_Charolois and Branchimont_
ALTHOUGH the deepest shades of twilight had descended upon the broad
bosom of the valley, and the river might almost be recognised only
by its rushing sound, the walls and battlements of the castle of
Charolois, situate on one of the loftiest heights, still blazed in the
reflected radiance of the setting sun, and cast, as it were, a glance of
triumph at the opposing castle of Branchimont, that rose on the western
side of the valley, with its lofty turrets and its massy keep black and
sharply defined against the resplendent heaven.
Deadly was the hereditary feud between the powerful lords of these high
places--the Counts of Charolois and the Barons of Branchimont, but the
hostility which had been maintained for ages never perhaps raged with
more virulence than at this moment; since the only male heir of the
house of Charolois had been slain in a tournament by the late Baron of
Branchimont, and the distracted father had avenged his irreparable loss
in the life-blood of the involuntary murderer of his son.
Yet the pilgrim, who at this serene hour might rest upon his staff
and gaze on the surrounding scene, would hardly deem that the darkest
passions of our nature had selected this fair and silent spot for the
theatre of their havoc.
The sun set; the evening star, quivering and bright, rose over the dark
towers of Branchimont; from the opposite bank a musical bell summoned
the devout vassals of Charolois to a beautiful shrine, wherein was
deposited the heart of their late young lord, and which his father had
raised on a small and richly wooded promontory, distant about a mile
from his stern hold.
At the first chime on this lovely eve came forth a lovelier maiden from
the postern of Charolois--the Lady Imogene, the only remaining child of
the bereaved count, attended by her page, bearing her book of prayers.
She took her way along the undulating heights until she reached
the sanctuary. The altar was illumined; several groups were already
kneeling,--faces of fidelity well known to their adored lady; but as she
entered, a palmer, with his broad hat drawn over his face, and closely
muffled up in his cloak, dipped his hand at the same time with hers in
the fount of holy water placed at the entrance of of the shrine, and
pressed the beautiful fingers of the Lady Imogene. A blush, unperceived
by the kneeling votaries, rose to her cheek; but apparently such was her
self-control, or such her deep respect for the hallowed spot, that she
exhibited no other symptom of emotion, and, walking to the high altar,
was soon buried in her devotions.
The mass was celebrated--the vassals rose and retired. According to her
custom, the Lady Imogene yet remained, and knelt before the tomb of her
brother. A low whisper, occasionally sounding,-assured her that someone
was at the confessional; and soon the palmer, who was now shrived, knelt
at her side. ‘Lothair!’ muttered the lady, apparently at her prayers,
‘beloved Lothair, thou art too bold!’
‘Oh, Imogene! for thee what would I not venture?’ was the hushed reply.
‘For the sake of all our hopes, wild though they be, I counsel caution.’
‘Fear naught. The priest, flattered by my confession, is fairly duped.
Let me employ this golden moment to urge what I have before entreated.
Your father, Imogene, can never be appeased. Fly, then, my beloved! oh,
fly!’
‘Oh, my Lothair! it never can be. Alas! whither can we fly?’
‘Sweet love! I pray thee listen:--to Italy. At the court of my
cousin, the Duke of Milan, we shall be safe and happy. What care I
for Branchimont, and all its fortunes? And for that, my vassals are
no traitors. If ever the bright hour arrive when we may return in joy,
trust me, sweet love, my flag will still wave on my father’s walls.’
‘Oh, Lothair! why did we meet? Why, meeting, did we not hate each other
like our fated race? My heart is distracted. Can this misery be love?
Yet I adore thee------’
‘Lady!’ said the page, advancing, ‘the priest approaches.’
The Lady Imogene rose, and crossed herself before the altar.
‘To-morrow, at this hour,’ whispered Lothair.
The Lady Imogene nodded assent, and, leaning on her page, quitted the
shrine.
CHAPTER II.
_A Pert Page_
‘DEAREST Lady,’ said the young page, as they returned to the castle,
‘my heart misgives me. As we quitted the shrine, I observed Rufus, the
huntsman, slink into the adjoining wood.’ ‘Hah! he is my father’s most
devoted instrument: nor is there any bidding which he would hesitate to
execute--a most ruthless knave!’
