, I'll send straight to hell.A Guest.(Advancing with drawn sword.) Secure this furious and audacious youth.D. Pas.Have at thee, then.[Kills guest.GuestI die.[Dies.Two Guests.(Advancing.)Hold him! hold him![Both guests attack Pascual at once, but are driven back. Guards come up and attempt to seize him. Gipsies attack guards, and a general skirmish ensues. Two guards are killed by gipsies. One gipsy falls. Don Silvio bears off Inez in the confusion.F'th. M.Peace, brethren, for a while, and no more blood.A Guest.Look to Don Diego, friends, and seize the hag.[All surround Gipsy Queen, who stabs herself and falls. All draw back.Gip. Q.This life is forfeit. I for vengeance lived;My mission is accomplished upon earth.I vowed to heaven. Heaven has heard my prayer.And I depart.D. Pas.(Rushes up, and throws himself beside the Gipsy Queen.) Oh, mother! dear mother.D. Die.Help! help! Who has put out the lights and leftMe all in darkness?A Guest.No one, noble lord.F'th. M.'Tis but the darkness of thine own dark soul,Now upon the brink of eternity;I counsel thee, confess, and then receiveThe consolation that the Church affords.D. Die.Water! I thirst. Alas! how grim is death!I am afraid to die. I burn! I burn!How hideous all the forms that flit around;Officiating Priest.My lord Don Diego, prithee die not thus;But ask forgiveness first, of all you've wronged.D. Die.Good father, willingly; but who would grantForgiveness unto such a wretch as I?Gip. Q.I, Pepa, thy true wife, forgiveness grants,And craves the like from thee.D. Die.What! Pepa,thou;Thou canst forgive me? Thou, my poor wronged wife.Let us exchange forgiveness then, for IHave well deserved this blow. Come round me, friends,Whilst breath yet lasts, and witness bear to this.I leave my castle, all my lands and goods,Unto my lawful son. How is he called?F'th. M.Pascual.D. Die.Son Pascual, thy hand. Forgive the wrongsI've done thee, e'en as thou thyself wouldst hopeIn thy last hour to be forgiven. Hold,There's still another I have deeply wronged,From whom I'd crave forgiveness. Bring her here.F'th. M.(To Attendant.) Don Diego means the Lady Inez. HasteAnd bring her hither, with Don Silvio.[Exit Attendants.EnterDon Silvio,supportingInez.D. Die.Behold me, Inez, penitent, subdued.Art thou content that heaven hath heard thy prayer?I've wronged thee much. I frankly do confess.Forgive me, Inez child, ere I departAn thou canst.Inez.I do.[Giving her hand and sobbing.D. Die.And friend Silvio,The like I'd have from thee, and all I've wronged.D. Sil.Friend Diego, take his hand. I would not addOne pang to that which thine own heart must feel,By holding back my pardon at the last.Therefore, with all my heart I pardon thee.D. Die.Thanks, old friend, Silvio; I already feelBetter prepared to die. Farewell, my friends.[Inez for the first time perceiving Pascual.Inez.Pascual!D. Pas.Inez!D. Die.Come now, my children both,I know your minds. Come let me join your hands.[Pascual and Inez kneel beside Don Diego, who joins their hands.Receive my blessing, children, and forgiveA poor old sinner when he is no more.Pray for my soul, and ere this clay be cold,Let this hand clasp thy mother's, son Pascual.Pepa, thy hand.Gip. Q.Diego, with all my heart.[Pascual joins their hands.Let us die thus, and hand in hand to heavenLet our souls soar. Kiss me, my children, both.Look how my father Djâbel smiles on us,And beckons us away from earth. Adios.[Don Diego and Gipsy Queen expire.[Guests kneel and pray. Curtain.
First Guest.(To his Partner.) Have you yet seen the bride? They say she's fair.Partner.They say so, but I have not seen her yet.Howbeit, a friend of mine who knew her wellWhen at the Convent of Saint Ursula,Says she is over young. Just turned sixteen;And how a man of Lord Don Diego's yearsCould fall in love with such a chit, beats me.
[They pass on. Two other guests advance.
Lady of Second Guest.(To her Partner.) Ay, true, I think it would more seemly beWere he to marry one of years more ripe.Second Guest.(To his Lady.) The older that men grow the more they're pleasedWith youth. I'm sure I should be so myself.
[They pass on. Third couple advance.
Third Guest.(To his Lady.) Nay, who'd have thought that poor Don SilvioCould thus so easily pay off his debts?He's in luck's way. As for the blushing bride,Not every day doth heaven rain such fortune.Lady.(To Third Guest.) Yet they say that she is most unwilling.Third Guest.Then, she's a fool.
[They pass on. Fourth couple advance.
Lady.(To Fourth Guest.) Nay; I have heard it saidShe weeps and frets, and hath so desp'rate grown,That nought save violence could aught availTo lead her to the altar.Fourth Guest.What a girl!To throw away so glorious a chance!
[They pass on. Two gentlemen meeting.
First Gent.What, comrade, you invited! Ha, ha, ha!The old boy's got some life in him as yet.Second Gent.And good taste, too. I just now caught a glimpseOf the fair bride; and, zounds! I do begrudgeHer to the veteran. I myself would chooseJust such an one, and were it not her faceWere marred by excess of weeping.First Gent.Indeed!Ha! ha! I never could make out why girlsCry at their wedding. Just the very thingThey've looked for, prayed for, schemed for all their lives;Yet, when it comes to don the bridal veilAnd figure at the altar, then comes straightA bucketful of tears. Hypocrisy!
EnterDon Diego,followed byDon Silviopleading.
Second Gent.Here comes the bridegroom; and, as it would seem,Not in the best of humours. Let's withdraw.
[They pass on.
