“The sea! the sea!” Alvar sprung to his feet, and, clasped in each

other’s arms, he and Almah gazed beneath. Not a breath of wind stirred,

yet the river (which being at that point four miles wide appeared like

the element they had termed it) tossed and heaved as impelled by a

mighty storm—and on it came, roaring, foaming tumbling, as if every

bound were loosed; on, over the land to the very heart of the devoted

city, sweeping off hundreds in its course, and retiring with such

velocity, and so far beyond its natural banks, that vessels were left

dry which had five minutes before ridden in water seven fathoms deep.

Again and again this phenomenon took place; the vessels in the river, at

the same instant, whirled round and round with frightful rapidity, and

smaller boats dashed upwards, falling back to disappear beneath the

booming waters. As if chained to the spot where they stood, fascinated

by this very horror, Alvar and his wife yet gazed; their glance fixed on

the new marble quay, where thousands and thousands of the fugitives had

congregated, fixed, as if unconsciously foreboding what was to befall.

Again the tide rushed in—on, on, over the massive ruins, heaving,

raging, swelling, as a living thing; and at the same instant the quay

and its vast burthen of humanity sunk within an abyss of boiling waters,

into which the innumerable boats around were alike impelled, leaving not

a trace, even when the angry waters returned to their channel, suddenly

as they had left it, to mark what had been.

“’Twas the voice of God impelled me hither, rather than pausing beside

those fatal banks. Almah, my best beloved, bear up yet a brief while

more—He will spare and save us as He hath done now. Merciful Providence!

Behold another wrathful element threatens to swallow up all of life and

property which yet remains. Great God, this is terrible!”

And terrible it was: from three several parts of the ruined city huge

fires suddenly blazed up, hissing, crackling, ascending as clear columns

of liquid flame; up against the pitchy darkness, infusing it with

tenfold horror—spreading on every side—consuming all of wood and wall

which the earth and water had left unscathed; wreathing its serpent-like

folds in and out the ruins, forming strange and terribly beautiful

shapes of glowing colouring; fascinating the eye with admiration, yet

bidding the blood chill and the flesh creep. Fresh cries and shouts had

marked its rise and progress; but, aghast and stupefied, those who yet

survived made no effort to check its way, and on every side it spread,

forming lanes and squares of glowing red, flinging its lurid glare so

vividly around, that even those on the distant heights could see to read

by it; and fearful was the scene that awful light revealed. Now, for the

first time, could Alvar trace the full extent of destruction which had

befallen. That glorious city, which a few brief hours previous lay

reposing in its gorgeous sunlight—mighty in its palaces and towers—in

its churches, convents, theatres, magazines, and dwellings—rich in its

numberless artizans and stores—lay perished and prostrate as the grim

spectre of long ages past, save that the fearful groups yet passing to

and fro, or huddled in kneeling and standing masses, some bathed in the

red glare of the increasing fires, others black and shapeless—save when

a sudden flame flashed on them, disclosing what they were—revealed a

strange and horrible PRESENT, yet lingering amid what seemed the shadows

of a fearful PAST. Nor was the convulsion of nature yet at an end;—the

earth still rocked and heaved at intervals, often impelling the hissing

flames more strongly and devouringly forward, and by tossing the masses

of burning ruin to and fro, gave them the semblance of a sea of flame.

The ocean itself, too, yet rose and sunk, and rose again; vessels were

torn from their cables, anchors wrenched from their soundings and hurled

in the air—while the warring waters, the muttering thunders, the

crackling flames, formed a combination of sounds which, even without

their dread adjuncts of human agony and terror, were all-sufficient to

freeze the very life-blood, and banish every sense and feeling, save

that of stupefying dread.

But human love, and superhuman faith, saved from the stagnating horror.

The conviction that the God of his fathers was present with him, and

would save him and Almah to the end, never left him for an instant, but

urged him to exertions which, had he not had this all-supporting faith,

he would himself have deemed impossible. And his faith spake truth. The

God of infinite mercy, who had stretched out His own right hand to save,

and marked the impotence of the wrath and cruelty of man, was with him

still, and, despite of the horrors yet lingering round them, despite of

the varied trials, fatigues, and privations attendant on their rapid

flight, led them to life and joy, and bade them stand forth the

witnesses and proclaimers of His unfailing love, His everlasting

providence!

With the great earthquake of Lisbon, the commencement of which our

preceding pages have faintly endeavoured to portray, and its terrible

effects on four millions of square miles, our tale has no further

connection. The third day brought our poor fugitives to Badajoz, where

Alvar’s property had been secured. They tarried there only long enough

to learn the blessed tidings of Hassan Ben Ahmed’s safe arrival in

England with their child; that his faithfulness, in conjunction with

that of their agent in Spain, had already safely transmitted the bulk of

their property to the English funds; and to obtain Ben Ahmed’s address,

forward tidings of their providential escape to him, and proceed on

their journey.

An anxious but not a prolonged interval enabled them to accomplish it

safely, and once more did the doubly-rescued press their precious boy to

their yearning hearts, and feel that conjugal and parental love burned,

if it could be, the dearer, brighter, more unspeakably precious, from

the dangers they had passed; and not human love alone. The veil of

secrecy was removed, they were in a land whose merciful and liberal

government granted to the exile and the wanderer a home of peace and

rest, where they might worship the God of Israel according to the law he

gave; and in hearts like those of Alvar and his Almah, prosperity could

have no power to extinguish or deaden the religion of love and faith

which adversity had engendered.

The appearance of old Gonzalos and his family in England, a short time

after Alvar’s arrival there, removed their last remaining anxiety, and

gave them increased cause for thankfulness. Not a member of the

merchant’s family, and more wonderful still, not a portion of his

property, had been lost amid the universal ruin; and to this very day,

his descendants recall his providential preservation by giving, on every

returning anniversary of that awful day, certain articles of clothing to

a limited number of male and female poor.[2]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Red Rose Villa, and its Inhabitants._

A SKETCH.

ON the outskirts of a certain country town, which for euphony we will

call Briarstone, from its being situated in one of the most picturesque

but least known parts of old England, and almost imbedded in hills and

lanes, where the wood or briar-rose grew redundantly, was a certain

castellated-looking mansion, glowing with red bricks and bright blue

slates, storied with large-paned windows, framed with such fresh green,

that it would seem as if the painter’s brush could never have been

absent above a month together. The entrance-door, of most aristocratic

dimensions, was of bright glazed yellow, never sullied by dust or

dimness. Below the portentous-looking circular knocker (Briarstone was

yet in happy ignorance of the _un_-aristocracy of knockers) was a large

brass plate, glittering in the sunshine like burning gold, and bearing

thereon, in large and dignified letters, as if the name was of such

importance in itself that it required no engraver’s ornament, the

monosyllables—portentous in their very brevity—MISS BROWN. The gravel

walk which led up to the imposing flight of steps (white as the most

scrupulous care could make them) that the yellow door surmounted, was

kept so particularly neat, that the very birds feared to alight upon it,

lest they should be swept off for some intrusive leaf or twig, quicker

even than their voluntary flight. It was impossible to look upon the

exterior of the mansion without being impressed with a grand idea of its

as yet invisible interior.

Standing, as Red Rose Villa did, in a spacious garden, full ten minutes’

walk out of the town, it was marvellous how the daily events of this

said town became known within its walls, as if a train had been laid—a

sort of electrical conductor—to the interior of every dwelling which

conveyed back to its starting-place all the information required.

However invisible the _means_ of communication, the _effects_ were

certain: for Miss Brown knew everything, even before the persons

affected knew it themselves.

Now, Miss Brown, though her dignified name appeared on the brass plate

solus, was not the sole inmate of this stately mansion by any means. She

was, in fact, one of a multitude; for there were times when the

capacious walls of Red Rose Villa enshrined no fewer than fifty living

souls. The truth must out on our paper, though Miss Brown would have

been shocked almost to annihilation had any one suggested the propriety

of permitting it to speak on her cherished brass plate—Miss Brown kept a

first-rate finishing academy for young ladies of the first families, and

a boarding house for all who needed kind friends, cheerful lodgings, and

comfortable board. Then she had an English, and a French, and an

Italian, and of course a German teacher—all exemplary young women.

Masters were rarely admitted, it being a gross impropriety in Miss

Brown’s educational code to accustom young ladies to male tuition.

One indeed there was, a Mr. Gilbert Givevoice; but then Miss Brown and

his lamented mother had been such friends, that at one time they had

thought of becoming another Miss Ponsonby and Lady Eleanor Butler, and

causing a sensation by retiring to live on friendship; but,

unfortunately, before this could be carried into effect, a Mr. Givevoice

appeared, and Miss Brown was left to mourn the inconsistency of those

professions which had declared friendship all-sufficient for life. The

offence was not forgiven for many years; but when Mrs. Givevoice was

left a widow, Miss Brown generously relented, and Gilbert showing some

musical talent (magnified by the Briarstonians into marvellous genius),

he was gradually installed as music-master general, and aid

extraordinary in all the concerns of Red Rose Villa.

Besides five-and-twenty pupils, a dozen boarders, four teachers, and

half a dozen servants, Miss Brown was blessed with two brothers and two

sisters, to all of whom she had performed most inimitably a mother’s

part. Many marvelled that such grown men as Mr. Gustavus and Mr.

Adolphus Brown should so contentedly succumb to female domination, and

not seek homes for themselves; but petticoat government was so supreme

in Red Rose Villa, that even the hint of such a thing would have been

far too great a stretch of masculine audacity; and, in fact, they were

very well contented where they were. Mr. Adolphus was a banker’s clerk,

and was only known at home as going to sleep upon the sofa. Mr. Gustavus

had been (according to his own account), at one time, a land-surveyor,

at another, an architect, and then an engraver; but he was, he declared,

one of the unlucky ones, and so quietly sunk down in his sister’s

establishment, as merely a domestic man, who could set his hand to

anything. He taught writing and arithmetic, and oriental tinting, and

lead tinting, and a variety of finishing accomplishments; and copied

music, and invented patterns for all the young lady-boarders who were

worth something more than smiles. Mr. Adolphus was always asleep. Mr.

Gustavus never seemed to sleep at all; thin as a lath, he was here,

there, and everywhere, busying himself in everybody’s concerns, but

never succeeding in forwarding his own.

Miss Brown, portly and majestic in carriage as of imperturbable gravity

in look, possessed a fund of high-sounding, choice-worded,

conversational powers—that is to say, her speech, once entered upon,

flowed on in such a continuous gently-murmuring stream, that to break or

interrupt it by a rejoinder was utterly impossible. The voice was as

imperturbable and unvarying as the face. She was wondrously learned;

schooled in the lore of the ancient, and wise in the ways of the modern

world. No scheme could be set afloat at Briarstone unless Miss Brown had

been consulted; no shop was the fashion unless Miss Brown had

patronised; no case of distress worth relieving, unless forwarded by

Miss Brown; and, in sober truth, Miss Brown was benevolent—was

generous—did the kindest deeds imaginable; but as she never left her

pinnacle of ice to look into human hearts, lest their warmth should thaw

hers, she received neither the regard nor esteem which her sterling

qualities in reality merited. Miss Wilhelmina Brown was her

antipodes—all sweetness—all graciousness—all fascination! Miss Brown was

learned, and not accomplished; Miss Wilhelmina accomplished, and not

learned. Miss Brown was all sobriety, Miss Wilhelmina all smiles. At

thirty, she learnt the harp; at five-and-thirty the guitar; at forty,

she discovered she had a voice, and could sing inimitably—all the

Briarstone _soirées_ said so, and of course it must be true. Whole

scenes from the French tragedians—stanzas from Dante—long lines from

Schiller—Miss Wilhelmina would recite with such pathos, such expression,

there was no occasion to understand the languages to enter into such

charming recitations. English poetry was not ventured upon: Byron and

Moore _were_ charming, certainly; but then her sister’s responsible

position—she dared not admit them upon the drawing-room tables of Red

Rose Villa—she could only indulge herself strictly in private.