‘And can see like a cat in the dark, too,’ observed young Theodore.
‘I never loved that man, even in my cradle,’ said the Lady Imogene;
‘though he can fawn, too. Did he indeed avoid us?’
‘Indeed I thought so, madam.’
‘Ah! my Theodore, we have no friend but you, and you are but a little
page.’
‘I would I were a stout knight, lady, and I would fight for you.’
‘I warrant you,’ said Imogene; ‘you have a bold heart, little Theodore,
and a kind one. O holy Virgin. I pray thee guard in all perils my
bright-eyed Lothair!’
‘Lord Branchimont is the finest knight I ever set eyes upon,’ said
Theodore. ‘I would I were his squire.’
‘Thou shalt be his squire, too, little Theodore, if all goes well.’
‘Oh! glorious day, when I shall wear a sword instead of a scarf! Shall I
indeed be his squire, lady sweet?’
‘Indeed I think thou wilt make a very proper squire.’
‘I would I were a knight like Lord Branchimont; as tall as a lance, and
as strong as a lion; and such a fine beard too!’
‘It is indeed a beard, Theodore,’ said the Lady Imogene. ‘When wilt thou
have one like it?’
‘Another summer, perchance,’ said Theodore, passing his small palm
musingly over his smooth chin.
‘Another summer!’ said the Lady Imogene, laughing; ‘why, I may as soon
hope to have a beard myself.’
‘I hope you will have Lord Branchimont’s,’ said the page.
‘Amen!’ responded the lady.
CHAPTER III.
_Love’s Messenger_
THE apprehensions of the little Theodore proved to be too well founded.
On the morning after the meeting of Lady Imogene with Lord Branchimont
at the shrine of Charolois, she was summoned to the presence of her
father, and, after having been loaded with every species of reproach and
invective for her clandestine meeting with their hereditary foe, she was
confined to a chamber in one of the loftiest towers of the castle, which
she was never permitted to quit, except to walk in a long gloomy gallery
with an old female servant remarkable for the acerbity of her mind and
manners. Her page escaped punishment by flight; and her only resource
and amusement was her mandolin.
The tower in which the Lady Imogene was imprisoned sprang out of a steep
so precipitous that the position was considered impregnable. She was
therefore permitted to open her lattice, which was not even barred. The
landscape before her, which was picturesque and richly wooded, consisted
of the en-closed chase of Charolois; but her jailers had taken due care
that her chamber should not command a view of the castle of Branchimont.
The valley and all its moving life were indeed entirely shut out from
her. Often the day vanished without a human being appearing in sight.
Very unhappy was the Lady Imo-gene, gazing on the silent woods, or
pouring forth her passion over her lonely lute.
A miserable week had nearly elapsed. It was noon; the Lady Imogene was
seated alone in her chamber, leaning her head upon her hand in thought,
and dreaming of her Lothair, when a fluttering noise suddenly roused
her, and, looking up, she beheld, to her astonishment, perched on the
high back of a chair, a beautiful bird-a pigeon whiter than snow, with
an azure beak, and eyes blazing with a thousand shifting tints. Not
alarmed was the beautiful bird when the Lady Imogene gently approached
it; but it looked up to her with eyes of intelligent tenderness, and
flapped with some earnestness its pure and sparkling plume. The Lady
Imogene smiled with marvelling pleasure, for the first time since her
captivity; and putting forth her hand, which was even whiter than
the wing, she patted the bright neck of the glad stranger, and gently
stroked its soft plumage.
‘Heaven hath sent me a friend,’ exclaimed the beautiful Imogene; ‘Ah!
what--what is this?’
‘Didst thou call, Lady Imogene?’ inquired the harsh voice of acid
Martha, whom the exclamation of her mistress had summoned to the door.