D. Die.(To Don Silvio.) Silvio, no more! I'll not be flouted thusBefore my guests, in mine own castle, too.I've said that it shall be, and itshallbe.I ne'er take back my word. So bid her haste,And put a better face upon the matter.The time is up, and all my guests attend.Go, bring her, then. (To Guests.) Friends! welcome to this hall.Guests All.Long live Lord Don Diego, with much happiness!D. Die.Thank ye, my friends. I do regret to say,'Fore this august and gracious company,That we are likely to experience,This night, some difficulty on the partOf our fair bride. Some singular caprice;Transient, no doubt, but not the less unfitFor gay festivity. The fact is thatMy youthful bride is of a temperamentToo highly wrought and o'er hysterical.She only late hath left her convent cell;Her education, therefore, until nowHath rendered her unfit to face the world.Impressionable natures, as we know,Recoil before aught that can cause a strongAnd powerful emotion. 'Tis the shockThey dread. 'Tis nothing. Nay, I do condoleWith her; ay, from the bottom of my heart.But yet I think it not well to indulgeYoung folk in such caprice. Therefore, should I,My honoured guests, be forced to assumeAn air of stern severity unmeetThis gay assembly, deem it but as naught;'Tis firmness that is needed in this case.We men must not be conquered by caprice.As for the girl herself, she loves me well;Nay, passionately.Inez.(Within, distractedly.) No! 'tis false, 'tis false.
[Titter and commotion among the guests.
D. Die.(To Don Silvio.) Silvio! Why stand you there, with folded hands?Did I not tell you to lead forth the bride?D. Sil.She says shewillnot come.D. Die.Willnot? Ha! ha!This to my face!Willnot, indeed. We'll see.My worthy guests, bear with me if I loseMy wonted patience, and in haste let slipSome casual word that may seem unfitThe presence of guests so illustrious.My temper's somewhat choleric, and ifMy will is thwarted I may lose restraint.Silvio, bring forth the maiden straight, I say,Or I will have her dragged to me by force.Inez.(Within.) Oh, mercy! Mercy! Heaven hear my prayer.A Gentleman.Poor little jade! How I do pity her.A Lady.And so do I. It makes my heart quite bleed.D. Die.A truce to this. Ho! pages, drag her forth.
[Exeunt two pages, who re-enter, dragging Inez in, who utters a piercing scream. She is dressed in a white dressing gown, her hair dishevelled, and grasping a crucifix. Father Miguel and Gipsy Queen appear at the open door cautiously. Behind lurk Don Pascual and Gipsies.
Inez."Oh, Holy Virgin! Save me; save me yet.Thou wilt not thus abandon me."D. Die.(Seizing her by the hair, and dragging her towards the Chapel.)So jade,Since thou hast deemed fit to flout me thusBefore my guests, and spurn'st my tenderness,Learn how obedience can be enforced.Come priest. Be ready.A Guest.Nay, but this is rape!I cannot stay and see injustice done.I repent me that I was invited.Another Guest.True, and so do I. This is no marriage,But filthy lust and mere abuse of power.D. Die.(To Guards.) Help! Hell and Furies! or I'll have her drugged.Guests All.Shame! Shame! Down with Don Diego.Seize the tyrant.D. Die.What! Flouted by my very guests. What next?Guests All.Virtue to the rescue! Save the maiden!
EnterGipsy Queenhurriedly, and stands fixingDon Diegowith her eye, who recoils.
Gip. Q.Hold! I forbid the banns.Inez.Thanks, Holy Virgin,That hast heard my prayer, and sent an angelDown from your high Heaven in hour of need.What glorious halo do I see aroundThat sainted vision!
[Inez falls fainting into the arms of Don Silvio.
D. Die.Nay, this is madness.Gip. Q.Hear me, swarthy hag. This castle is mine,And not for such as thee. Begone, I say,Or I will have thee hanged, ere breaks the dawn,From the loftiest turret of this pile.Gip. Q.Villain, I fear no threats.Look on this bond.D. Die.What folly's this? Say, who let these men in?F'th. M.(Advancing.) I, Don Miguel, whom you basely thoughtTo use as instrument in your foul plot,Twenty-two years ago, when you did planThe mockery of a marriage to induceThis trusting gipsy to accede to whatYour own dark soul did lust for; thinking that'Twere easy work to dupe the innocent.So, writing to a worthless boon companion,Already in your debt, you promised himTo cancel all his debt, and further addAnother sum in recompense, were heTo condescend to sink himself so lowAs to enact the part of priest in thisFalse marriage. But that letter never reachedIts destination. Djâbel, gipsy king,This woman's father, once suspecting guile,As well he might, did send his spies abroad,And so this letter, fell into my hands.I quick conceived the plan to pen reply,As coming from the tool you sought to use,In which 'twas stated that he lay in bed,Ill of a fever, and so could not come,And therefore he would send a substituteTo act for him. That substitute was I.I, Father Miguel, with dissembling mien,By you too fully trusted, had accessUnto your presence, as you fondly thought,To help you in your plot of the feigned match.But know, base villain, you alone were duped,Your marriage was a real one, and holds good.D. Die.This is some false concocted tale, got upFor some hellish purpose.Priest.(At the altar, advances.) Lord Don Diego,I tell you this is no invented tale,This Father Miguel is well known to me,A worthy priest of our most holy Church.The bond is valid.D. Die.Flouted on all sides!How now! Do I dream? Am I master here,Or am I not?F'th. M.Another Master there'sAbove us all, more powerful than thou,Dispensing justice and avenging wrong.D. Die.What cant is this? Ho! guards, cut down the rabble.
[Some halberdiers advance. D. Pascual and gipsies put themselves on the defensive.
F'th. M.Raise but a finger, or cause to be raisedAn arm in thy defence, and dread the worst.D. Die.This from a shaven crown! A pretty plightFor feudal lord to be in! What ho! guards.
[A skirmish ensues, and guards are beaten back by gipsies.