Miss Angelica, the youngest of the family by some years, was different

to either sister. Nature had not been very bountiful in the powers of

the brain, but, in their stead, had endowed her with powers of

housewifery in no common degree. She managed all the domestic concerns

of this human Noah’s ark as no one else could. From morning till night

she was moving; so overlooking every department, that at the farthest

sound of her footsteps (none of the lightest, for Miss Angelica was as

short and stout as Miss Wilhelmina was tall and languidly slim) every

brush and broom seemed endowed with double velocity. Jingle, jingle,

went a huge bunch of keys—pat, pat, her substantial feet, from kitchen

to attic—scullery to roof. Even if she sat down, her fingers continued

the same perpetual motion, in the creation of sundry caps, bonnets,

head-dresses—all the paraphernalia of female elegancies. No one dressed

so becomingly as the Misses Brown; and Miss Angelica was considered the

originator and inventor of fashions which all Briarstone followed.

The pupils were like most misses in their teens. Originality of

character always succumbed to system in Red Rose Villa. Miss Brown’s was

a finishing academy for manners as well as morals; and so in the weekly

_soirées_ of her mansion, the young ladies, by alternate eights,

appeared in the drawing-room, dressed very becomingly, to sit down and

smile, and answer in monosyllables; to play their last specimen of Herz

or Thalberg, or sing their last bravura, or make one in a quadrille; but

in all they did to bear witness to the admirable code of tuition and

government carried out in Red Rose Villa.

The boarders presented a variety of characters; but as our sketch only

extends over one evening, we can merely mention them generally.

Officers’ widows, on half-pay, who, by a residence in Miss Brown’s

establishment, combined first-rate education for their daughters, and

society for themselves; ancient spinsters, who had not given up the idea

of becoming middle-aged matrons, well knowing that Miss Brown’s

philanthropic disposition gave them opportunities for the cultivation of

the tender passion, when any one else would have imagined the time for

such juvenilities was over. In the fortnightly _soirées_, one, two, or

three pairs of lovers were always found among Miss Brown’s

guests—unfortunates, whose interminable engagements, from pecuniary

difficulties, or the stern dissent of cruel guardians, would have seemed

hopeless to all, but for the energetic encouragement of the benevolent

Miss Brown, who always acted on the idea

“Passion, I see, is catching.”

And, still more urgent reason, never did a wedding party issue from the

well-glazed portals of Red Rose Villa (and such events did really occur)

but an accession of pupils and boarders immediately followed.

Amongst the boarders were two young ladies, sisters’ children, and both

orphans, but the similitude went no further. Isabel Morland, the eldest

by two years, was a sparkling brunette—satirical—clever; eccentric in

habits, uneven in temper, and capricious as the wind. But what did all

this signify? She was an heiress; and, reckoning according to the

estimation of Briarstone, a rich one. She had been a pupil, and her love

of display, and coquetry, and determination to get a husband, had

occasioned her resolve to remain with a family whom in heart she

detested, rather than reside with the only relations she possessed, old

respectable folks in the country. She had sense enough to know that her

fortune, inexhaustible as it seemed in Briarstone, would not endow her

with the smallest consequence elsewhere. And though so highly gifted by

nature as, had she selected the society of superior minds, to have

become both estimable and happy; yet her love of power—of feeling

herself superior to any one with whom she associated—made her

voluntarily become a member of a family whom she lost no opportunity of

turning into objects of satire and abuse; receiving the marked

attentions of Mr. Gustavus Brown so graciously, when no better offered,

as to give him every hope of ultimate success; but cold, distant, and

disdainful, at the remotest chance of achieving a more desirable

conquest.

Very different was Laura Gascoigne. Unusually retiring in manner, the

peculiar charm hovering around her could better be felt than described.

Possessing neither the wit nor the cleverness, or, as Coleridge so

happily expresses it, “the brain in the hand,” which characterised her

cousin, she had judgment, feeling, thought—the rare power of

_concentration_, which enabled her to succeed in all she attempted—the

quiet, persevering energy which leads to completion, even in the

simplest trifles, and prevents all mere superficial acquirement. Perhaps

early sorrow had deepened natural characteristics. From the time her

mother became widowed, no pen can describe the devotedness which was the

tie between them. The failing health of Mrs. Gascoigne had, during the

last year of her life, compelled a residence in the south of England;

and, when in the neighbourhood of Briarstone, the real kindness to the

mother and daughter received from the Misses Brown induced Laura, after

Mrs. Gascoigne’s death, to make their house her home, till she could

decide on her future plans. She was indeed lonely upon earth; and the

straitened means which had urged her to teach many hours in the day, to

supply her mother with luxuries and comforts, by stamping them as poor,

prevented her being known in those circles where her gentle virtues

would have gained her real appreciating friends.

All that she had sacrificed in her filial devotion even her mother never

knew, though that mighty sacrifice had been made full two years before

her death. An invalid, whose life might pass from night till morning

with none on earth to love and tend her but her child, Laura could not

leave her. And when she had said this, her lover, in all the jealous

irritation of an angry, passionate nature, reproached her that she did

not, could not love him, else every other consideration would be

waived—that the reports of her affections having been transferred to

another were true, and therefore it was better they should part. She had

meekly left him to resume her sad duties by her mother’s side, and they

had never met again. She knew he had been on the eve of leaving England

for an honourable appointment in the West Indies, to which he had been

nominated. But the wish would rise that he would write; he could not

continue in anger towards her; time must show the purity, the justice,

of her motive in her refusal, at such a moment, to leave England. And

gladly would she have remained in one spot, hoping, believing on; but

her mother needed constant change, and they had gone from place to

place, that perhaps, even if he had written, no letter could have

reached her. Three years had passed; and if the _hope_ to prove her

truth still lingered, the _expectation_ had indeed long gone. And so

Laura’s early youth had passed, with not one flower cast upon it save

those her own sweet disposition gave. Miss Brown’s establishment was

not, indeed, a congenial home; but she had her own room, her own

pursuits; and though often yearning—how intensely!—for sympathy and

intellectual companionship, could be thankful and contented. She could

not love the Miss Browns, but she respected their sterling qualities,

and regretted their eccentricities; and so found some good point to

dilate on when others quizzed and laughed at them, that her presence

always checked ill-nature.

“What is the cause of all this unusual confusion and excitement,

Isabel?” inquired Laura one morning, entering her cousin’s apartment;

“do enlighten me. You always know everything as thoroughly as Miss Brown

herself.”

“And you always know nothing, my most rustic cousin. Fortunate for you,

you have so superior a person as myself to come to. There is to be a

grand assembly in the lower regions to-night, and so of course sweet

Wilhelmina is practising and tuning enough to terrify away all harmony,

and Angelica is buried in all the mysteries of supper craft. Don’t look

unbelieving, it is true.”

“And it is Wednesday, not Saturday, Isabel.”

“Granted, Laura; but such a grand event as receiving a baronet and his

sister demands everything uncommon, even to a change of night. It would

be doing him no honour to receive him on a usual _soirée_ night. Learned

Lucretia is deep in the last novel and this month’s most fashionable

magazine. Folks report that Sir Sydney Harcourt likes literary

conversation. I mean to try if Isabel Morland will not have more effect

in captivating than the three graces, Lucretia, Wilhelmina, and Angelica

altogether, backed by their whole corps of spinsters and schoolgirls.

What has seized you, Laura, that you do not scold me, as usual, for my

self-conceit? Do you begin to feel it is breath wasted? My dear, you

shall see me in perfection to-night. Sir Sydney shall not depart

heart-whole from Briarstone, though he does look as if nobody within it

could be worth speaking to.”

Isabel was standing before a large mirror, much too engrossed in

admiring her own face and studying various attitudes, and the best mode

of arranging her glossy black hair, to notice how strangely and fitfully

Laura’s colour varied, and the voice in which she said, “Sir Sydney

Harcourt, is he a new resident at Briarstone?” was not sufficiently

agitated to cause remark, save to a much quicker perception than

Isabel’s.

“Yes, within the last few days; such a sensation has his arrival made,

you must have heard of it even in your sanctum.”

“My dear Isabel, have I not been staying out the last fortnight, and

only returned last night?”

“Oh, by-the-bye, so you have.”

“How much you must have missed me!”

“I did the first few days; but, my good child, how could I think of

anything but the new lion, splendid as he is, too? He is only here for a

month. Will you dare me to the field, Laura, to make that month two, or

six, or something more into the bargain?”

“No, Isabel, you need no daring. Only remember your own peace may be

endangered too.”

“My peace! my dear foolish child. I shall see Sir Sydney at my feet long

before any such catastrophe. Lady Harcourt! how well it sounds!”

“And Mr. Brown, Isabel?”

“The wretch! we have quarrelled irretrievably.”

“And when I left you were giving him every encouragement you could.”

“Nonsense, Laura. You are always preaching of my giving encouragement.

The poor wretch would die in despair if I did not relent sometimes.”

“Better, as I have always told you, put an end to his attentions at

once. I am certain he would cease to persecute, if you did not encourage

him, as you know you do.”

“I know I do. Poor dear Gussy—he is very well, when I can get no one

else.”

“But indeed, Isabel, you are very wrong; your manner to him is the talk

of every one.”

“I do not care for what every one thinks, as I have told you hundreds of

times. I will just pursue my own inclination, whether the world approve

of it or not. What is the world to me? You cannot possibly imagine I

mean ever to become Mrs. Brown. Why, the very name is enough to make me

drown myself first. No, I am free to receive all Sir Sydney’s

attentions, which I fully mean to win. You know I have some power,

Laura.”

“To attract, but not to keep, Isabel.”

“Laura, if you were not a thorough simpleton, I should say you had

designs on Sir Sydney yourself. Come, will you run a tilt with me for

him? I will be generous, and keep back some of my fascinations, that we

may try as equals, if you will.”

“Thank you for the proposal, but it would hardly be fair. You will burst

upon Sir Sydney in the freshness and brilliancy of novelty, in addition

to all your other attractions. I have not even novelty to befriend me,

for I rather think I have met him before.”

“Sir Sydney Harcourt! How sly of you not to tell me all this time.

When?—how?—where?”

“How could I tell you before, Isabel, when you have scarcely given me

breathing space?”

“But do you know anything of his former life? Report says he was jilted

by a poor insignificant girl, and has been a professed woman-hater ever

since. I do believe there he is in his curricle. What a splendid

set-out!—do look, Laura. Stay—I shall see him better in the next room.”

And to the next room she flew, so engrossed with Sir Sydney’s splendid

driving that she did not perceive that Laura had not accepted the

invitation, but had quietly retired to her own room.

“Miss Gascoigne, I trust you will join us to-night. I expect the honour

of Sir Sydney Harcourt’s and his accomplished sister’s company. Your

manners and appearance are so completely _comme il faut_ that they will,

no doubt, be glad to meet you. I do not approve of young ladies hunting

after gaiety and dissipation; but it is a great advantage to mix in such

society as I can offer you to-night. I shall expect to see you, of

course,” and without waiting for a reply—for such a thing as dissent to

Miss Brown’s commands was not to be thought of—Miss Brown, or learned

Lucretia, in Isabel Morland’s phraseology, majestically floated onwards.

“Laura, my sweet Laura, play over the accompaniment to this luscious ‘Ah

te o cara.’ Mr. Givevoice will be here to-night, so I shall not want

you; but now, if you will assist me, you will do me such a favour. The

music is so mellifluous, it will quite repay you for the trouble.” And

Laura complied, regretting most sincerely that a person possessing such

real sense and goodness as Miss Wilhelmina should so expose herself to

ridicule, but feeling that, young as she was, it was more her duty to

bear with folly than reprove it.

“Laura, dear, put the finishing bows to Lucretia’s cap for me, there’s a

love. I have such innumerable things to see after and get done before

seven o’clock to-night, that I have no time to breathe.”

“You are always busy, my dear Miss Angelica. I wish you would make me of

use. I shall finish this in ten minutes; so you had better give me

something else to do.”

“You are the best girl in the world, Laura, my dear; but you can’t

assist me in household concerns. No one can; they worry me to death—but

I don’t grow thin upon them, that’s one comfort. Come, I am glad you are

smiling, Laura, my dear. What a pity you are not more merry. By-the-bye,

you may help me very much—I shall never get through the tea-making all

by myself.”

“Let me take it off your hands entirely. I will with pleasure.”