‘Nothing--nothing--I want nothing,’ quickly answered Imogene, as she
seized the bird with her hand, and, pressing it to her bosom, answered
Martha over her shoulder. ‘Did she see thee, my treasure?’ continued the
agitated Imogene, ‘Oh! did she see thee, my joy? Methinks we were
not discovered.’ So saying, and tripping along on the lightest step
imaginable, the captive secured the door; then bringing forth the bird
from its sweet shelter, she produced a letter, which she had suddenly
detected to be fastened under its left wing, and which she had
perceived, in an instant, to be written by Lord Branchimont.
Her sight was dizzy, her cheek pale, her breath seemed to have deserted
her. She looked up to heaven, she looked down upon the letter, and then
she covered it with a thousand kisses; then, making a vigorous effort to
collect herself, she read its strange and sweet contents:--
_‘Lothair to Imogene_.
‘Soul of my existence! Mignon, in whom you may place implicit trust, has
promised me to bear you this sign of my love. Oh, I love you, Imogene! I
love you more even than this bird can the beautiful sky! Kiss the dove
a thousand times, that I may steal the kisses again from his neck, and
catch, even at this distance, your fragrant breath. My beloved, I am
planning your freedom and our happiness. Each day Mignon shall come to
tell you how we speed; each day shall he bring back some testimony of
your fidelity to your own
Lothair.’
It was read--it was read with gushing and fast-flowing tears--tears of
wild joy. A thousand times, ay, a thousand times, Imogene embraced the
faithful Mignon; nor could she indeed have ever again parted with him,
had she not remembered that all this time her Lothair was anxiously
awaiting the return of his messenger. So she tore a leaf from her
tablets and inscribed her devotion; then, fastening it with care under
the wing, she bore Mignon to the window, and, bestowing upon him a last
embrace, permitted him to extend his beautiful wings and launch into the
air.
Bright in the sun glanced the white bird as it darted into the deep-blue
sky. Imogene watched it until the sparkling form changed into a dusky
shade, and the dusky shade vanished into the blending distance.
CHAPTER IV.
_A Cruel Dart_
IT WAS now a principal object with the fair captive of Charolois, that
her unsympathising attendant should enter her chamber as little as
possible, and only at seasons when there was no chance of a visit
from Mignon. Faithful was the beautiful bird in these daily visits of
consolation; and by his assistance, the correspondence with Lothair
respecting her escape was actively maintained. A thousand plans were
formed by the sanguine lovers-a thousand plans were canvassed, and then
decided to be impracticable. One day, Martha was to be bribed; another,
young Theodore was to re-enter the castle disguised as a girl, and
become, by some contrivance, her attendant; but reflection ever proved
that these were as wild as lovers’ plans are wont to be; and another
week stole away without anything being settled. Yet this second week was
not so desolate as the first. On the contrary, it was full of exciting
hope; and each day to hear that Lothair still adored her, and each day
to be enabled to breathe back to him her own adoration, solaced the
hours of her captivity. But Fate, that will often frown upon the
fortunes of true love, decided that this sweet source of consolation
should flow on no longer. Rufus, the huntsman, who was ever prowling
about, and who at all times had a terribly quick eye for a bird, one day
observed the carrier-pigeon sallying forth from the window of the tower.
His practised sense instantly assured him that the bird was trained, and
he resolved to watch its course.
‘Hah, hah!’ said Rufus, the huntsman, ‘is Branchimont thy dovecot?
Methinks, my little rover, thou bearest news I long to read.’
Another and another day passed, and again and again Rufus observed the
visits of Mignon; so, taking his cross-bow one fair morning, ere the dew
had left the flowers, he wandered forth in the direction of Branchimont.
True to his mission, Mignon soon appears, skimming along the sky.
Beautiful, beautiful bird! Fond, faithful messenger of love! Who can
doubt that thou well comprehendest the kindly purpose of thy consoling
visits! Thou bringest joy to the unhappy, and hope to the despairing!
She shall kiss thee, bright Mignon! Yes! an embrace from lips sweeter
than the scented dawn in which thou revelest, shall repay thee for all
thy fidelity! And already the Lady Imogene is at her post, gazing upon
the unclouded sky, and straining her beautiful eyes, as it were, to
anticipate the slight and gladsome form, whose first presence ever makes
her heart tremble with a host of wild and conflicting emotions.