On, cowards, on! Where are my men-at-arms?F'th. M.All drugged, and powerless by my device.They sleep like dead men. Seek no help from them.D. Die.Damnation! Am I worsted by a priestAnd gang of squalid gipsies? Ho! my men,Go, rouse the sluggards! Bring my armour, quick.F'th. M.(To Guards.) Budge but an inch, and not a man of ye shall see to-morrow's sun.D. Die.How now! Who's heThat threatens and gives orders in my hall?Have I no friends among these honoured guestsTo save me from these insults? Who am I?F'th. M.A sinner, made amenable to law.D. Die.(Laughs diabolically.) Ha, ha! This craven's insolence is suchIt well nigh moves my laughter. How now! guests,Not one sword drawn! No single arm upraised.A Guest.My Lord Don Diego, in a cause that's justMy sword is at your service. So say allThe others. But we will not fight for wrong.Let us be first persuaded if this priestHave right upon his side. Show us the bond.D. Die.The bond is but a forgery.D. Pas.'Tis false,Thou lying knave. I'll make thee eat thy words.D. Die.Who is this mongrel gipsy, bold of tongue,Who beards us with drawn sword.F'th. M.Your lawful son,Of this poor gipsy born in holy marriage.D. Die.The tale is too preposterous.Officiating Priest.Nay, lookWell on the bond, Don Diego.Guests All.Ay, the bond.D. Die(To Officiating Priest.) And thou, Sir Shaveling, didst thou not come hereTo-night to draw up deed of legal marriage?And dost thou now come forward and take partWith this base priest, who for some plan of his——Off. Priest.My compliance was but in appearance.I came, well knowing of your former marriage,Twenty-two years ago, as saith the bond,With her they call the Gipsy Queen. All thisI had from Father Miguel; and besides,Have well perused the bond, which, being valid,I could not undertake to tie the knotIn conscience, and have no intent to do 't.D. Die.I was but mocked, then?Guests All.Come, the bond! the bond!D. Die.Give me the bond. I'll soon cut short this work.
[Snatches the bond from the hands of Gipsy Queen. Glances hastily over it, and proceeds to tear it.
'Tis false. This is no signature of mine.Gip. Q.Darest to deny thy bond? Die, villain, then,In this thy perjury![Stabs Don Diego.D. Die.Help! help! I bleed.[Falls.Guards.Don Diego to the rescue! Seize the hag.
[Guards and a few guests lay hands on Gipsy Queen.
D. Pas.(Furiously.) Leave go, my mother. He that lays a handUpon her person, I'll send straight to hell.A Guest.(Advancing with drawn sword.) Secure this furious and audacious youth.D. Pas.Have at thee, then.[Kills guest.GuestI die.[Dies.Two Guests.(Advancing.)Hold him! hold him!
[Both guests attack Pascual at once, but are driven back. Guards come up and attempt to seize him. Gipsies attack guards, and a general skirmish ensues. Two guards are killed by gipsies. One gipsy falls. Don Silvio bears off Inez in the confusion.
F'th. M.Peace, brethren, for a while, and no more blood.A Guest.Look to Don Diego, friends, and seize the hag.
[All surround Gipsy Queen, who stabs herself and falls. All draw back.
Gip. Q.This life is forfeit. I for vengeance lived;My mission is accomplished upon earth.I vowed to heaven. Heaven has heard my prayer.And I depart.D. Pas.(Rushes up, and throws himself beside the Gipsy Queen.) Oh, mother! dear mother.D. Die.Help! help! Who has put out the lights and leftMe all in darkness?A Guest.No one, noble lord.F'th. M.'Tis but the darkness of thine own dark soul,Now upon the brink of eternity;I counsel thee, confess, and then receiveThe consolation that the Church affords.D. Die.Water! I thirst. Alas! how grim is death!I am afraid to die. I burn! I burn!How hideous all the forms that flit around;Officiating Priest.My lord Don Diego, prithee die not thus;But ask forgiveness first, of all you've wronged.D. Die.Good father, willingly; but who would grantForgiveness unto such a wretch as I?Gip. Q.I, Pepa, thy true wife, forgiveness grants,And craves the like from thee.D. Die.What! Pepa,thou;Thou canst forgive me? Thou, my poor wronged wife.Let us exchange forgiveness then, for IHave well deserved this blow. Come round me, friends,Whilst breath yet lasts, and witness bear to this.I leave my castle, all my lands and goods,Unto my lawful son. How is he called?F'th. M.Pascual.D. Die.Son Pascual, thy hand. Forgive the wrongsI've done thee, e'en as thou thyself wouldst hopeIn thy last hour to be forgiven. Hold,There's still another I have deeply wronged,From whom I'd crave forgiveness. Bring her here.F'th. M.(To Attendant.) Don Diego means the Lady Inez. HasteAnd bring her hither, with Don Silvio.[Exit Attendants.
EnterDon Silvio,supportingInez.
D. Die.Behold me, Inez, penitent, subdued.Art thou content that heaven hath heard thy prayer?I've wronged thee much. I frankly do confess.Forgive me, Inez child, ere I departAn thou canst.Inez.I do.
[Giving her hand and sobbing.
D. Die.And friend Silvio,The like I'd have from thee, and all I've wronged.D. Sil.Friend Diego, take his hand. I would not addOne pang to that which thine own heart must feel,By holding back my pardon at the last.Therefore, with all my heart I pardon thee.D. Die.Thanks, old friend, Silvio; I already feelBetter prepared to die. Farewell, my friends.
[Inez for the first time perceiving Pascual.
Inez.Pascual!D. Pas.Inez!D. Die.Come now, my children both,I know your minds. Come let me join your hands.
[Pascual and Inez kneel beside Don Diego, who joins their hands.
Receive my blessing, children, and forgiveA poor old sinner when he is no more.Pray for my soul, and ere this clay be cold,Let this hand clasp thy mother's, son Pascual.Pepa, thy hand.Gip. Q.Diego, with all my heart.
[Pascual joins their hands.
Let us die thus, and hand in hand to heavenLet our souls soar. Kiss me, my children, both.Look how my father Djâbel smiles on us,And beckons us away from earth. Adios.
[Don Diego and Gipsy Queen expire.
[Guests kneel and pray. Curtain.
At the conclusion of the play our tragedian rolled up his MS. and returned it to his pocket, while various were the expressions of approval from the members of the club.
All now seemed to look towards Mr. Oldstone for his criticism of the play before pronouncing any decided opinion of their own. This was a deference they paid him as chairman, and because he was the oldest member present. It was evident that this worthy was accustomed to be appealed to in matters of importance, and expected it in the present instance in particular,for he had already stretched out his legs, thrown himself back in his arm-chair, closed his eyes, and clasped his hands together over his comely paunch, while his thumbs performed a rotary motion, one round the other, a sure sign with him that whatever his lips might utter would be the result of deep thought and mature deliberation. Our members awaited in silence the words of wisdom about to issue from the lips of the oracle.