“Thank you—thank you, my dear; but nothing would go right if I were not

there too, depend upon it. If there is not Molly only going now to dust

the rooms—the lazy huzzy!” and off trotted Miss Angelica, to scold and

dust by turns.

The evening at length arrived. Confusion and noise, and sundry domestic

jars, had subsided into silence and solemnity actually portentous. The

pupils, with the exception of six most highly favoured, had been

dismissed to their dormitories, and the schoolroom fitted up for the

supper, which, under Miss Angelica’s auspices in the culinary

department, Miss Wilhelmina’s in the elegant arrangement of fruit and

flowers, and Miss Lucretia’s in the selection of sweets and solids least

hurtful to the gastronomic and digestive powers, was to be unequalled.

In the front drawing-room the Misses and Messrs. Brown and their train

of boarders sat in imposing state. The covers had all been removed from

the couches, _chairs-lounges_, ottomans, etc., displaying a variety of

embroidery by the fair fingers of Miss Wilhelmina, and the splendid

designs of Mr. Gustavus. The harp was uncovered; the guitar, with its

broad blue ribbon, laid carelessly on the grand piano-forte, which was

open; and at his post on the music-stool sat Mr. Gilbert Givevoice, fair

and famous, smiling very sweetly on his tall pupil, Miss Wilhelmina, who

was in earnest conversation by his side. Miss Brown was on the sofa,

looking wiser and grander than ever. A vacant place was left beside her,

which no one thought of taking, for that it was designed for Miss

Harcourt being as well known as if the name had been chalked up on the

wall behind. Presently all the presentable inhabitants of Briarstone

flocked in, attired in their very best, and satisfying Miss Brown as to

the imposing appearance of her saloon. The back drawing-room, somewhat

less brilliantly lighted, was occupied, as usual, by three or four sets

of lovers. The blue room opened from it, and Laura was there ensconced

as Miss Angelica’s aid extraordinary. The door being thrown open

permitted a full view of the two drawing-rooms and all their

proceedings, though from the blue room occupying a sort of angular

corner, its inmates could not even be observed. Isabel Morland, looking

actually dazzling from her becoming dress and indescribable _tournure_,

had chosen to settle down into a regular flirtation with a Mr. Manby, a

young man she sometimes deigned to notice, at others deemed too little

even to be visible. Mr. Gustavus looked black as a thunder-cloud; his

thin form moving in and out the circle, but always hovering nearest

Isabel, who took no more notice of him than of his vacant chair.

At length the magic words, “Sir Sydney and Miss Harcourt,” were

pronounced, and the door flung back as if its very hinges should suffer

martyrdom to do them honour; and the whole roomful rose, as by one

movement, except Isabel, who carelessly remained seated. Then came

sundry flourishes and introductions, and mutual bows and curtseys, till

Miss Harcourt fairly sank down on her seat of honour, casting a rueful

glance at her brother, who returned it with one so irresistibly comic,

that Isabel, to whom alone the look was visible, was compelled to smile

too. Sir Sydney, whose eye was wandering round the room, caught the

look, eagerly bowed recognition, and in another minute was at her side,

leaving Mr. Gustavus with half his tale untold.

That Sir Sydney was handsome, and had all the ease and elegance of a

polished gentleman, there could not be two opinions about; but there was

something more about him, no one could exactly define what. He was too

well bred to be haughty or repulsive when he had quite willingly

accepted Miss Brown’s invitation; yet he certainly did not seem in his

element. He did smile and talk well; but Miss Wilhelmina whispered to an

intimate friend to observe how very melancholy his countenance was when

at rest; she was certain he was not a happy man, and what could be the

reason? Miss Harcourt was pronounced, after a trial of ten minutes, a

most charming, accomplished, elegant girl; she was in reality merely an

unaffected, genteel, quiet, little personage, without any pretension

whatever, and somewhat past what she deemed girlhood.

The evening proceeded most harmoniously. Tea was accomplished elegantly,

under Miss Angelica’s active surveillance. She was in the blue room,

back and front drawing-rooms, so quickly, one after the other, that she

seemed gifted with ubiquity for the evening. Then Miss Brown proposed

music and dancing; she thought they were such delectable adjuncts to

young people’s amusement—such social pleasure, etc.; to all of which

Miss Harcourt gracefully assented. She would be happy to perform her

part; her brother seldom danced. A general lamentation followed. What a

loss to the dancers: perhaps he would prefer music; they could offer him

some very passable; and a concert commenced, in appearance very

naturally given, but, in reality performed in exact accordance with

well-cogitated arrangements beforehand.

Whether Sir Sydney benefited by the succession of “sweet sounds,” or

not, remained a problem; as Isabel, to Miss Brown, and Mr. Gustavus’s

excessive annoyance, kept him so exclusively her attendant, that it

required all his acquaintance with worldy tact to save him from rudeness

to his hostesses, at the same time that he fully encouraged his

companion. The only thought Isabel could spare from Sir Sydney, was for

Laura to witness her triumph; but Laura was nowhere to be seen. If

Isabel could have known that her cousin saw her and Sir Sydney too, and

the sickness of heart that vision gave, she might have triumphed more.

Dancing was at length accomplished, and Sir Sydney actually joined in

it, dancing two quadrilles successively with Isabel, and then remaining

standing with her, leaning against the piano, in such apparent earnest

conversation as allowed attention to nothing else. Mr. Manby and several

other beaux of Briarstone, whom Isabel never disdained at the public

balls, when none superior were to be had, came in humble adoration

entreating the honour of her hand. The toss of the head and curl of the

lip with which they were refused elicited an expression in Sir Sydney’s

eye and very handsome mouth which must have startled Isabel, had she not

been too engrossed with her own apparent conquest to perceive it.

“Sydney, you are wrong,” whispered Miss Harcourt, as Isabel, for an

instant, disappeared to find a musical album on which she very much

prided herself.

“Mary, I am right,” was the reply. “If young ladies choose to play the

coquette, it is but fair in us to pay them back in their own coin. How

ungracious I should be to let all these graceful arts be wasted.”

Miss Harcourt still looked disapproval, but further rejoinder was

impossible; for Isabel, flushed with conquest, had returned, more

animated and engrossing than before.

“Of course you sing, Miss Morland?”

“No, Sir Sydney; I abhor all pretension; and as I knew I could never

sing like a professor, I never attempted it.”

“Pardon me, but I think you are wrong. There can be no necessity for

private performers to equal professors; indeed I would banish all

Italian bravuras from private rooms.”

“You will think my brother a sad Goth, Miss Morland; but he prefers a

simple English ballad to anything else.”

“I admire his taste; but you surely do not think ballad-singing an

easily-accomplished matter?”

“Easy enough for any one with natural feeling,” replied Sir Sydney,

somewhat hastily, “and with boldness sufficient to express it. I would

rather hear ‘Go, forget me,’ as I have heard it, than the finest Italian

scena by a prima donna.”

“I am delighted, Sir Sydney, that we have it in our power to afford you

that gratification,” energetically interposed Miss Wilhelmina. The

baronet made her a graceful bow, looking at his sister, however, with

eyes that plainly said, “Save me from this.”

“Laura!” (Sir Sydney actually started, but recovered himself so rapidly

that the sudden flushing of his brow was unremarked even by Isabel.)

“Dear me, where can the dear girl have hid herself? I assure you, Sir

Sydney, though she sings very seldom, she is considered first-rate in

English ballads,” and away gracefully glided Miss Wilhelmina in search

of her.

“Who is this ‘dear girl,’ Miss Morland? Can she really sing that song? I

would rather she chose any other,” said Sir Sydney in a tone almost of

irritation.

Isabel looked up with one of her most mischievous smiles, which recalled

him instantly to his artificial self; but before he could rally

sufficiently to speak again, Miss Wilhelmina’s voice, in its most dulcet

tones of encouragement, was close beside him.

“Come, Laura, my dear; we are all friends, you know—no one to be afraid

of. Sir Sydney is so particularly partial to ‘Go, forget me:’ I am sure

you will favour him.”

“Or any other song the young lady likes. I would not be so arbitrary as

to select for her,” he exclaimed, springing up, with gentlemanly

politeness, to relieve Miss Wilhelmina of the music-book she carried,

and, as he took it from her, coming in close contact with the fair girl

behind her, whom her flowing drapery had till then completely concealed.

“Laura! Miss Gascoigne! Is it possible?” he articulated, in a tone

which, though suppressed, must, to any perception less obtuse than the

Misses Brown’s, have betrayed intense emotion; but Miss Wilhelmina only

read casual acquaintanceship, and supposed an introduction had taken

place in the early part of the evening. Laura bowed, Sir Sydney thought,

coldly, and quietly passed on to the piano. The song was selected and

sung. She had often been heard before, but her voice had never seemed

the same as at that moment. It might have been that what a baronet and

his sister listened to with such interest, that the former had moved

himself some distance from Miss Morland’s fascinations to look at and

listen to the singer unobserved, must be of greater value than it had

ever before been supposed, or that there really was some spell in the

song which Laura had never been heard to sing before (Miss Wilhelmina,

seeing it amongst her music, had spoken on supposition merely); but it

fell upon the most thoughtless, the most obtuse, with such unaccountable

power, that even when the strain ceased, the sudden and unusual hush

continued, until rudely broken by Mr. Gustavus Brown and Mr. Gilbert

Givevoice clapping their hands most vehemently, exciting an uproar of

applause, under which Laura tried to make her escape, but she was

prevented by the friendly advance of Miss Harcourt, who, with both hands

extended, exclaimed, so as to be heard by all, “Miss Gascoigne, will you

permit me to thank you for your beautiful song and claim your

acquaintance in the same breath? We have, in truth, never met before;

but if you knew me as well as I know you from report, we should be

friends—nay more, allies—already. You need not look so very terrified,”

she added, with laughing earnestness; “I am not a very formidable

person, though my want of ceremony may really be rather startling; but I

am so glad to have found you, that I must entreat Miss Brown’s kind

permission to excuse me, if I do forget everybody but you for a little

while.”

Her ready tact met with the rejoinder she desired: she was entreated by

all the sisters to make herself quite at home; they were delighted she

should know their dear Laura. The blue room was quite deserted, and they

could chat there quite comfortably; and to the blue room Miss Harcourt

eagerly led her companion, who so trembled that she feared for the

continuance of her composure. The door was not closed; to do so would

have occasioned remark; but, as we said before, the room was so situated

for its inmates to be completely retired from all observation.

Isabel Morland was furious. She had seen Sir Sydney’s suppressed

emotion, and, with the quickness of thought, connected that and Miss

Harcourt’s eager address with the floating rumours of Sir Sydney’s early

life; but that her insignificant, unfashionable cousin, could be the

heroine of the tale, and retain such hold of his recollection as to

drive all her present fascinations from his mind, was a degradation not

to be passively endured; in fact, it was impossible—she would not think

about it—Sir Sydney should be caught yet; but at present there certainly

was little hope of it. He had deserted her, and was in earnest, if not

agitated, conversation with Miss Lucretia and Miss Wilhelmina Brown, who

were listening and answering, and then gradually entering into detail,

with so much interest, that all superficial folly gave way, for the

time, before the real goodness of heart which they in general so

strenuously contrived to conceal.

“Disagreeable, designing old women!” Isabel thought, “what can he see in

them to hold his attention so chained? He shall not listen any longer,”

and she glided close to the sofa where the two were seated. Sir Sydney

rose, and offered her his seat. No; she would rather stand. Sir Sydney

bowed, and quietly sat down again. Something seemed the matter with

Isabel’s bracelet; she clasped and unclasped it vehemently, but the

movement did not disturb the earnest conversation, which Sir Sydney, in

a low voice, still continued. The trinket broke, and fell at his feet.

He gracefully raised and presented it, regretting the accident, and

turned again to the Misses Brown. An exclamation of “What could have

become of her beautiful bouquet?” was the young lady’s next effort to

recall the deserter to his allegiance; but Sir Sydney did not even seem

to hear it, or, if he did, before he could make a move to seek it, it

was presented to her by the officious Gussy, with a most malicious bow.