Ah! through the air an arrow from a bow that never erred--an arrow
swifter than thy swiftest flight, Mignon, whizzes with fell intent. The
snake that darts upon its unconscious prey less fleet and fatal!
It touches thy form--it transfixes thy beautiful breast! Was there no
good spirit, then, to save thee, thou hope of the hopeless? Alas,
alas! the blood gushes from thy breast, and from thine azure beak! Thy
transcendent eye grows dim--all is over! The carrier-pigeon falls to the
earth!
CHAPTER V.
_Another Message_
A DAY without hearing from Lothair was madness; and, indeed, when hour
after heavy hour rolled away without the appearance of Mignon, and
the Lady Imogene found herself gazing upon the vanishing twilight,
she became nearly frantic with disappointment and terror. While light
remained, an indefinite hope maintained her; but when it was indeed
night, and nothing but the outline of the surrounding hills was
perceptible, she could no longer restrain herself; and, bursting into
hysteric tears, she threw herself upon the floor of her chamber. Were
they discovered? Had Lothair forgotten her? Wearied with fruitless
efforts, had he left her to her miserable, her solitary fate? There was
a slight sound--something seemed to have dropped. She looked up. At her
side she beheld a letter, which, wrapped round a stone, had been thrown
in at the window. She started up in an ecstasy of joy. She cursed
herself for doubting for an instant the fidelity of her lover! She tore
open the letter; but so great was her emotion that some minutes elapsed
before she could decipher its contents. At length she learned that,
on the ensuing eve, Lothair and Theodore, disguised as huntsmen of
Charolois, would contrive to meet in safety beneath her window, and for
the rest she must dare to descend. It was a bold, a very perilous plan.
It was the project of desperation. But there are moments in life when
desperation becomes success. Nor was the spirit of the Lady Imogene one
that would easily quail. Hers was a true woman’s heart; and she could
venture everything for love. She examined the steep; she cast a rapid
glance at the means of making the descent: her shawls, her clothes, the
hangings of her bed--here were resources--here was hope!
Full of these thoughts, some time elapsed before she was struck at the
unusual mode in which the communication reached her. Where was Mignon?
But the handwriting was the handwriting of Lothair. That she could not
mistake. She might, however, have observed that the characters were
faint--that the paper had the appearance of being stained or washed;
but this she did not observe. She was sanguine--she was confident in the
wisdom of Lothair. She knelt before an image of the Virgin, and poured
forth her supplications for the success of their enterprise. And then,
exhausted by all the agitation of the day, the Lady Imogene sunk into a
deep repose.
CHAPTER VI.
_Flight and Discovery_
MORN came at length, but brought no Mignon. ‘He has his reasons,’
answered the Lady Imogene: ‘Lothair is never wrong. And soon, right
soon, I hope, we shall need no messenger.’ Oh, what a long, long day was
this, the last of her captivity! Will the night never come--that night
she had once so much dreaded? Sun, wilt thou never set? There is no
longer gladness in thy beams. The shadows, indeed, grow longer, and yet
thine orb is as high in heaven as if it were an everlasting noon!
The unceasing cry of the birds, once so consoling, now only made her
restless. She listened, and she listened, until at length the rosy
sky called forth their last thrilling chant, and the star of evening
summoned them to roost.
It was twilight: pacing her chamber, and praying to the Virgin, the
hours at length stole away. The chimes of the sanctuary told her that
it wanted but a quarter of an hour to midnight. Already she had formed
a rope of shawls: now she fastened it to the-lattice with all her force.
The bell struck twelve, and the Lady Imogene delivered herself to her
fate. Slowly and fearfully she descended, long suspended in the air,
until her feet at length touched a ledge of rock. Cautiously feeling her
footing, she now rested, and looked around her. She had descended about
twenty feet. The moon shone bright on the rest of the descent, which was
more rugged. It seemed not impracticable--she clambered down.
‘Hist! hist!’ said a familiar voice, ‘all is right, lady--but why did
you not answer us?’
‘Ah! Theodore, where is my Lothair?’
‘Lord Branchimont is shaded by the trees--give me thy hand, sweet lady.
Courage! all is right; but indeed you should have answered us.’