To fill up the time in the interim, Professor Cyanite filled up a pipe of tobacco, and was about to light it. Mr. Crucible drew out his snuff box, and was preparing to take a copious pinch. Dr. Bleedem looked at his watch, when suddenly a knock at the door caused the members to raise their heads.
"Come in!" cried several voices at once. The door opened, and Helen stood in the doorway.
"If you please, gentlemen," said the girl, blushing, and with charming modesty, "Mr. McGuilp says that he has finished my portrait, and would the gentlemen of the club like to look at it before it gets too dark."
"Of course we will, my dear, of course we will," answered Mr. Oldstone, his fingers immediately unclasping themselves and grasping the arms of the chair, preparatory to rising to his feet.
"Come along, gentlemen." No further invitation was needed. Professor Cyanite laid down his pipe unlighted. Mr. Crucible replaced the grains of snuff, he had intended conveying to his nose, back into his snuff box, which he closed with a snap and returned to hispocket. There was a general stir among the members, who rose and followed Helen to the room upstairs, that our artist hadpro tem.transformed into a studio.
Jack Hearty and his spouse were already in the room when the members of the club appeared at the door.
"Yes, that's our Helen, to a T, and no mistake," he was saying. "Well, its just wonderful, and as like her mother, when she was her age, as one egg is to another. Eh? Molly," said he, addressing his spouse.
"Beg pardon, sir. I hope no offence," continued the landlord, turning deferentially towards our artist.
"But what might such a picture be worth, if I might ask?"
"The wealth of the universe wouldn't purchase it, my good host," replied McGuilp. "It is the best thing I ever did, and that perhaps I ever shall do. No, this one is not for sale. I do not say but that at some future time I might do another from it, and then——"
At this juncture, the members of the club, headed by Mr. Oldstone, entered the studio. Our host and hostess respectfully withdrew, in order to give the gentlemen a better chance of examining the picture, but even then the room was as crowded as an exhibition on a private view day. Mr. Oldstone had placed himself in front of the easel, and was soon loud in his expressions of enthusiasm.
"Excellent! most excellent! Beautiful! beautiful! beautiful! What flesh tints! What colouring! Whatrefinement of drawing and expression! As a likeness it is perfect, there is no gainsaying. Then, the pose—simple, graceful, and natural. My dear young friend," he said, shaking our artist by the hand, and seeming overcome by emotion, "Do you knowwhatyou have realised? Why, it is the hand of a master!" etc., etc.
Then each of the members in turn made their own remarks upon the portrait.
"What a picture of life and health!" cried Dr. Bleedem.
"What a face for the stage!" remarked the tragedian.
"Ah! why was not I born a painter?" sighed Mr. Parnassus.
The analytical chemist made a few scientific remarks upon the properties of pigments, in which Professor Cyanite joined, whilst our artist silently removed the colours from his palette.
"And what do you propose doing with the portrait, Mr.—er—Mr. McGuilp?" inquired Mr. Hardcase. "Keep it," replied our artist, laconically.
"What!keepit all to yourself!" exclaimed Mr. Oldstone. "For your own selfish gratification, thereby depriving others of the pleasure to be derived therefrom! Mr. McGuilp, I am surprised at you. Gentlemen," proceeded the antiquary, addressing his fellow members, "I protest against this decision of our young friend. That picture does not leave this inn ifIcanhelp it. Mr. McGuilp, your price. What is it? We will all club together and buy it, won't we gentlemen?"
"Ay, ay! so say we all," cried several voices at once.
"Impossible, my dear sir—impossible," remonstrated our artist.
"Impossible!Why?"
"I feel I shall never surpass this," answered McGuilp. "It is a sample work. I can make use of it in many ways as a study. But this I will do. I will protract my stay yet a few days, though I have already remained longer than I intended, and I will make a copy of the picture, which it shall be my pleasure to present to the honoured members of this club." Murmurs of applause and thanks followed this speech, after which the company dispersed until dinner-time.
The next morning broke dark and gloomy. Our artist rose from his couch languid and unrefreshed. His face was pale and haggard, with dark circles round his eyes. What had transpired? Had he received a second visit from the headless lady? Not so. What then? He had slept indifferently, having been kept awake by his own distracting thoughts. If he chanced to close his eyes for a moment his peace was disturbed by the most chaotic and depressing dreams. Was he unwell? Did the fare at the inn disagree with him? He made no complaints. Then why this strange squeamishness—these wild chaotic dreams, through all of whichoneface in particular seemed always to the fore? Sometimes happy and smiling, full of life and health, then sad and downcast—again looking at him with pleading eyes, yet always the same face. Whose face this was we will leave our readers to conjecture.
"Bah!" soliloquised our artist, as he placed one foot upon the floor, "a chit of a girl like that, and atmyage too."
He wasn't much past eight and twenty, true, but then the girl running in his thoughts was barely sixteen. In love? Not he. She was a dear, sweet child, it was true, and pure as an angel; but her education, her extreme youth, her position, her surroundings—no, no.
Now he was quite out of bed. His shaving water stood ready for him outside. He opened the door ajar, and took it in. Then placing the jug on the table, he proceeded to strop his razors. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror, and started.
"I'll tell you what it is, Vandyke, my boy," he said, accosting his own reflection in the glass, "you are looking worse than I thought. Come, cheer up, and make the best of things. It would never do for the members of the club to notice anything, and by putting two and two together, guess at the reasonwhy. No, I must dissemble."
Now, men of the world are shrewd observers, and a very slight clue is often enough. Here, for instance, was a case of two young persons, both good looking, being thrown together under circumstances peculiarly favourable for a flirtation, being alone and unobserved. Well, what then? Need they necessarily fall in love with each other? Notnecessarilyperhaps, says the world, but in all probability theywill. Time and opportunity alone being necessary to bring the matter about. So the world may perhaps not be so very far wrong in its deductions.
Having now mixed up an abundant lather, McGuilp rubbed it well over his chin and lower part of his face. Then inserting his razor in the hot water, he, with as steady a hand as possible under the circumstances, proceeded to reap the hirsute stubble from its native habitat until the operation was completed to his satisfaction. Having at length finished his toilet with even more than usual precision, he called up a cheerful look to his countenance, and joined the rest of the members at the breakfast-table, with an hilarity and jocoseness of manner which took them all in.