Isabel did not quite throw it at his head, as inclination prompted, but

in a very few seconds every flower lay in fragments at her feet; one

beautiful exotic fell, uninjured, so close to Miss Wilhelmina, that she

raised it with an expression of lamentation; but Isabel snatched it from

her, and hastily stamped her pretty little foot upon it, with such a

very unequivocal expression of temper, that Sir Sydney almost

unconsciously fixed an astonished gaze upon her. It was too much to be

borne quietly; she turned angrily away, sauntering through the rooms,

deigning to hold converse with none, and would have so far sacrificed

all propriety, as to enter the blue room to solve the mystery at once,

had not Laura and Miss Harcourt at that instant reappeared. The

countenance of the latter bore such evident traces of emotion, spite of

the strong control she was practising, that Isabel was on the point of

making some bitterly satirical remark, but those dark reproving eyes

were again upon her, and Sir Sydney spoke before she did; but it was to

Laura, not to her.

“Has my sister pleaded in vain, or may I indeed claim an old friend—and

forgiveness?” he added, speaking the last word in so low a tone as only

to be heard by his sister, Laura, and Isabel. Laura’s lip so quivered,

that no word would come; but her hand was unhesitatingly placed in that

which Sir Sydney so eagerly extended, and her eyes met his. He drew her

arm in his, and led her, to all appearance, so easily and naturally to a

quadrille that was forming, that few suspected more than that they had

been old friends; and how strange it was they should meet there and

then; and, if he should talk to her, and make her sing twice again,

during the short remainder of the evening, it was nothing remarkable!

Isabel had thrown herself moodily on one of the sofas in the blue room,

half concealed by the curtains of the window, trying, in vain, to

connect Sir Sydney’s conduct and the report of his former life. It

seemed clear enough, but she would not believe it. There was nothing in

his manner but old acquaintanceship; she would conquer him yet. How

could Laura vie with her? Alas, for the delusion! Miss Harcourt’s shawl,

by the provident care of Miss Angelica, had been brought to the blue

room, and there, with Laura, she repaired; the Misses Brown, in trio,

assembled to do them great honour; and Isabel remained wholly

unperceived. After being well shawled, Miss Harcourt disappeared with

her body-guard of Browns. Sir Sydney, who had come ostensibly to hurry

her, lingered—

“Laura! my own beloved! forgiven—loved through all! How could I

doubt—how could I make myself and you so miserable? Can I ever repay

you, even by a long life of love? If you but knew the remorse, the

wretchedness I have endured, you would forgive still more,” were the

somewhat incoherent sentences that fell distinctly on Isabel’s ear; and,

though there was no answer, no words, she could see Sir Sydney’s arm

thrown round her cousin, and that she shrunk not from his parting kiss.

Another moment, and both had disappeared; Sir Sydney to take such

farewell of the really worthy women who had befriended his Laura, that

he left them in perfect raptures; and Laura to fly to the security of

her own room, where, burying her face in her hands, the tears burst

forth like a torrent, giving relief, vent, calm to a heart which, though

so sustained in grief, had been so unused to joy, that its presence had

well-nigh prevented its realization.

Our readers must imagine all the various crosses and vexatious

_contretemps_ which had prevented Sir Sydney Harcourt from discovering

Laura, as he had so ardently desired to do; for ours is a mere sketch,

not a tale. They must recollect he had, only the last six months,

returned from the West Indies, a residence in which had entirely

frustrated his wishes for a reconciliation, even by a letter; for, as we

have said before, Mrs. Gascoigne’s constant removals had prevented the

possibility of any letter from such a distance finding them. When he had

first loved her he was dependent on a coarse-minded worldly relation, to

whom an affection for a poor girl dared not be breathed. He had sought

an appointment abroad, to escape a matrimonial connection which was

being forced upon him, and he had wished Laura to consent to a private

marriage, and accompany him abroad as the companion of his sister, who

preferred daring the miseries of the West Indies with her brother, to

remaining in England without him. Sir Sydney (then plain Sydney

Harcourt, with little hope of the baronetcy and independence for many

years), naturally of a fiery and somewhat jealous temper, materially

increased from the privations and checks he was constantly enduring,

chose to believe Laura’s calm, reasoning indifference, and her refusal

to leave her ailing mother, only a cover to reject his affection for

that of some richer lover. Time, his sister’s representations, and the

bitter pain of separation cooled these unjust suspicions, and he only

recollected Laura’s look of suffering and tone of suppressed agony, with

which she had bade him farewell.

The unexpected demise of his relation, the baronetcy, and a moderate

independency recalling him to England much sooner than he had dreamed

of, every effort was put in force to find Laura, but in vain, till

chance led him to Briarstone, and some magnetic instinct urged him to

accept an invitation which it was more in his nature to have travelled

some miles to avoid. He always declared his belief in mesmeric

influences henceforward.

Isabel’s schemes to prevent the course of true love from running smooth

were fruitless. The old adage had already had its more than quantum of

fulfilment, and Laura Gascoigne became Lady Harcourt before she was two

months older. The delight and self-complacency of the Misses Brown were

beyond description; Miss Lucretia looked grander, Miss Wilhelmina more

gracious, and Miss Angelica more bustling than ever. An accession of

pupils and boarders was almost the immediate consequence of Laura’s

marriage, and the fair fame of Red Rose Villa was so well established,

as fortunately to receive no diminution from an affair which so

scandalized Miss Brown, that she herself could not rally from it for

months. After alternately encouraging Mr. Gustavus Brown and Mr. Gilbert

Givevoice, till each gentleman so believed himself the favoured

individual as to be ready to call his rival out, if he dared to deny it,

Isabel Morland, one fine summer morning, eloped with an Italian emigrant

count, who, much against Miss Brown’s ideas of propriety, she would have

to teach her Italian, leaving both lovers in the somewhat disagreeable

predicament of having been most egregiously deceived and laughed at, at

the very moment they were anticipating the _gold_, far more than the

hand, of an heiress; and as such was the origin of their dreams and the

source of their disappointment, we can better forgive Isabel’s conduct

to them, than we can her conduct to herself. Alas, indeed, for those

whom Nature has so gifted, and over whom principle has no sway!

-----

Footnote 2:

A fact.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Gonzalvo’s Daughter._

I.

“CONSTANCE, my child! take comfort; all is not lost to thee, though I

must leave thee sooner than I expected,” were the almost inarticulate

words of a dying warrior, as, supported in the arms of an attendant, he

bent over a beautiful girl who had flung herself on her knees beside his

rude pallet, burying her face in his hand in all the abandonment of

grief. It was a low-roofed, rudely-furnished chamber in the olden castle

of Ruvo, supporting on its panelled walls and divisions of the ceiling

many specimens of the warlike implements of the time. Shields of massive

workmanship, with the overhanging helmet, the long sword, and

_misericorde_ or dagger, interspersed with spears and iron caps, were

suspended on all sides; while jars and flasks, a bugle horn, an

unsheathed sword and belt, and such like gear, were scattered on the

floor. The dying man was stretched on the only couch the room afforded;

a wooden pallet serving alike for bed and chair, one part of which was

occupied by two of the warrior’s men-at-arms, their eyes fixed

alternately on their beloved commander and the fair being on whom his

last thoughts seemed centred. On their left stood two venerable monks;

the one holding aloft the cross, the other bearing on a silver salver

the consecrated bread and wine, which the warrior had received in lowly

faith, convinced his last moment was at hand. Two other armed figures,

sturdy cavaliers, finished the group. Individual sorrow was deepened by

the thought, that with Duke Manfred died the last lingering hopes of

Naples. He had refused to follow his brother, the voluntarily-exiled

monarch Frederic, to the court of France, hoping still to preserve his

ill-fated country from being trampled on, even if its liberty were

gone;—struggling against Spain, and her great captain, simply because he

thought France less likely to look on Naples as a slave, though for him

individually life had lost all joy—for he felt his country would never

again rise, beautiful and free, as she had been. Mortally wounded in an

unexpected skirmish with the Spaniards, Manfred would yet have met death

calmly, if not willingly, had not the deep grief of the fair girl who

had clung to him as to a second father—preferring to linger by his side

in the roughest part of Naples, to accompanying her own royal parent to

the luxurious court of Louis—distracted him to the forgetfulness of all,

save how to comfort her. He knew it was no small loss she mourned,—the

young, impoverished, yet noble Luigi Vincenzio, to whom the first

freshness of her young affections had been given, with all the fervid

warmth of an Italian heart, was as dear to Manfred as his own son, and

he had promised to plead for Vincenzio with her father, in lieu of the

gay Duke de Nemours, whom Frederic favoured, but whom Constance

instinctively abhorred. No marvel the words of the dying man fell vainly

and discordantly upon her ear,—that she clung to him as if that wild

embrace should fetter life within;—he should not, must not leave her!

Fainter and fainter became the voice of Manfred,—and then all was

silent, save the convulsive sobs of the kneeling girl, whose tears had

so bedewed the rough hand she clasped that she knew not how cold it

grew, and the deep yet suppressed breathings of those around. A quick

step made its way through the groups of mourning Neapolitans, who

thronged the chamber, and a tall manly form stood reverentially and

mournfully beside the pallet.

“Alas! alas! too late,—he has gone! his look, his voice of kindly

blessing—all denied me! Constance! my beloved!”

The voice aroused her; she started to her feet, looked shudderingly on

the face of the dead, and then sinking in the arms of Vincenzio, wept

less painfully upon his bosom. But, brief as was that upward glance, it

displayed a face so youthful, and of such touching loveliness, that

tears should have been strangers there; child-like as it was, yet there

was something in its sweet expression which told the threshold of life

was past; she had looked beyond, and tasted the magic draught whose

first drop transforms the being, and influences the whole of after life.

Her rich golden hair hung loose and dishevelled over her pale cheek, and

her deep blue beautifully-formed eye was swollen with weeping, yet was

she lovely despite of all.

But short communion was allowed the youthful pair, for the last wish of

the dying warrior had been that his niece should seek the convent of St.

Alice, twenty miles distant, there to remain till happier hours dawned

for Naples, or she could more securely rejoin her father.

“Yes, better there than lingering here, where Nemours may deem himself

privileged to seek thee when he lists,” resumed the young Neapolitan

when his words of gentle soothing had had effect, and Constance was

comforted. “Sweetest! it shall be but a very brief farewell; the thought

that thou art in safety shall soothe the hours of absence, and thou wilt

promise to think of me—my own!”

“Think of thee!” she repeated, and a smile lit up that sweet face, till

to say in which it looked more lovely, smiles or tears, would have been

difficult. “There is no need to make me promise that, my Luigi; I could

not, if I would, think aught of other save” (her voice faltered) “of the

kind heart gone!” She paused a moment, then added, sorrowfully, “My

father, my poor father! I should wish to join him—yet I cannot. Luigi,

dearest Luigi, ’tis my turn to chide now, if thou lookest doubtingly and

sad; our best friend has gone! Oh, we cannot weep too long for him! yet,

canst thou think if Frederic knew whom his Constance loved he would

still deny her? No! no! smile on me, love, and trust me, Constance of

Naples will have none other lord but thee.”

He did trust her; and the brief period left them passed in such sweet,

and hopeful converse, that sorrow itself was soothed, and both were

strengthened for the parting hour.

Luigi himself headed the gallant little troop of native warriors,

collected to convey her with all honour to the convent. He dreaded that

Nemours, obtaining notice of the intended movement, would attempt the

capture of the princess by force, and otherwise annoy them; but to his

surprise not a trace of the French army awaited them.

Quartered as they were almost all over Calabria, generally presenting

their steel fronts as strong lines of defence for the towns and castles

round, this desertion appeared extraordinary; particularly as their aim

had been to incapacitate the Spaniards from leaving their entrenchments

within the fortified city of Barletta, twelve miles to the south of

Ruvo, where they were at present quartered.

Night was falling when Vincenzio returned to Ruvo; but there was still

light enough for him to distinguish more than usual military bustle

within the walls; soldiers were hurrying to and fro; arms were

burnishing; lances and swords sharpening; large fires blazing up; bands

of armed men assembling; the heavy harness and unsheathed weapons

forming in heaps and lines to be donned and grasped at a moment’s

warning. Anxious and curious, Vincenzio hastened to the quarters of the

Sire de La Palice, governor of the town, and found him, though joyous

and laughter-loving as was his wont, alternately giving orders to

several officers, who seemed to appear and disappear with a glance, and

muttering oaths and execrations on some extraordinary act of folly, the

nature of which, or by whom committed Luigi found some difficulty in

comprehending.