Imogene de Charolois is in the arms of Lothair de Branchimont.
‘We have no time for embraces,’ said Theodore; ‘the horses are ready.
The Virgin be praised, all is right. I would not go through such an
eight-and-forty hours again to be dubbed a knight on the spot. Have you
Mignon?’
‘Mignon, indeed! he has not visited me these two days.’
‘But my letter,’ said Lothair-’you received it?’
‘It was thrown in at my window,’ said the Lady Imogene.
‘My heart misgives me,’ said little Theodore. ‘Away! there is no time
to lose. Hist! I hear footsteps. This way, dear friends. Hist! a shout!
Fly! fly! Lord Branchimont, we are betrayed!’
And indeed from all quarters simultaneous sounds now rose, and torches
seemed suddenly to wave in all quarters. Imogene clung to the neck of
Lothair.
‘We will die together!’ she exclaimed, as she hid her face in his
breast.
Lord Branchimont placed himself against a tree, and drew his mighty
sword.
‘Seize him!’ shouted a voice, instantly recognised by Imogene; ‘seize
the robber!’ shouted her father.
‘At your peril!’ answered Lothair to his surrounding foes.
They stood at bay--an awful group! The father and his murdering minions,
alike fearful of encountering Branchimont and slaying their chieftain’s
daughter; the red and streaming torches blending with the silver
moonlight that fell full upon the fixed countenance of their entrapped
victim and the distracted form of his devoted mistress.
There was a dead, still pause. It was broken by the denouncing tone of
the father, ‘Cowards! do you fear a single arm? Strike him dead! spare
not the traitress!’
But still the vassals would not move; deep as was their feudal devotion,
they loved the Lady Imogene, and dared to disobey.
‘Let me, then, teach you your duty!’ exclaimed the exasperated father.
He advanced, but a wild shriek arrested his extended sword; and as thus
they stood, all alike prepared for combat, yet all motionless, an arrow
glanced over the shoulder of the Count and pierced Lord Branchimont to
the heart. His sword fell from his grasp, and he died without a groan.
Yes! the same bow that had for ever arrested the airy course of Mignon,
had now, as fatally and as suddenly, terminated the career of the master
of the carrier-pigeon. Vile Rufus, the huntsman, the murderous aim was
thine!
CHAPTER VII.
_The Dove Returns to Imogene_
THE bell of the shrine of Charolois is again sounding; but how different
its tone from the musical and inspiring chime that summoned the weary
vassals to their grateful vespers! The bell of the shrine of Charolois
is again sounding. Alas! it tolls a gloomy knell. Oh! valley of sweet
waters, still are thy skies as pure as when she wandered by thy banks
and mused over her beloved! Still sets thy glowing sun; and quivering
and bright, like the ascending soul of a hero, still Hesperus rises from
thy dying glory! But she, the maiden fairer than the fairest eve--no
more shall her light step trip among the fragrance of its flowers; no
more shall her lighter voice emulate the music of thy melodious birds.
Oh, yes! she is dead--the beautiful Imogene is dead! Three days of
misery heralded her decease. But comfort is there in all things; for
the good priest who had often administered consolation to his unhappy
mistress over her brother’s tomb, and who knelt by the side of her dying
couch, assured many a sorrowful vassal, and many a sympathising pilgrim
who loved to listen to the mournful tale, that her death was indeed a
beatitude; for he did not doubt, from the distracted expressions that
occasionally caught his ear, that the Holy Spirit, in that material form
he most loves to honour, to wit, the semblance of a pure white dove,
often solaced by his presence the last hours of Imogene de Charolois!
THE CONSUL’S DAUGHTER
CHAPTER I.