The breakfast was sumptuous as usual. The table groaned under every delicacy of the season, and our members, having seated themselves, did ample honour to the repast. A yule log blazed on the hearth, and a general air of comfort pervaded the inn, as if to make up for the murky weather without. Yet, despite these creature comforts, and the hearty appreciation of them by our members, there was one present whose appetite failed him. In spite of his forced hilarity, which he now found it difficult to sustain, for sad thoughts would obtrude themselves, our artist but pecked at his food.
The fumes of the eggs and bacon sickened him. The kippered herrings were an offence unto his nostrils. He loathed such gross cheer. His toast and roll were but nibbled at, his cup of coffee barely sipped, yet keep up appearances he must. So he talked a good deal of vapid nonsense, made trivial remarks about the weather, etc., which served to put the rest of the members offthe scent, engrossed as each was with his own favourite dish. The professional eye of Dr. Bleedem, however, was more on the alert, and not so easily deceived.
"You are not looking so well this morning, Mr. McGuilp," he said, eyeing his patient critically.
Our artist hastened to assure him that he never felt better in his life. This remark, however, fell flat upon the doctor's ears, and he proceeded as if he had not heard him.
"You have eaten nothing. I notice that you only play with your food. Now, when a patient plays with his food, it is a sure sign that there is something wrong. You should take——"
"Oh! I don't want any medicine, thank you," interrupted McGuilp. "I assure you I am all right. A little loss of appetite, as you say; perhaps from the sudden change in the weather, which always affects me more or less. The fact is, I didn't sleep very well last night, and——"
"Yes, I can seethat," continued Dr. Bleedem.
By this time the other members were getting interested, and our artist found himself suddenly the cynosure for all the scrutiny of the club. How he cursed the doctor's officiousness! Why couldn't he mind his own business?
"Yes, now you mention it, doctor, I can see that our young friend doesnotseem quite up to the mark to-day," remarked Mr. Oldstone.
"By his appearance I should say the young gentleman had something on his mind," suggested Mr.Hardcase. "His countenance seems sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," quoted Mr. Blackdeed from his favourite author.
Then each member had something to say in turn, till our artist felt himself blushing up to the roots of his hair. In vain did he give himself a twisted pinch in the fleshy part of his leg under the table. The blush would rise, and there was no checking it. He fancied he could see the members give side glances one to the other, or trying to conceal a smile; but this may have been imagination.
Breakfast being now over, each member rose from the table, some gathering round the fire, one or two of them peering out into the murky gloom. Then Helen entered to clear away the breakfast things. She, too, seemed less lively than her wont, her face paler, and she went about her domestic duties mechanically, with downcast eyes.
"Why, Helen, my girl," exclaimed Dr. Bleedem, "you don't look as bright as usual. Haveyoubeen having a sleepless night? Haveyoubeen losing your appetite?"
The girl looked up confusedly, and a deep blush suffused her face and neck. The fame of Dr. Bleedem was great in the neighbourhood. She believed herself to be in the presence of a man who could read the secrets of her inmost soul, and that all attempts to mask them from his scrutinising gaze would be worse than useless.
"What has come to you young people of late, I don't know," continued Dr. Bleedem. "Now, here is Mr. McGuilp, he, too, has been losing his appetite, and suffering from insomnia."
Oh! how our artist wished that the ground would open at his feet and swallow him up. In vain he trod on his toes and turned his face towards the window, as if peering into the snow that was now falling fast. His ears continued to burn like fire, and all he could do, by mopping his forehead with his pocket-handkerchief, was inadequate to keep back the traitor blush.
"Oh! oh!" muttered Dr. Bleedem to himself, whilst gazing from one to the other. "Is that the way the wind lies?"
The members now began to look sideways, one at the other. One of them raised his eyebrows; another winked; a third suppressed a titter; but as this all took place behind our artist's back, who was still looking out intently at the snow, there was nothing to wound his sensibilities.
At length Mr. Oldstone broke the silence. "When are you thinking of beginning the copy of our Helen's picture, Mr. McGuilp?"
"I? Oh yes, just so," replied our artist, waking up out of a reverie. "Well, the fact is, we are most unfortunate in the weather. It is impossible to begin if it continues like this. Should it clear up later, I will at once set to work."
"Good. And now gentlemen, what do you allpropose doing to while away the time? A rubber of whist, a game of chess, backgammon, or what?" inquired the antiquary.
After a little discussion, it was decided that Dr. Bleedem, Professor Cyanite, Mr. Crucible, and Mr. Oldstone, should form a party at whist. Mr. Blackdeed and Mr. Hardcase played a game of chess, while the poet and the painter, not being disposed to join in any game, retired into a corner together, and were soon deep in a discussion upon the arts of painting and poetry. A couple of hours passed away, and still the members were absorbed, each in his favourite pursuit, when the weather began to clear up, and the sun shone brightly.
This decided our artist to set about his allotted task; so breaking off the conversation with his poet friend, he repaired to the studio, and placing a clean canvas, the same size as that of the portrait, upon the easel, he commenced his copy; and here we will leave him to continue his task for the present.
Over a fortnight had passed since we left our artist at his work. The task was now completed. He had found it necessary to have one or two extra sittings from Helen herself on the copy, just to give more truth to it, as he said. However, as everything on this earth comes to an end, there was an end also to these sittings.
"Helen," said our artist to his model at the last,"I must go. My affairs call me back to Italy. I have been keeping my studio on all this time, and I have certain business to settle which will brook no delay."
Helen's countenance fell, and her lip quivered. Her eyes grew moist and downcast. In a voice that she endeavoured to render firm, she ventured to inquire: "And will it be for long, sir?"
"For very long, Helen? Perhaps for ever."
Helen had no answer to this. Her sobs were choking her. The tears stole silently down her cheeks, but she whisked them away with her handkerchief, and did her best to appear outwardly calm.
Our artist, too, felt a lump in his throat, and his eyes suffused with tears.