Our limits will not permit our becoming personally acquainted with La

Palice, which a conversation might accomplish. We must confine ourselves

to a brief relation of historical facts. It appeared that the

inhabitants of Castellanata, enraged beyond all measure at the

licentious and insulting conduct of the French troops quartered in their

vicinity, had risen in sudden revolt, and finally betrayed the town into

the hands of the Spaniards. Nemours, thinking more of his own dignity,

which he imagined had been outraged in this revolt, than of the real

interests of his sovereign, swore the most signal vengeance, and marched

his whole force north-ward, disregarding the representations of more

experienced officers, that it would be the height of folly to leave all

Calabria unguarded, for the reduction of one paltry town. The character

of Gonzalvo was too well known to admit a thought of his neglecting this

opportunity of attack; and La Palice therefore, on his part, determined

to be on the alert, though he guessed not how soon or whence the attack

would come.

There were many sad thoughts on the young Neapolitan’s heart as he

returned to his own chamber. Alas! it little signified to Naples who

were her masters, French or Spaniards; but he recalled that period of

his country’s brief prosperity, when the celebrated Captain Gonzalvo had

been his monarch’s guest and honoured friend, and grieved that Frederic

had chosen France, instead of Spain, for refuge: perhaps his instinctive

hatred to Nemours, as the encouraged aspirant to the hand of his

Constance, increased these regrets; but still to La Palice he was bound

by all the chivalric ties of military companionship, and he determined,

if danger threatened, to forget his nationality awhile, and fight in his

friend’s defence.

The night was peculiarly mild and lovely; the soft silvery halo flung

down from the full moon on the clustering olives and vineyards,

stretching beneath the young Italian’s window, over some miles of

fertile country, seemed to whisper tranquillity and peace, that war had

not yet disturbed; and Luigi looked forth lingeringly till the calm sank

into his own soul, and Constance alone stood forth amid those troubled

visions like a star gleaming through clouds on the trembling waves.

It was near daybreak ere he sought his couch and slept; but not for

long. One pale streak of dawn alone was visible; but there were sounds

on the still air little in accordance with the lingering night. A dull,

heavy, monotonous roar, as of a continued cannonade close at hand, was

accompanied by sharp, vivid flashes of light playing athwart the

casement; then followed the roll of many drums,—the shout “to arms,”

“the foe! the foe!”—the clash of the alarum bell—the heavy trampling of

a hundred feet—the shrill shrieks of woman’s terror, and other sounds of

tumult and war. Vincenzio listened a moment as one still dreaming: but

then La Palice’s warning flashing on his mind, he sprang to his feet and

glanced beneath him. Far, far as his eye could reach, trampling down

that fair scene of fertility and peace, there came band after band of

armed men, rolling onward in such dense masses, that he felt at a glance

resistance was in vain. Marvellous as it seemed, Gonzalvo de Cordova

himself was upon them; and that name in its mighty eloquence was

paralysing terror! A very brief interval sufficed to banish every

thought from Luigi’s mind but fears for La Palice, by whose side he

speedily was. The noise waxed louder, closer, but there was no trace of

disturbance, or even anxiety, on the governor’s open brow, as he gaily

marshalled his little band of three hundred lances, to throw themselves

into the first breach which Gonzalvo’s unceasing cannonade was rapidly

making in the walls.

“Ha! welcome, comrade mine!” he cried, grasping Vincenzio’s hand. “Mark

La Palice as a true prophet, and Nemours the most egregious blockhead

that ever wrote himself a man. Ha! all compact there; ready! that’s

well—to the right, forward!” and on they rushed through the town.

Already every wall was manned, and showers of arrows and stones galled

the Spaniards at every turn, but had no power on the immense mass at

work against the ramparts. Already the walls were tottering, falling,

borne down by the heavy cannonade. On the opposite side the walls had

been scaled, and Spanish and French fought hand to hand on the summit. A

yell of triumph soon after proclaimed the formation of an immense

breach, into which Gonzalvo himself and his choicest troops poured like

a mountain torrent, increasing, swelling, as it came, as if utterly to

overwhelm the compact little phalanx which La Palice threw forward to

oppose him. A very brief struggle sufficed to show how fruitless was

every effort of the French; the immense odds speedily forced the breach;

but still, hemmed in on all sides so closely that their swords had

scarcely room for full play, there was no word of surrender or defeat;

struggling only to preserve their honour in their death, man after man

fell, without yielding an inch, around his leader. Presently wilder and

more deafening sounds arose; mingling indiscriminately the roar of

artillery, the clang of steel, the rush of a hundred chargers, the

shrill shrieks of women, so that not one could be distinguished from

another. The town was forced, and every street, for a brief interval,

became the scene of combat. Another hour, and the strife was at an end.

La Palice, who had striven as if his individual efforts could avert

defeat, had been overwhelmed with numbers, and brought to the ground

with the crushing blow of a battle-axe; yet even then, with his own gay

laugh, he flung his sword over the heads of his captors, that none

should claim him as an individual prize. Vincenzio shared his fate, the

capture of his friend removing from him all inclination to prolong the

fruitless combat, and yet more exasperate the Spaniards against his

ill-fated countrymen.

The close of that day beheld Ruvo deserted; the heavy banner of Spain

waving above the ruined ramparts alone marked what had been; for the

riches of Ruvo,—gold, treasure, horses and arms, the French prisoners,

almost all of whom were badly wounded, and the principal Neapolitan

citizens, were conveyed under strong detachments to Barletta, the

head-quarters of the great captain and his troops.

II.

Twenty-four hours after his daring reduction of Ruvo, Gonzalvo de

Cordova was seated in one of the best furnished apartments of Barletta,

bearing little trace either of the eager warrior or sagacious general;

all other emotions merged in that one which, even in his glorious

campaigns, reigned uppermost—love for the lovely, the transcendent

being, who, in woman’s freshest, most beautiful prime, was seated at his

feet, her arm reclining caressingly on his knee, and her dark, splendid

orbs, all their flashing passion stilled in filial love, fixed on his

face as he narrated his last triumph. It was his daughter Elvira, for

whom so deep was the hero’s love that even in his foreign wars she was

never known to be parted from his side.

“Trust me, they shall be seen to, my father,” she said, in answer to his

entreaty that her woman’s tenderness and care would look to the comfort

of his wounded prisoners, whom he had already luxuriously installed,

with his own surgeon to attend them. “La Palice is in truth a champion

to gain guerdon of woman’s care.”

“But not of woman’s heart, my gentle one; thine must not pass to the

wardence of our foes.”

“Nor shall it, father; it is thine, all thine!” and the rich burning

flush resting on her cheek, as she spoke, was deemed by her father but

the glow of sunset which played around her. He kissed her fondly, vowing

he would accept such devotedness only till another and a dearer sought

it. “Find but one deserving of thy love, my child, and no selfish pangs

shall bid me keep thee by my side; yet, methinks, thou as myself art

difficult to please; the noblest and the best have bowed to thee in

vain—thy heart was ice to all, and selfish as I am, I have rejoiced it

was so.”

Her face was buried in his hand, and he saw not how painfully its colour

varied. He did not feel the full, quick throb of that maiden heart: if

her fond father penetrated not its secret, how may we?

In obedience to Gonzalvo’s command (in those days no strange one),

Elvira, attended by her women, herself visited the apartments of the

wounded prisoners, administered to their wants, superintended the

healing of their wounds, speaking words of comfort and of hope,

till—veiled as she was, her rank, even her name often unknown—the sound

of her voice, the touch of her gentle hand, were hailed by each sufferer

with such feeling of devotion and gratitude, as might have marked her

indeed the angel visitant their fevered fancies deemed her.

“And I have seen all?—thou art sure none other needs my tending?” she

asked of an attendant. “Methinks those rooms we have not visited.”

“There are no prisoners of moment there, lady; but one room tenanted;—a

poor Italian—Neapolitan, I should say—who, as he may bring little honour

and less ransom to our leader’s coffers, scarce needs your gracious

care; he will do well enough.”

“Peace, slave! it is well Gonzalvo hears you not;” he crouched beneath

her flashing scorn. “Poor—friendless; the more he needs his captor’s

care: lead on!”

She was obeyed, and the apartment gained. A young man was reclining on a

rude couch—his limbs stretched out, his head bent forward, resting on

his arm in all the abandonment of complete repose; his long jetty hair

had fallen as partly to shade his face, but there was just enough

visible of his cheek and brow to startle by their ghastly whiteness,

gleaming out in fearful contrast with the crimson cloak he had drawn

around him. The opening of the door had not aroused him, and a moment

the intruders paused; there was a start, a quick and choking breath, as

if respiration had been suddenly impeded; and the Lady Elvira stood

beside the slumberer, and lifted the damp curls from his brow. Why did

she so pause, so stand, pale, rigid, breathless?—feared she to break

those peaceful slumbers?—if so, her caution was in vain: the young man

started, looked wildly round, then heavily and painfully arose, as if

conscious he was in the presence of rank and beauty, and struggled to

give them homage.

“Nay, fair sir, we come to thee as leech, not queen, and must refuse all

homage but obedience,” the lady said, calmly. “We must condemn thee to

thy couch, not to thy knee.”

“Who is it that speaks? Lady, that voice comes to my ear laden with

happy memories, bringing a vision of one whose faintest smile was

chivalry’s best fame—aye, e’en to Naples’ sons.”

“And is it marvel, Signor Vincenzio, the daughter of Gonzalvo should be

with her father still, though Naples no longer calls him friend? Nay, we

have refused thine homage, as little suited to thy weakness, gentle sir.

Resign thee for a brief while to the leech’s art, and take comfort;

Gonzalvo wars with France, not Naples. We will visit thee again.”

Luigi Vincenzio rose from his knee, where he had sunk simply in greeting

to one whose resplendent gifts in happier days had excited his young

imagination in no ordinary degree; and the calm unimpassioned posture in

which he stood till she departed, betrayed no warmer feelings than

reverence and admiration. Days passed, merging into weeks; but long

before that period, Luigi Vincenzio was not only convalescent, but

permitted and enabled to roam at large about Barletta and its environs;

unguarded, even by his parole. Whence came this extraordinary indulgence

none knew; but all supposed, that as the great captain had repeatedly

declared he warred not with the Neapolitans—not at least with those who

chose to accept his friendship—and own the supremacy of his sovereigns,

Ferdinand and Isabella—the young nobleman had accepted these conditions,

and had been thus received into favour. Again, as had been the case

before the capture of Ruvo, chivalric games agreeably diversified the

dull routine of military duty. Nemours, overcome with shame, at the

consequences of his own folly, had retired to Canosa; and as Gonzalvo

had not received the expected reinforcements, enabling him to change his

mode of attack to the offensive, his officers, and many of the

Neapolitans friendly to his interests, entered with spirit into all

their general’s plans for military recreation, while the Lady Elvira

resumed her station, as queen of the revels, crowning the victor with

her own fair hand. Her influence had led Vincenzio there; she rallied

him on his deep gloom, playfully demanding why he alone should scorn the

prize she gave; he had professed such deep gratitude for the tender care

she had so silently lavished on his sufferings, soothing him by the

charm of her voice to health, more powerfully than the leech’s art, and

yet he refused such trifling boon. And he obeyed; he joined the

combatants, received bright wreaths of glory from her hand, and lingered

by her side, but the smile she sought was not upon his lips; her step,

her voice, however unexpected, had no power to flush his cheek, or light

his eye with joy; but his to her!—the _echo_ of _his_ footstep, the

faintest whisper of _his_ voice, as the smouldering fire in the bosom of

the volcano, seeming so still, so silent, till, roused to whelming

might, they lay upon her heart.