_Henrietta_
AT ONE of the most beautiful ports in the Mediterranean Major Ponsonby
held the office of British Consul. The Parliamentary interest of the
noble family with which he was connected had obtained for him this
office, after serving his country, with no slight distinction, during
the glorious war of the Peninsula. Major Ponsonby was a widower, and his
family consisted of an only daughter, Henrietta, who was a child of
very tender years when he first obtained his appointment, but who had
completed her eighteenth year at the period, memorable in her life,
which these pages attempt to commemorate. A girl of singular beauty
was Henrietta Ponsonby, but not remarkable merely for her beauty. Her
father, a very accomplished gentleman, had himself superintended her
education with equal care and interest. In their beautiful solitude,
for they enjoyed the advantage of very little society save that of
those passing travellers who occasionally claimed his protection and
hospitality, the chief, and certainly the most engaging pursuit of Major
Ponsonby, had been to assist the development of the lively talents of
his daughter, and to watch with delight, not unattended with anxiety,
the formation of her ardent and imaginative character: he had himself
imparted to her a skilful practice in those fine arts in which he
himself excelled, and a knowledge of those exquisite languages which
he himself not only spoke with facility, but with whose rich and
interesting literature he was intimately acquainted. He was careful,
also, that, although almost an alien from her native country, she should
not be ignorant of the progress of its mind; and no inconsiderable
portion of his income had of late years been expended in importing from
England the productions of those eminent writers of which we are justly
as proud as of the heroes under whose flag he had himself conquered in
Portugal and Spain.
The progress of the daughter amply repaid the father for his care, and
rewarded him for his solicitude: from the fond child of his affections
she had become the cherished companion of his society: her lively fancy
and agreeable conversation prevented solitude from degenerating into
loneliness: she diffused over their happy home that indefinable charm,
that spell of unceasing, yet soothing excitement, with which the
constant presence of an amiable, a lovely and accomplished woman
can alone imbue existence; without which life, indeed, under any
circumstances, is very dreary; and with which life, indeed, under any
circumstances, is never desperate.
There were moments, perhaps, when Major Ponsonby, who was not altogether
inexperienced in the great world, might sigh, that one so eminently
qualified as his daughter to shine even amid its splendour, should be
destined to a career so obscure as that which necessarily attended
the daughter of a Consul in a distant country. It sometimes cost the
father’s heart a pang that his fair and fragrant flower should blush
unseen, and waste its perfume even in their lovely wilderness; and then,
with all a father’s pride, and under all the influence of that worldly
ambition from which men are never free, he would form plans by which she
might visit, and visit with advantage, her native country. All the noble
cousins were thought over, under whose distinguished patronage she might
enter that great and distant world she was so capable of adorning; and
more than once he had endeavoured to intimate to Henrietta that it might
be better for them both that they should for a season part: but the
Consul’s daughter shrunk from these whispers as some beautiful tree from
the murmurs of a rising storm. She could not conceive existence without
her father--the father under whose breath and sight she had ever lived
and flourished--the father to whom she was indebted, not only for
existence, but all the attributes that made life so pleasant; her sire,
her tutor, her constant company, her dear, dear friend. To part from
him, even though but for a season, and to gain splendour, appeared to
her pure, yet lively imagination, the most fatal of fortunes; a terrible
destiny--an awful dispensation. They had never parted, scarcely for an
hour; once, indeed, he had been absent for three days; he had sailed
with the fleet on public business to a neighbouring port; he had
been obliged to leave his daughter, and the daughter remembered those
terrible three days like a frightful dream, the recollection of which
made her shudder.
Major Ponsonby had inherited no patrimony--he possessed only the small
income derived from his office, and a slender pension, which rewarded
many wounds; but, in the pleasant place in which their lot was cast,
these moderate means obtained for them not merely the necessaries, but
all the luxuries of life. They inhabited in the town a palace worthy
of the high, though extinct nobility, whose portraits and statues
lined their lofty saloons, and filled their long corridors and graceful
galleries; and about three miles from the town, on a gentle ascent
facing the ocean, and embowered in groves of orange and olive trees, the
fanciful garden enclosed in a thick wall of Indian fig and blooming
aloes, was a most delicate casino, rented at a rate for which a garret
may not be hired in England; but, indeed, a paradise. Of this pavilion
Miss Ponsonby was the mistress; and here she lived amid fruit and
flowers, surrounded by her birds: and here she might be often seen at
sunset glancing amid its beauties, with an eye as brilliant, and a step
as airy, as the bright gazelle that ever glided or bounded at her side.