"Perhaps, sir," meekly suggested the girl, "when you have settled all your affairs abroad, you may think of taking a holiday, and be paying us a flying visit, just to see Mr. Oldstone and the other gentlemen, you know. I'm sure both father and mother will be glad to see you again."
"I am afraid not, Helen. I am afraid not," and our artist slowly and sadly shook his head.
"What!never—never again!" almost shrieked the child.
Here she broke down completely. All restraint and propriety flew to the winds. Nature, till now trampled upon and held in abeyance, at this point rebelled and relieved herself in a torrent of the bitterest sobs and tears.
"Helen! dear Helen! What is this?" cried McGuilp, running to her assistance, his own tears falling fast the while!
"Oh! what a brute I have been! Quick, rouse yourself. There are footsteps in the passage. Somebody is coming." Thus warned, there was a sudden mopping of eyes and blowing of noses, when the door opened, and Dame Hearty presented herself to ask if Helen could be spared to assist her in the kitchen.
"Oh! certainly," replied our artist, averting his face and busying himself with putting away his palette and brushes, whilst assuming a firm voice. "Yes," continued he, still turning his back, "I think I may say that I have finished with her now. This is the last sitting in fact. There is the copy I intend to present to the club. This one here is the first one, which I am going to keep for myself. Which of the two do you prefer, Dame Hearty?"
In this way he rattled on to hide his confusion. Helen had slipped noiselessly away, bathed her face in cold water, and returned to the kitchen.
"Well, sir," replied Dame Hearty, in answer to our artist's question, "I really don't know what to say. They are both so lovely, there's not a pin to choose between them."
Then, scanning our artist's countenance, she observed:
"You appear to have a bad cold, sir."
"I am afraid I have, Dame Hearty," said McGuilp;"the weather has been very uncertain, and I think I must have committed some imprudence."
"Let me make you a basin of gruel, sir. No? It's a capital thing, and you should keep out of all draughts, and——"
"And keep my bed, perhaps you'll tell me, my good woman," interrupted McGuilp. "No, no; I've no time to coddle. Do you know, Dame Hearty, I must be off to-morrow to London by the stage, as I have to return to Rome without further delay. Already I am long after my time."
"So soon! Why, youhavepaid us a short visit," exclaimed the hostess. "Well, sir, you knows best. All I can say is that my husband and I will be most glad to see you again, when next you be passing this way."
A knock at the door, and our host entered to ask if he might be allowed to see the copy.
"Certainly, my good host, here it is," said McGuilp.
Jack Hearty went into ecstacies over it, saying he didn't know which he liked best.
"Mr. McGuilp says he is off again to-morrow, Jack," began our hostess.
"Yes," broke in McGuilp. "What time does the stage start? Early? I'd better begin my packing at once," and off he went to his bedroom to make preparations.
The fact was, he wanted to be alone, for it was an effort to keep up a cheerful appearance with a sad heart. He locked himself within his room, and having collectedtogether a few articles of clothing—enough to fill his valise, he threw himself into an arm-chair and gave himself up to meditation.
It will be remembered a few pages back that our artist accused himself of behaving like a brute towards his model. In this he did himself injustice. He had never deliberately set about gaining the affections of this simple village maiden. Any base design against her was the farthest from his thoughts. He admired her innocence and beauty, and wished that it might never lose its unsullied purity. He had never dreamed of actually falling in love with her, child as she was, and his conduct had been always that of a fond parent towards a pretty child. He little recked of any danger, either to her or to himself, but he found her beauty gain upon him day by day, till at length he was fairly in the toils. Yet he had never spoken to her of love. No, not a word. Hewouldnot. He had no desire that the girl should fall in love with him, nor would it be politic for him to fall in love with her. Wrong her he would not. Marry her he could not. For, besides hampering himself as a struggling artist with a wife and family, he dreaded quarrelling with almost the only relation he had living: a rich uncle; from whom he had expectations, and who would most decidedly consider that he had dragged the family name in the mire by marrying the daughter of a country innkeeper. In what way, then, it will be asked, did he think he had acted brutally towards the girl? This is what he blamedhimself for: First, for allowing himself to be carried away with feelings of love towards the girl, however secretly; and then for incautiously allowing her to discover his secret. For, although he had not spoken of love, you may depend upon it that he hadlookedit, and it was not difficult for her to read in his burning glances the secret of his soul. Love leads to love. He, too, read in the soft eyes, the heaving bosom, the stifled sigh, the deepening blush, and other tell-tale signs that she lovedhim. Thus, each had learned the other's secret. They had spoken to each other with their eyes, and thus just as much mischief had been wrought as if the most courtly phrases had been used. He had not intended that his glances should be understood, but theywere. Thus he blamed himself.
Matters being thus, there was no other remedy but flight. It would be a wrench, both for himself and for the girl, but the kindest thing in the end. In fact, it was his only course. So, having hurriedly finished his packing, he went downstairs to inform the members of the club of his intention.
It may easily be conceived how unwelcome was the news, for our artist had made himself extremely popular with all, and was looked upon as a great acquisition as a story-teller. Mr. Oldstone, in particular, exhausted all his powers of persuasion to yet delay his departure, but he found him obdurate. The good antiquary, who was an old bachelor, had grown to love our artist as a son; and now that the hour of parting had come, it rent him sore.
In the evening a farewell carousal was given in his honour, in which several bowls of punch were discussed; much tobacco smoked; a few speeches made; several anecdotes related; a song or two; besides some atrocious puns, with much laughter and witty conversation, until the utterance of all grew somewhat thick; and we regret to add that the worthy chairman, in his laudable attempts to do honour to his young protégé, had to be assisted upstairs and put to bed in a state decidedly mellow.
The next morning broke clear and frosty, without a cloud in the sky.
"What bitter mockery!" thought McGuilp, as he looked on the beaming face of Nature, and contrasted it with the feelings he bore hidden in his breast. "A day like yesterday would have been more in harmony with my soul." The sun actually smiled on his departure.
"Good morning, my young friend!" cried the cheery voice of Mr. Oldstone as they entered the breakfast room together; "it is a fine day for you."
Our artist nodded assent, and having shaken hands with all the members in turn, seated himself at the breakfast table, and tried to keep up a cheerful appearance, but his smile was hollow, and his face was pale.