Fiercely and terribly the thunder-cloud of wrath had gathered on the

brow of Gonzalvo de Cordova, as with heavy strides he paced his private

cabinet about a month after Ruvo’s capture. He chafed not at fair and

open fight, nay, gloried in the heat, the toil, the press of war; but

conspiracy, treachery, or that which in the present excited state of his

mind he deemed as such, he could not brook. A plot had been

discovered—ill formed, ill digested, but if correct in its details, in

the names of its principals, involving many of those whom Gonzalvo had

treated and trusted as friends—amid the Neapolitans to throw off the

yoke of the Spaniards, to be free, and preserve their liberty at the

sword’s point, till seconded by other cities, and encouraged by Nemours’

inactivity, Frederic himself might be recalled; this seemed their

object, pledged to by the most solemn oaths. Gonzalvo’s name was found

upon their lists of victims, but all was dark and little tangible. Still

warrants had been issued; those supposed the principal conspirators

arrested and secured; and the great captain now chafed and fumed,

unwilling to believe the whole tale true, from the heavy judgment it

demanded, yet feeling to the full the tremendous responsibility devolved

upon himself.

“My father! God in heaven! the tale is not false, then—yet—yet, they

have dared to connect the innocent! Luigi—Vincenzio—he is not, he cannot

be, of these! speak—speak, in mercy!” and the proud, the majestic

daughter of Spain, whom it hath seemed no human power, no human emotion

could bow, sunk in powerless agony on the earth, grasping the robe of

her father, and gazing on his face, as if her life depended on his

answer. Startled, amazed, Gonzalvo, who had been unconscious that for

several minutes she had been in his presence reading his brow, ere she

found words, vainly sought to raise and soothe her; she reiterated but

those words, her tone becoming wilder and shriller in its agony, as the

reply was evidently evaded.

“Aye, even he!” at length it came, and Gonzalvo sternly pointed to the

young nobleman’s name upon the list. “Elvira, Gonzalvo’s daughter! away

with this engrossing weakness; well is it for thee, none but thy father

marks it. I have heard, and in return for that kind confidence would,

had the fates decreed, have sought, fixed, gloried in thy happiness,

though the choice had been other than mine own! but now—with this

damning proof. My child! my child! away with the unworthy weakness; it

shall not so debase thee!”

“Weak! debased! who dares to say these words to me—to me? Am I not still

Elvira?” she sprang to her feet, standing erect in all her majesty, but

with cheeks of marble whiteness, gleaming out from that night-black

hair, as if their rich current had rushed back to her heart. “What is it

they said—that he was guilty?—false! ’tis false! yet if ’tis

not—misled—misguided—father, is there no pardon?—there must—there SHALL

be. What is his doom? speak! there is no weakness now!”

“Death, or the galleys!—what else befits the ingrate traitors?” in a

deep concentrated voice the answer came. “Ha! Holy Virgin! my child! my

child!” She had tottered—fallen—and lay without voice or motion at his

feet.

III.

Luigi Vincenzio denied none of the charges brought against him, save

that of the intended murder of the principal Spaniards in Italy. Such

baseness he strenuously denied; they had decoyed him into the

conspiracy, working on all his peculiar feelings of love of land and of

his exiled king, who was not alone regally, but personally dear to him.

The conspiracy appeared to him but a noble effort of some few bold

hearts to throw off the hated yoke of the foreigner; and therefore he

had joined it, and even now, in danger of death, of worse than death—the

galleys, he persisted in the glory, the virtue of his cause. It was

rumoured that Gonzalvo, in his still continued desire to conciliate the

Neapolitan nobles, had offered to Vincenzio, not alone pardon but

riches, and connection by marriage with one of the most powerful and

noble families of Castile, though its name never transpired, if he would

take a solemn oath to be true to the interests of Ferdinand of Arragon,

and never seek Naples again, save in pursuance of that monarch’s

interests; and these offers, more than usually magnanimous even for

Gonzalvo, were, to the utter bewilderment of all, refused.

Scarcely a week after Vincenzio’s arrest, the unusually strict

retirement of the Lady Elvira was disturbed by an earnest petition for a

private interview, on the part of a Neapolitan boy, who, the attendant

said, had been so urgent, and appeared so exhausted, that he could not

refuse him entrance. He would not tell his business to any save the Lady

Elvira. Permission was given, and he was conducted to her presence,

clothed in a coarse folding cloak of Neapolitan cloth, with the red

picturesque cap of the country slouched upon his brow. He stood at the

threshold of the apartment, his arms folded in his mantle, his head bent

on his breast, as if either physical or mental strength had for the

moment utterly failed him. “Retire,” was the first word that met his

ear; and he perceived the Lady Elvira addressed her attendants, who

still lingered. “Retire, all of you. The boy asked a private audience,

and I have promised it. Treachery! danger!—I fear them not!—begone!” and

they obeyed. One searching glance the boy cast around, and ere the lady

could address him, he had darted across the room, and flung himself at

her feet, clasping her knees with the convulsive grasp of agony,

struggling for words, but so ineffectually that nought but quivering

anguish convulsed those parched lips, nought but agonized sobs found

vent. Mantle and cap had both fallen in the quickness of the movement,

and though the inner dress was still the boy’s, that exquisite face,

that swelling bosom told a different tale.

“Ha! who art thou? What wouldst thou?—speak, silly trembler,” and even

at the moment that an indescribable thrill passed through the heart of

Gonzalvo’s daughter, she struggled to speak playfully. “In sooth, thou

art too lovely to wander forth alone, save in this strange guise;

speak—what is thy boon?”

“A life! a life they say is forfeited! Lady, kind, generous lady, oh,

have mercy! I thought I had words to plead his cause, to beseech,

implore, adjure thee, but I have none—none! Mercy, oh, have mercy!”

“Mercy! I am no sovereign to give life or death, poor child! How may I

serve thee, and whom is it thou wouldst save?”

“Art thou not Elvira?—art thou not Gonzalvo’s daughter?—and will he not

pardon at thy word? Oh, seek him! Tell him Constance, princess of

Naples, is in his power! yields herself his prisoner, to be dealt with

as he lists, let him but spare Luigi—Luigi, my own noble love! Give him

but pardon, life, liberty! Lady, lady! plead for him! let them hold me

prisoner in his stead. Wherefore lookest thou thus? Mercy, oh, have

mercy—save him!”

“WHOM saidst thou, girl? WHOM wouldst thou save?—speak, I command thee!”

exclaimed Elvira, in a voice so changed, so unnatural, that Constance

shuddered, vainly endeavouring to shrink from the heavy hand that

grasped her shoulders, the eyes that flashed upon her, as if fire had

dwelt within their depths. “As thou hopest for mercy, speak!”

“Save! whom but my own, my plighted lord! Is there one in the wide world

to love me now as Luigi—Luigi Vincenzio, he who hath honoured Constance

with his troth? Oh, save—”

“Love! thou DAREST not tell me that he loves thee!—false—false—he does

_not_ love thee!” She sprang up, cheek, lip, brow, flushing for a single

instant crimson, then fading into a white so ghastly, it seemed as if

life itself must have passed, save for the mighty passion which held it

chained.

“Thee! one like thee, poor foolish child! art thou one to bid Luigi

Vincenzio love, to hold his heart enchained? Yet thou art lovely, good

God of Heaven, how exquisitely lovely! Poor child, poor child, I have

appalled thee!—does he so love thee?” She had sunk back on the cushion,

her hands convulsively pressed together, as to conceal their trembling,

but the wild light of those eyes, now still movelessly fixed on

Constance, who had risen from that posture of entreaty, as if the deep

emotion of another had stilled her into composure.

“Love me! yes, as none but Luigi can love; daughter of a ruined, a

persecuted house, with little to make me worthy of such love, yet doth

he love me, as I in truth were all in all to him, as he is all to

me—love me! Oh! did they bid me die, or wander forth an exile, an

outcast, like all of my race, yet queens might envy Constance for Luigi

Vincenzio’s love!”

“And thou wouldst save him?”

“Aye, with my life—with all that they may deem precious, Constance of

Naples is no common prize; ’tis said, Ferdinand would give a jewel from

his coronet for all of Frederic’s unhappy offspring placed within his

power; I am here; bid Gonzalvo send me a state prisoner, as he so nobly

did my brother. Ha! lady, noble lady, forgive the word; ’tis not for the

captive, the suppliant, to arraign the captor and the judge. Grief makes

the speech unwary—heed it not, heed it not; take my life, my liberty for

his!”

“Constance of Naples, thou mayst save both! Gonzalvo wars not with

women!” The princess threw herself at her feet, with a wild cry of

gratitude: the strangeness of that voice, the rigid expression of that

face, she heeded not, knew not, she only dreamed of hope.

“Aye, but I have not said _how_, girl; pardon, life, liberty, all have

been offered to him for whom thou pleadest, on the sole condition of

swearing allegiance to Ferdinand, fealty to Spain.”

“And he hath refused,” she interrupted; “oh! give me entrance to him—I

will plead, kneel, move not from his feet till he hath done this; he

will submit for me, he will hear me, live for Constance—let me but

plead.”

“Peace! there is more; he must be naturalized in Spain, WED one of her

noblest daughters, aye, one that LOVES him; let him do this, and he

shall have life, riches, honour, all that can make life glad. Ha! dost

thou fail! bid him do this, and he shall live.”

“Yes, even this!” was the reply, after one single moment’s pause; and

the quivering lip, the ashy cheek, the trembling frame, alone betrayed

that young heart’s agony. “Let Luigi Vincenzio be free, be happy—for if

she whom he must wed in truth thus love him, the dream of his youth will

fade beneath the glory of his manhood, and he shall, he must be

blessed—if such things be, what recks it that Constance droops alone? I

shall have saved him, have given him back to life, to his fellows, to

honour, to glory, and my death will be happy, oh! so happy! Lady, I will

do this.”

“Death! who spoke of death for thee? bid Luigi thus accept his life, and

thine is secured, is free.”

“Free! speakest thou of love, yet dreamest thou life could exist apart

from him—peace, peace—let me but save him, let him but live, give me but

admission to his presence, let me but speak with him. Lady, lady,

wherefore tarry? I will do this, take me but to him.”

“Thou wilt SWEAR!” That low terrible whisper was a more fearful index of

passionate agony in the speaker than even that which crushed her who

stood in such meek, mournful, yet heroic suffering before her; one only

feeling prompted Constance, but in Elvira it was the fierce contest of

the evil and the good; one whelming passion straggling for dominion over

all that had been so fair, so bright, so beautiful before.

“Swear to sacrifice my all of selfish bliss for him? aye, without one

moment’s pause! Oh! lady, thou knowest not love, if thou deemest it

needs oath to hallow that which I have said. If thou doubtest me, bid

one thou mayst trust, be witness of my truth; but oh! keep me no longer

from him; let me save his life!”

Without a word or notice in reply, the Lady Elvira sat a moment in deep

thought, then rose, and signed to the princess to follow her.

IV.

The prison of Luigi Vincenzio had been changed from the dark loathsome

dungeon, in which he had first been cast, to a low-roofed, rambling

apartment, in that wing of the citadel of Barletta which generally

served as a barrack for infantry. An iron grating, however running in

the centre from roof to floor, cut the chamber in two, one portion

generally serving as a guardroom, when any important prisoner demanded

unusual care. This annoyance had been spared Vincenzio; although the

evening following the interview above described about ten soldiers were

then assembled, occupying the farthest corner of the chamber, grouped in

a circle, enjoying their pipes and cups, seasoned by many a jest, which

effectually turned their attention alike from their own officer and

their prisoner. The former, closely muffled in a military cloak, and

cap, with a heavy plume of black feathers, stood leaning against the

stone pillar to which the grating was affixed by thick iron rings,

parted only by that open railing from the prisoner, and consequently

enabled not alone to hear all that passed between him and the lovely

being whom he was holding convulsively to his breast, but to mark every

change in the countenance of each.

What had already passed between those loving ones it is needless to

record; nor the deep suffocating emotion which had for several minutes

utterly deprived Vincenzio of voice, when his Constance so strangely, so

unexpectedly sprang into his arms. What cared he now that his guards

were present; that she was not permitted to see him alone, save to smile

at Gonzalvo’s idle fear that she could bring him means to escape? He

felt nothing but her presence, drinking in for the first few moments the

sweet faint accents of her beloved voice, as if nothing of ill or misery

could touch him more. But soon, oh! how much too soon, the sweet dream

fled, and but one truth remained—that he was doomed to death, to close

his eyes on that beloved one, and for ever! A shudder had convulsed his

frame, a deep groan had been wrung from him by that thought, and

Constance had heard and guessed its import. She knew not at first what

she said, but one thought, one feeling, one stern necessity was distinct

upon her mind; all else was confused and painful, as if a dark cloud had

folded up her brain, leaving nought clear but the letters of fire in

which that one stern necessity was written.