"I wish you would let me give you a little opening medicine, Mr. McGuilp," broke in Dr. Bleedem, in the midst of a lull in the conversation; "it would soon set you to rights."
Our artist persisted that hewasall right, and required nothing.
"H'm, h'm," muttered the doctor to himself with a shake of the head, as much as to say, "You don't foolme."
Conversation then took a general turn, and our artist was allowed to finish his meal unmolested.
Breakfast was hardly concluded when a horn was heard in the distance. "There's the stage!" cried one of the members.
"'The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,'" quoted Mr. Blackdeed from his great poet; but the quotation fell flat on the ears of our artist, who had grown a shade paler.
"I am quite sure, Mr. McGuilp," went on the irrepressible Doctor Bleedem, "that if you were to follow my advice——"
"There, that's enough, Bleedem. Leave the boy alone," broke in Mr. Oldstone. "Here comes the stage. God bless you, my boy. Take an old man's blessing with you. I know I shan't see you again this side of Time. I'm getting old; I know it; I feel it. But write me as soon as you get to Rome to say you have arrived safely; and here is a letter to my old friend Rustcoin, which please give him with your own hands when you see him. There, good-bye, good-bye." Here the kind old antiquary mopped his eyes, gave our artist a fatherly pat on the back, and followed him to the door.
"Good-bye, sir, and I hope we shall meet again." This was all our artist could find to say.
The coach had now driven up, and McGuilp had to undergo once more the ordeal of shaking hands. This was rather a trial, for although there could be no doubt as to the sincerity of the regret that each member felt at his departure, and the cordiality of their good wishes, yet there was one thought alone that now occupied his mind, viz., that of tearing himself away from his fair model.
Whether the members guessed this, and out of bare humanity wished to give him a chance to say a few words alone with his lady-love, we know not; but, having wished their guest God-speed, they left him, and surrounded the coach. Some of them patted the smoking horses; one had a word with the driver; others seemed to scrutinise the travellers and the vehicle. Our host and hostess stood at the door of the inn, and wished their late guest a happy journey and a speedy return, to which our artist responded by a hearty shake of the hand and a few appropriate words.
The landlord was then called off to serve the driver with a mug of ale, but before he went he called out to his daughter, who was hiding herself behind her mother in the passage, "Now, then, Helen, my girl, the gentleman is going, and wants to bid you good-bye."
Helen now came forward, pale and trembling, while Dame Hearty, perhaps guessing the state of things, prudently retired, thus leaving the young couple to say a word to each other in private.
"Good-bye, Helen, my girl, and may God blessyou," was all our artist could trust himself to say at the last; but his sad glance and the tender squeeze he gave her dimpled hand spoke volumes.
"Good-bye, sir," faltered the child, now choking with sobs; "good-bye, and may you be happy." Then breaking down altogether, she rushed inside and was seen no more. Our artist looked after her for a moment as if dazed.
"Now, then, sir," cried the driver, "come along if you're coming; we're off."
McGuilp, thus roused, threw his cloak around him, pressed his hat over his eyes, and hastily mounted. Crack went the whip, off went the horses, and our artist was swiftly borne from the scene where he had passed so many happy hours, midst cheering and waving of hats, to which he graciously, but with an aching heart, responded. He was now alone with his own thoughts, and barely glancing at the shifting wintry landscape as it flashed passed him, was in no humour to exchange commonplaces with his fellow passengers. Here we will leave him for the present, and return to our inn.
The members of the club, with the exception of our antiquary, who had remained behind to finish a letter for the post, had resolved upon a woodland ramble, and were chatting lightly by the way.
"Yes, yes; there is no doubt about the poor lad being hard hit," said one. "I noticed it from the first."
"So did I," put in another. "In good time he bolted, for these sort of things never end well when allowed to go on ahead."
"Of course, marrying her would be out of the question altogether, looking at it from any point of view," remarked a third; "besides, there's her age. Why, she's a mere child."
"True," observed a fourth, "and even supposing her to have been of a marriageable age, he, being but a struggling artist, wholly dependent on his profession, and doomed to eke out a precarious living by the sale of his pictures, what else but misery could there be in store for either of them by such a union?"
But here we will leave them to continue their ramble and their gossip.
It has been stated above that our antiquary had remained behind to finish a letter. Having waved his last adieus to his young protégé, and waited till the coach had disappeared in the distance, he returned to the breakfast room with a sigh, muttering to himself, "Poor boy! poor boy!" He then collected his writing materials, but the breakfast things had not yet been cleared away.
Presently Helen entered, and proceeded to clear the table. Her face was pale, but calm; her eyes downcast. Our antiquary appeared not to notice her overmuch, but was secretly scanning her countenance. At length, when the table was quite clear, and Helen returned with a fresh log for the fire, he slowly advanced towards her, and placing his right hand on her head and his left on her right shoulder, whilst he toyed for a moment with her bright curls, he remained for somemoments in silence. The action was that of one invoking a blessing. Then seizing her right hand in both of his, and raising it to his breast, he gave it a gentle squeeze; then dropped it and turned away, still without a word.
Now, poor Helen's heart was full to overflowing, in spite of her outwardly calm demeanour. She was in possession of a weighty secret, which seemed too heavy for her to bear alone. Yet who was there to share it with her? She had no friend of her own age to whom she could open her heart and into whose sympathetic ears she could pour forth her woes. Her parents, much as she loved and respected them, did not seem to her to be the sort of people likely to give her that sympathy she yearned for. They would laugh at her, reprove her perhaps, and tell her roughly to get all that rubbish out of her head at once, etc. Not a soul had she in the world to whom she could cling, or from whom she could expect one ray of comfort. As to her secret being discovered by the other members of the club, this she dreaded most of all. She could imagine their banter, their coldness, or their sneers. Dr. Bleedem, too, who would prescribe her physic, and promise to make her all right again, provided she followed his course of treatment.
Love is by nature reticent, and not willing to make its secret common property. Rather than divulge its sacred feelings to the first light-hearted outsider it will prefer—oh, how infinitely!—to bear its own burden alone—aye, if need be, even to the grave.
Never before in all her life did Helen need a friend and comforter as she did now, when, lo, in the very nick of time, there came to her this kindly old man whom she had known from her earliest childhood, who had dandled her on his knee, and never passed her without a kind word. He, who seemed to have read her heart, now came forward with his silent blessing, like an angel sent from Heaven to comfort her. This was just what she needed. This mute expression of sympathy from someone whom she felt could understand her. She construed his silence thus: "There, there, my pretty child; we understand each other, don't we? You see, I've guessed your secret, and you may be sure that it will be safe in my keeping. I am not surprised. These things are common to youth, and very hard to bear for the time, but take comfort. Everything has its day. This, too, will pass in time. Cheer up; try and forget it. What! you can't? Oh, yes you will—not all at once—no; but take courage. This is your first great grief; but the world is full of trials, and we are sent here on purpose to bear them. No one escapes them altogether; but rest assured that you will always find a friend and comforter in Obadiah Oldstone."
This, and much more, did the child understand by the antiquary's silent magnetic touch. Her heart overflowed with gratitude, and she was unable longer to control herself, but, bursting into the most passionate sobs, she covered her face with her hands and was making for the door when Oldstone called her back.
A Spanish proverb says, "He who loves you will make you weep." Helen had proved the truth of this adage.
"Come, my girl," said Oldstone; "am I such an ogre that I need scare you? Come to an old man, and pour forth all its pretty griefs. We used to be such friends, you know. Did you think I didn't guess your secret all along? We old men of the world have sharp eyes, and very little escapes us. Well, well; I am not surprised, you know. The young man who left this morning was comely, and a gentleman, besides a man of talent and resources. It is not difficult to understand how a young and susceptible child like yourself, having never seen anyone else but old fogies like us, should suddenly take a fancy to a smart young——
"Oh! sir," broke in Helen, in agony, "he is gone—gone for ever, and Ididlove him so."
"Love! my child! why, at your age you oughtn't to know the meaning of the word."
"I didn't, sir, till quite lately. I had heard of it from others, and read about it in books; but, oh! Mr. Oldstone, I didn't know it was like this."
Here the poor distracted girl began beating her breast with her clenched fist, and gazing upwards with tearful eyes, in which there was an expression of the wildest despair, till the kind old man began to be seriously alarmed for her sanity.
"Hush! hush! my girl," he said in soothing tones; "don't give way so. Calm yourself."
"How can I be calm," screamed the girl, "when he has gone for ever, and I shall never, never see him again!"
"Well, my dear, and a good job too. The best thing that could happen to you both," said the antiquary, "though you won't think so now; but mark my word, Helen, this will pass over, and the sooner the better for you both, for these sort of cases lead to no good, you may depend upon it."
"Why, sir," asked the girl, "is it then a sin to love?"
"A sin, my precious!" exclaimed Oldstone; "no, I can't say that. But—but—there is always danger in it."
"What danger, sir?"
"Well, my dear, there are certain things that are very difficult to explain to one so young. When you grow older——"
"Oh! sir, why cannot you tell me now—you, who know the danger?"
"Yes, my dear, I should just think I did," observed the antiquary. "There are shoals and pitfalls that beset the young, and they would do well to listen to the voice of warning ere it is too late, and profit by the experience of others, rather than trouble themselves about thewhyand thewhereforeof everything."
"Then you mean to say that loveiswrong after all," observed Helen.
"Not as long as it remains love," replied Oldstone, "but people maymakeit so."
"How? I don't understand."
"Perhaps not, my dear. You have much to learn yet. I mean, peoplewilltalk, and you can't stop them. The world can only judge by appearances. Itmightmisjudge you. It might put a false construction on your conduct, however innocent."
"But that would be wrong, unjust, and cruel."
"Perhaps so, my dear. It very often is."
"Are the gentlemen of the club the world?"
"Yes, part of it."
"Would they tell stories about me?"
"If they thought they saw anything suspicious in your conduct."
Helen reflected for a moment and then said, "I don't know what they could find suspicious in my conduct."
"No, my pet, neither do I," answered the kind old man with a benevolent smile. "The fact is, there are so many people in the world who find other people's business more interesting than their own; and even when they are unable to find a flaw in their neighbour's character, they will make one. Therefore, avoid the appearance of evil."
"Still, I don't understand," began Helen.
"No, my dear, and what's more, I can't explain," observed the old man. "ButthisI can tell you. The brute world, in cases of love, exacts marriage as the hallmark of respectability. It can see nothing but harm in the love of two young pure souls, however platonic—I mean innocent. They look upon it asdangerous, to say the least, and the only way to satisfy them and avoid scandal is tomarry."
"I never thought about marrying," said Helen. "Cannot two persons love each other just the same without either thinking of marriage?"
"TheycouldI suppose, but the world would soon make it hot for them. They would have to pay for defying the world."
"Pay!"
"Yes, and dearly too. Pay for it by seeing the finger of scorn directed towards them—the cold shoulder of respectability and self-righteousness; by being forced to listen to vile gossip and scandalous reports; shunned by those far viler than themselves; bear up against the ribald jeers of the vile populace, till their lives become a burden to them, and they would finally be compelled to confess that they would have done better for their own peace and comfort if they had humoured the vile rabble andmarried."
"Does love without marriage mean all that?"
"I am afraid it does, my girl; I am afraid it does. At least, I wouldn't advise you to brave the world. It isn't worth it. If you can't marry, you had better not encourage love."
"I don't see that it matters to them if I love or if I don't," observed the girl.
"Neither do I, my dear," answered her counsellor, "and if people would mind their own business, the world would be happier."
"It seems so mean and paltry to be always prying into other people's affairs. I can't tell why they do it. I am sure I should never take the trouble. How is it, Mr. Oldstone?"
"My dear," replied the old man, "I can't tell you how these things are, but so they are."
At this juncture the voice of Dame Hearty was heard calling for her daughter. The door then opened, and the head of our hostess appeared.
"Come now, Helen," cried our worthy dame, rather petulantly, "I have been looking for you all over the house. You knew I was waiting for you in the kitchen."
"Don't blame her, mother," interceded the kind antiquary. "It is allmyfault. I have been detaining her perhaps over long, just for a friendly chat."