“And dost thou indeed, in very deed, so love me, Luigi? Oh! then thou

will grant my boon; thou wilt not let thy Constance plead to thee in

vain,” said she, after many, many minutes had rolled by, unheeded in

that sad commune, and she lifted up her pale and mournful face, as the

white rose that, beat by some heavy storm, droops its lovely head to

earth, ere one leaf had lost its freshness.

“Boon—in vain. Constance, mine own sweet love, is there aught thou canst

ask Luigi will deny?”

“Ah! thou knowest not the weight of what I crave; nor will I speak it on

thy simple word. Thou must pledge it me, my love; aye, by solemn oath—by

hallowed vow—I claim it on thy love, thy fealty, and how mayst thou

refuse me?”

Playfully he besought her to speak it first, and then, dreaming not her

object, unconscious even that the offered conditions were known to her,

he knelt at her feet, and placing his hands between both hers, which

felt strangely and fearfully cold, he solemnly swore to do her bidding,

whatever it might be. The words were said, and Constance sank upon his

bosom.

“Saved! saved! oh, I have saved thee, Luigi; thou wilt live—be free—thou

shalt not die!”

He started to his feet; the whole truth bursting on his mind, and yet,

if so, why did she so cling to him, as if he were spared to _her_? no,

no, it could not be. “Live! Constance, my blessed one, what canst thou

mean? my life is forfeited!”

“No, no, no!” she reiterated, “it is granted thee, and on conditions

easy to accept. Luigi! thou hast sworn to grant my boon—to do my

bidding; and I bid thee live! live, to be happy, glorious, as I know

thou wilt be! Speak not; hear me. Frederic is no longer a king; Naples

no longer a kingdom; she is parcelled out to others; she hath no sons—no

name—one hour acknowledging the rights of France, the next bowed to the

arms of Spain. To one or other of these mighty potentates she must

belong. My poor, poor father can never claim her more. Luigi, my own

Luigi, banish the vain hope of her freedom—her future influence. Were

Frederic here, thou knowest he would say to thee, as he did to all when

he departed, ‘My children, ’tis vain to struggle; make peace with whom

ye will; Frederic absolves you of your allegiance. No oath of fealty

restrains you.’ Hast thou forgotten this? no, no; then wherefore

shouldst thou pause; many have bowed to Louis, why not to

Ferdinand?—Luigi, my own Luigi, thou shalt live!”

“Constance,” he answered, and he drew her closer to his bosom, while his

own frame shook, “Constance, were this the sole condition, for thy sake,

beloved, I had not paused—even thus I would have lived; for this poor,

unhappy country, I feel, will never rise again; such oath reflects no

shame upon her sons. Constance, was this all they told thee?”

“Luigi, no; there is another,—we must part—for ever! Yet—yet, I bid thee

live.” Slowly every word fell; but so distinctly, so expressively, that

despite that low gasping tone, he heard them all, and not he alone.

“Ha! thou knowest this. Part, Constance! and thou bidst me live! I

choose death instead. I will not lose thee; I will not wed another.”

“Thou wilt—thou shalt! Luigi, Luigi, ’twill be but a brief, a brief

pang, followed by years of bliss. Oh! do not think this moment’s agony

will never, never pass away. The hero’s glory,—the warrior’s fame,—the

statesman’s pride—all, all, shall be thine own. Ambition, with her

hundred paths to immortality, shall lure thee to forgetfulness, and then

to peace; and she—she, who will be thy bride,—oh, if she love thee as

they say she does, even she at length will woo thee into joy. Luigi, my

own, my own, why dost thou turn from me? Speak, oh, speak; tell me thou

wilt live!” She sunk on her knees before him, as if that action should

continue the entreaty for which voice for the moment had utterly failed.

“Constance, Constance! Dost thou urge me? Thou—wilt _thou_ give me to

another? Is it _thou_ who bidst me thus be happy? No, no, thou knowest

not how much I love thee!”

“Do I not love thee, Luigi?—Oh! it is only thus that I can save

thee,—only thus they will grant thy life,—and what care I for my

happiness? Luigi, if thou diest, how mayst thou love me,—guard me as

thou wouldst? Oh, live, live!-in my lonely convent cell let me think of

thee as I know thou wilt be,—honoured, loved—aye, and in time so

blessed! Let the bright thought be mine,—that I, even I, poor simple

Constance, have saved thee. Luigi, deny me not this, turn not away. Thou

canst not refuse me,—thou DAREST not—thou art SWORN!”

The countenance of Vincenzio became more and more terribly agitated,—he

struggled to break from her hold; but the grasp of agony was upon his

cloak, and either held him with a giant strength, or his every limb had

lost its power, and chained him there. He sought to speak; but only

unintelligible murmurs came, and again that voice of impassioned appeal

came upon his heart, crushing it almost to madness. It bade him live;

she might need his friendship, though denied his love, when time

permitted such intercourse innocently to both. That tall form bowed, as

stricken by a mighty wind: a moment, and he had caught her to his bosom,

had murmured some inarticulate words, and a burst of passionate weeping

convulsed his frame. Ere the paroxysm passed, he was alone; soldiers,

officers, Constance, all were gone.

V.

It was noon; the brilliant sun of Italy poured its golden flood through

the high pointed casements of a small private chapel, in the citadel of

Barletta, which had been set apart for the sole use of Gonzalvo de

Cordova, his family, and personal attendants. It was lavishly decorated,

seeming in all points well suited to the establishment of the great

captain. Heavy brocades, worked in gold and silver, hung from the walls,

shading many a shrine, of the same precious metals, where saints,

Virgin, and Saviour were all blazing in gems. A cloth of gold covered

the altar, which stood just beneath a gorgeously-painted window, that

when lighted up, as now, with the sun of noon, flung down the most

brilliant colouring on floor and wall. This day a rich carpet of superb

Genoa velvet covered the mosaic pavement at the foot of the altar, and

decorated cushions seemed to denote that some unusual ceremony was then

to be performed; while the number of sumptuously-attired nobles,

Spanish, French, and Neapolitan, already assembled, and the private

chaplain of Gonzalvo, missal in hand, behind the altar, with his

priestly attendants, proclaimed the hour at hand. The great captain

himself was present, magnificently attired, leaning on his jewel-hilted

sword, wrapt it seemed, by the fixed repose of his countenance, in deep

meditation, which none present chose to interrupt.

The interest increased tenfold when, attended, or rather guarded—few

could tell which—Luigi Vincenzio, attired with some care, but deadly

pale, bearing an expression of fearful internal agony on his

countenance, slowly advanced up the choir to the altar. The gaze of

Gonzalvo moved not from him; serious it was, yet scarcely stern, and the

tone was calm in which he said, “We have heard, Signor Vincenzio, you

accept the conditions proposed!—have we heard aright?” Luigi simply

bowed his head in answer, imagining the oath of fealty to Ferdinand, and

denial of Frederic, would next be administered; but it came not, silence

reigned again uninterrupted as before. Then came sounds along the

corridor; the folding-doors at the base of the chapel were flung wide

open, and the Lady Elvira, more than usually majestic in mien and

carriage, entered, followed by several attendants; her resplendent

beauty was heightened by an expression of countenance none could define,

save that it affected the most indifferent spectator then present with a

species of awe, of veneration, that could have bowed every knee in

unfeigned homage. Stars of diamonds glittered in her raven hair, and

sparkled down the bodice and front of her dark velvet robe. The first

glance of all rested immovably, seemingly fascinated, on her; the next

turned on the slight figure she led forward; but every curious effort to

discover the stranger’s identity was rendered vain by the thick

shrouding veil which completely enveloped her; permitting nothing but

the tiny foot and exquisitely-turned ankle to be visible.

A strong shudder had convulsed the form of Vincenzio; he tried to step

forward, to speak, but all power appeared to forsake him, till a voice,

sweet, clear, and silvery, uttered the simple words “I will,” the

customary rejoinder to the priest’s demand, “wilt thou accept this man

as thy wedded lord,” and its attendant vows to “love, honour, and obey.”

The voice thrilled through him, awakening him to consciousness, he knew

not how or why; and he saw he was kneeling before the altar, beside that

veiled and shrouded form by whom Gonzalvo and his daughter were both

standing, as if from their hands he received her. Gradually everything

became distinct; La Palice was at his side, his hand upon his shoulder,

as if rousing him from that deadening stupor. He recognised his friends

amidst the noble group standing around. Had the marriage vow been

administered to him? If so, he must have replied, or the ceremony could

not have continued, but he knew not he had spoken; and what had in fact

aroused him?—a voice!—whose voice?—to whom was he irrevocably joined?

Not that one whom his fevered fancy had so wildly pictured, for she

stood there looking on the ceremony, as calm and motionless as the most

indifferent spectator.

It was over. Vincenzio and his nameless bride rose from their knees, and

then it was the hands of Gonzalvo removed the veil and led her forward,

that the eyes of all might rest with admiration on the loveliness

displayed. A cry of astonishment burst simultaneously from the French

prisoners and Neapolitans around, and the latter rushed forward and

prostrated themselves before her, clasping her robe, her feet, ’mid sobs

and tears calling on heaven to bless the daughter of their king, the

being whom from her cradle they had well-nigh worshipped—the Princess

Constance! but one alone stood speechless; one alone had no power to go

forward, for all seemed to him a dream, whose bewildering light and

bliss would be for ever lost in darkness. But as those eyes turned on

him, that radiant glance sought his, there was one sob, one choking cry,

and Luigi had bounded forward, had clasped her to his heart. And then he

would have flung himself at Gonzalvo’s feet, to pour out the burdening

load of gratitude that almost crushed him with its magnitude, but

Gonzalvo, grasping his hand in the friendly pressure of sympathy,

forbade all speech till he had been heard.

“It has been said,” he exclaimed, “that to the King of Naples and his

ill-fated family Gonzalvo de Cordova is incapable of generosity, or even

of humanity; because the stern mandate of his sovereign demanded the

sacrifice of his own private sentiments of generosity and honour, and

compelled the captivity of Frederic’s heir. My friends, I plead no

excuse, no offence for this dark deed; but now that nought but

Gonzalvo’s own heart may dictate, I bid ye absolve me of all undue

severity, all unjust dishonour. The Princess Constance offered her

liberty for that of the Signor Vincenzio; but, nobles of Naples,

Gonzalvo scorned it. She is free, as is her husband. His ransom, five

thousand marks, is discharged from my private coffers, and settled as a

marriage dowry on his bride. Both, then, are free, unshackled by

condition, free as the winds of heaven to travel where they list. We

heard of a noble of France hostile to this union, and on account of his

birth approved of by King Frederic; and therefore it is we have been

thus secret, and would counsel Signor Vincenzio to accept the vessel

lying at anchor, ready for his use, and convey his gentle bride to the

court of her father without delay. We will take all blame; for the

union, as ye have all witnessed, hath been without consent of the

bridegroom. For thee, Signor Vincenzio, thy fault is unconditionally

pardoned, a grace won for thee by the truth and glorious heroism of thy

gentle bride. No thanks—to us they are _not_ due; we had been terrible

in wrath, resolute to demand the forfeit of rebellion, even to the last,

save for one whose earnest pleadings we had no power to resist. In your

love, your happiness, think on Gonzalvo’s daughter, for to _her_ ye owe

it all.”

It needed not the name: ere that rich voice ceased, Vincenzio and his

bride were kneeling at the feet of the Lady Elvira; the former pouring

forth with passionate eloquence his gratitude, his veneration; in words

burning, thrilling, known only to Italy’s impassioned clime. She heard,

and a faint quivering smile was on those lips; one hand she yielded to

his respectful homage, and laid the other caressingly, fondly, on the

beautiful head of Constance, whose face was lifted up to hers beaming in

all the blissful confidence of love, of joy, of devotion, conscious that

to her she owed all that made life dear.

“Bid Constance tell thee how much Elvira owes to her, Signor Vincenzio,

and thou wilt learn I have yet more cause of gratitude than thou hast,”

she said, and not one word quivered. “To thee she hast given a life; to

me—what is far more valuable—Elvira to herself, unstained, unscathed;

her soul of honour cloudless, true, when all methought had failed.

Farewell! be happy, and may good angels guard ye both!”

She raised the Princess, and folded her to her heart. “There was an eye

thou knewest not upon thee in his prison,” she whispered, ’ere she

released her. “Constance, hadst thou failed, we had both been lost, for

I had seen no stronger spirit than my own. Thou hast saved us both, and

must be blessed.” She printed a long kiss on that beautiful brow, and

placed her in her husband’s arms. A brief interval of congratulation, of

joyful conference followed, and then all within that chapel was silent

and deserted. Hours passed. The chieftain of Spain had returned from

accompanying Vincenzio and his bride to their vessel, though he had

tarried to watch them weigh anchor and disappear in the distance. He

inquired for his daughter, sought her in all her haunts, and lastly,

with a strange foreboding, re-entered the chapel. No voice, and at first

no figure met his eye or ear; he rushed forwards, a beautiful form lay

either lifeless or in a deep swoon at the altar’s foot, her rich and

luxuriant hair falling heavily and darkly around her. It was the Lady

Elvira.

* * * * *

The remainder of the Lady Elvira’s career is a matter of history: with

it the romancer interfereth no further.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_The Authoress_.

I.

“YOU surely do not intend acting such a fool’s part, Dudley, as that our

little world assigns you?” was the address of one friend to another, as

they drew their chairs more cosily together, in the little _sanctum_ to

which they had retreated, after a _tête-à-tête_ dinner.

“And what may that be, my good fellow?”

“Why, throw away yourself and your comfortable property on a person

little likely to value either one or the other, and certainly worthy of

neither—Clara Stanley.”

Granville Dudley coloured highly. “Oblige me, at least, by speaking of

that young lady with respect,” he said; “however you and your companions

may mistake my intentions concerning her.”

“Mistake, my good fellow; your face and tone are confirmation strong. I

am sorry for it though, for I would rather see you happy than any man I

know.”

“I believe you, Charles; but what is there so terribly opposed to my

happiness in an union with Miss Stanley, granting for the moment that I

desire it?” Charles Heyward sat silent, and stirred the fire. “Because

she is not rich? nay, I believe, rather the contrary.”

“I did not think you worldly, Granville.”

“Thank you, for doing me but justice. I am perfectly indifferent as to

wealth or poverty in a woman. But what is your objection then? She is

not superlatively beautiful nor seemingly first-rate in accomplishment;

but what then? She is pleasing, unaffected, full of feeling, very

domestic, for I seldom meet her out.”

Again were the poker and the blazing coals at variance, and more noisily

than before.

“My good friend, you have roused that fire and my curiosity to a most

unbearable state of heat. Do speak out. What is the matter with Miss

Stanley, that when I mention the words ‘feeling’ and ‘domestic,’ you

look unbelieving as a heretic? Can you say ‘Nay’ to any one thing I have

said?”

“Nay, to them all, Granville Dudley,” exclaimed Heyward, with vehemence.

“It is because you need a most domestic woman for your happiness, I tell

you do not marry Clara Stanley; she is a determined blue—light, dark,

every imaginable shade—a poet, a philosopher, a preacher—writes for

every periodical—lays down the law on all subjects of literature, from a

fairy tale to a philosophical treatise or ministerial sermon. For

heaven’s sake, have nothing to do with her. A literary woman is the very

antipodes to domestic happiness. Fly, before your peace is seriously at

stake.”

Granville Dudley looked, and evidently felt disturbed. At first,

startled and incredulous, he compelled his friend to reiterate his

charge and its proofs. Nothing loath, Charles Heyward brought forward so

many particulars, so many facts, concerning the lady in question, which,

from his near relationship to the family with whom she lived, he had

been enabled easily to collect, that Granville, unable to disapprove or

even contradict one of them, sank back on his chair, almost with a

groan.

“Why, my dear sober-minded, philosophic friend, you cannot surely have

permitted your heart to escape your wise keeping so effectually in so

short a space of time, that you cannot call it back again with a word?

Cheer up, and be a man. Thank the fates that such a melancholy truth was

discovered before it was too late. I have heard you forswear literary

women so often that I could not stand calmly by, and see you run your

head blindfold into such a noose; she is a nice girl enough, and if she

were not so confoundedly clever, might be very bearable.”

“But how is it I never discovered that she is so clever? If it be

displayed so broadly, how can she hide it so completely before

strangers?”

“She does not display it, Granville. No one would imagine she was a whit

cleverer than other people; she has no pretension, nor airs of

superiority; but she writes, she writes, ‘there’s the rub,’ and she

loves it too—which is worse still—and a public literary character cannot

be a domestic wife; one who is ever pining for and receiving fame can

never be content with the praise of one; and one who is always creating

imaginary feelings can have none for realities. To speak more plainly,

those who love a thousand times in idea can never love once in reality;

and so I say, Clara Stanley cannot value you sufficiently ever to

possess the rich honour of being chosen as your wife. Do not be angry

with my bluntness, Granville; I only speak because I love you.”

Granville Dudley was not angry; perhaps it had been better for his

happiness if he had been, as then he would not have been so easily

convinced by the specious reasoning of his friend. The conversation

lasted all that evening, and when Dudley retired to rest, it was with a

firm determination to watch Clara Stanley a few weeks longer, and if it

really were as Heyward stated, to dismiss her from his thoughts at once,

and even quit England for a time, rather than permit a momentary fancy

to make him miserable for life.

Now, though Charles Heyward had spoken in the language of the world, he

was not by any means a worldly man; nor Granville Dudley, though he had

listened and been convinced, unjust or capricious. Unfortunately for

Miss Stanley’s happiness, Granville’s mother had been one of those

shallow pretenders of literature which throw such odium upon all its

female professors. From his earliest childhood Dudley had been

accustomed to regard literature and authorship as synonymous with

domestic discord, conjugal disputes, and a complete neglect of all

duties, social or domestic. As he grew older, the excessive weakness of

his mother’s character, her want of judgment and common sense, and—it

appeared to his ardent disposition—even of common feelings, struck him

more and more; her descriptions of conjugal and maternal love were voted

by her set of admirers as perfect; but he could never remember that the

practice was equal to the theory. Nay, it did reach his ears, though he

banished the thought with horror, that his father’s early death might

have been averted, had he received more judicious care and tender

watchfulness from his literary wife.

Mrs. Dudley, however, died before her son’s strong affections had been

entirely blunted through her apparent indifference; and he therefore

only permitted himself to remember her faults as being the necessary

consequence of literature and genius encouraged in a woman. He was

neither old nor experienced enough, at the time of her death, to

distinguish between real genius and true literary aspirings, and their

shallow representatives, superficial knowledge and overbearing conceit.

As this was the case, it was not in the least surprising that he should

be so easily convinced of the truth and plausibility of Heyward’s

reasoning, or that Charles Heyward, aware of all which Dudley’s youth

had endured from literature and authorship in a mother, should be so

very eager to save him from their repetition in the closer relationship

of wife.

But Clara Stanley was no mere pretender to genius; the wise and

judicious training of affectionate parents had saved her from all the

irregularities of temper, indecision of purpose, and inconstancy of

pursuit which, because they have characterised some wayward ones, are

regarded as peculiar to genius. Her earliest childhood had displayed

more than common intellect, and its constant companions, keen

sensibility and thoughtfulness; a vivid imagination, an intuitive

perception of the beautiful, the holy, and the good; an extraordinary

memory, and rapid comprehension of every variety of literature, alike

prose and poetry, unfolded with her youth, combined with most

persevering efforts after improvement in every study which could assist

her natural gifts. It was impossible for her parents not to regard her

with pride, but it was pride mingled with trembling; for _they_ knew,

though _she_ did not, that even as she was set apart in the capability

of _mind_ from her fellows, so she was in the capability of _suffering_.

Knowing this, their every wish, their every effort, was directed to

providing her with a haven of refuge, where that ever-throbbing heart

might find its only perfect rest. Taught to regard mental powers,

however varied, as subordinate to her duties as a woman, and an English

and religious woman, modesty, gentleness, and love marked every word and

every action. Few there were, except her own immediate circle and

friends, who knew the extent of her mental powers, or the real energy

and strength of her character; but countless was the number of those

that loved her.

It was not, however, till after her father’s death she saw and felt the

necessity of making her talents a source of usefulness as well as of

pleasure. She was then little more than seventeen, but under the

fostering care of an influential literary friend, she was introduced to

the periodicals of the day, her productions accepted, and more requested

from the same hand.

Though a few years after Mr. Stanley’s death, however, their pecuniary

affairs were so advantageously settled that Clara had no longer any

necessity to make literature a profession. Their income was moderate,

but it rendered them happily independent.

“Now, now,” was Clara’s ardent exclamation, as she clasped her arms

about her mother’s neck, “I may concentrate my energies to a better and

holier purpose than the mere literature of the day; now I may indulge

the dream of effecting _good_, more than the mere amusement of the hour;

now I am no longer _bound_. Oh, who in this world is happier or more

blessed than I am?”

And as long as she resided under her mother’s roof, in the pretty little

village which had so long been her home, she was truly happy. Encouraged

by the popularity which, through her literary friend, she learned that

she had acquired; satisfied that he thought her capable of the work she

had attempted, and blessed with a mother for whose sake alone Clara

valued fame; for she knew how sweet to maternal affection were the

praises of a child.

But this might not last. Before she was one-and-twenty Clara was an

orphan, and long, long it was ere she could resume the employments she

had so loved, or look forward to anything but loneliness and misery.

Every thought, every task was associated with the departed, and could

filial love have preserved the vital spark the mother had yet been

spared; and had Granville Dudley known Clara in that sad time, he would

have been compelled to abjure his belief in the incompatibility of

literature with woman’s duties and affections.

But of such a trial both Granville and Heyward knew nothing; nor, when

the latter said that she _loved_ her profession, did he imagine the

struggle it had been for her to resume it—how completely at first it had

been the voice of duty, not of love. Fame had never been to her either

incentive or further reward than the mere gratification of the moment,

and as a source of pleasure to her mother; and how vain and hollow did

fame seem now! But hers was not a spirit to be conquered by deep sorrow.

She resumed her employments when health returned, with a bursting heart,

indeed, but they brought reward. They drew her from herself for the time

being, and energy in seeking to accomplish good gradually followed. The

severity of her trial was, however, if possible, heightened by the great

change in her mode of life. Her only near relation was an uncle, who

lived and moved in one of those circles of high pretension and false

merit with which the metropolis abounds. His wife, an ultra-fashionist,

lived herself and educated her daughters for the world and its follies

alone, inculcating the necessity of _attracting_ and _gaining_ husbands,

but not of keeping them. Exterior accomplishment, superficial

conversation, graceful carriage, and fashionable manners were all that

were considered needful—and all of feeling or of sentiment rubbed off,

as romance much too dreadful to be avowed.

To this family, at the request of her uncle, who actually made the

exertion of fetching her himself, Clara removed eight months after her

mother’s death. Yearning for affection, and knowing little of her

relatives, Clara had given imagination vent, and hoped happiness might

again be dawning for her. How greatly she was disappointed, our readers

may judge by the sketch we have given. In their vocabulary, authorship

and learning were synonymous with romance and folly; and worse still, as

dooming their possessors, unavoidably, to a state of single blessedness,

and therefore to be shunned as they would the plague itself. That Clara

devoted to her literary pursuits but the same number of hours that one

Miss Barclay did to music (that is its mechanical, not its mental part),

another to oriental or mezzotinting, or another to the creation of

wax-work, Berlin wool, etc., was not of the least consequence; their

horror of blueism was such, that to prevent all supposition of their

approval of Clara’s mode of life, they never lost an opportunity of

bewailing her unfortunate propensity—and of so impressing all who

visited at the house with the idea of her great learning and obtrusive

wisdom, that the gentle, unpretending manners of the authoress could not

weigh against it; and she found herself universally shunned as something

too terrible to be defined.