ventured, followed by Julia, to approach;—Georgiana leading, or rather
dragging the shy but lovely little Lizzie in one hand, and holding in
the other a freshly gathered rose-bud, which she timidly presented to
our heroine, as if to bribe her not to be harsh with them. May stooped
to kiss the intelligent face whose dark and eloquent eyes looked so
pleadingly into hers; while Julia, who stood behind her, stole the rose
from her hand. “Let me wreathe it in your hair,” she said. At that
moment, while she was yet engaged in her graceful task, the Earl
suddenly appeared before them. It must be remembered that he had seen,
from his library window, the before-mentioned chase, and rather curious
to know who the beautiful visiter could be, (not having been apprised of
Miss Evelyn’s arrival,) he had followed them to the spot on which they
were now assembled—May on the seat, parting the dark curls from
Lizzie’s bashful and downcast brow; Willie on her knee; Georgy gazing up
in her face, and Julia placing the rose-bud in her hair. All started at
the sudden appearance of the Earl. Willie sprang to his arms, and little
Lizzie, afraid of every new comer, laid her curly head on the knee of
her newly-found friend, and turned up her bright eyes inquiringly to her
father’s face.
“Do not let me disturb your play, my children,” said the Earl. “I only
come to remind you, that your governess will soon be here, and that you
must welcome her with respect and attention. But, Julia, you must
introduce me to this merry young friend of yours, who runs as if her
heart were in her feet;” and so saying, he playfully patted the drooping
head of the blushing and embarrassed girl, who, all this while, had been
striving to hide her fears and her confusion by pretending to be deeply
occupied in twisting Lizzie’s silken ringlets round her little taper
finger. The moment she had heard Willie exclaim, “papa!” all her former
dread of that awful personage returned, and, with it, for the first
time, a full sense of her own inefficiency to perform the task she had
undertaken. His voice so deep and yet so sweet and playful, banished
half her dread, but only increased her confusion.
Julia, however, came instantly to her relief, with a tact and delicacy
uncommon in one so young—saying simply and seriously, “This is our
governess, papa. Miss Evelyn, this is our dear papa.”
The Earl started back,—tried to repress his smiles, bowed low to
conceal them, and then taking her hand respectfully in his, bade her
welcome to the castle.
The word “governess” had acted like a spell upon May’s faculties; it
restored her to a sense of the dignity of her situation, and rising
instantly and drawing her beautiful form to its full height, she
received and returned the compliments of the Earl with a graceful
dignity and self-possession, that astonished him, as much as it awed the
poor children. And when, in his courteous reply, he begged her pardon
for his mistake, in a tone at once gentle and deferential, she found
courage, for the first time, to raise her eyes. It was no stern, old,
pompous nobleman, such as her fears had portrayed, who stood before her,
but an elegant man, in the prime of life, with a noble figure and
singularly handsome face, full of genius and feeling.
His dark eyes were bent upon her with a gaze of mingled curiosity and
admiration; but, as they met hers, he recollected himself, and wishing
her and his children good morning, and resigning Willie, as if it were a
thing of course, to her arms, (a circumstance, by the way, which he
could not help smiling at half an hour afterwards,) he passed on and
left them.
And now came innumerable questions from all but the silent Georgy, who
contented herself with nestling close to the side of our heroine as they
wandered through the grounds—and gazing with her large soft eyes into
her face, now dimpled with the light of mirth, now softening into
tenderness, and now shadowed by a passing thought of “papa, and Lionel,
and home.”
“And oh!” said Lizzie, “you won’t take away my doll and make me study
all the time, will you?”
“No, indeed, darling! I would much rather help you dress your doll.”
“And I may spin my top all day if I like—may I not?” asked Willie.
“Yes, if papa is willing.”
“Oh! but papa told us to obey all your commands.”
“Commands,” thought May, “oh, dear, I shall never do for a governess!”
The day passed on in sport. Our heroine’s duties were to commence on the
next; but she would not allow her fears for the morrow to interfere with
her present delight. In the meantime, the Earl, amid his important
duties, was haunted all day by one bewitching image;—a fair sweet face
glanced brightly up from every book he opened, from every paper to which
he referred; and, in his dreams that night, he led to the altar a second
bride, more lovely, more beloved than the first.
CHAPTER III.
Early the next morning, as May sat teaching Willie to read, with a
demure face, through which the rebel dimples would peep in spite of her
assumed dignity; while Julia, with a look equally demure, was bending
over an Italian book; Georgy drawing, and Lizzie hemming a wee bit
’kerchief for her doll—the Earl entered the school-room from the lawn.
Unseen, he paused at the open door to contemplate the lovely tableau
within;—the governess in her pretty girlish morning dress, with her
long ringlets shadowing half her face and neck, as she bent over the
boy, pointing out to him the word;—Willie by her side—one hand holding
the book, the other his top, kicking the chair impatiently—first with
one foot, then with the other, and looking round every minute to see
what his sisters were doing;—Georgy smiling as she drew; Lizzie sitting
upright in her little chair, with a doll almost as large as herself on
her lap, ever and anon trying the ’kerchief round its neck to see the
effect; and the simple, modest Julia, looking even older than May, with
her dark hair smoothly parted—raising at times her eyes with looks of
loving sympathy to those of the youthful teacher.
It was indeed a sunny scene; but the silence was broken by the voice of
Georgy requesting assistance in her drawing. The young governess rose,
and taking her offered pencil, retouched the sketch in a few places, at
the same time giving the child directions how to finish it. Suddenly the
pencil trembled in her hand,—the sweet low voice stopped—went
on—faltered—ceased again, and May burst into tears! The Earl had
stolen behind them to watch the progress of the drawing. May had felt,
rather than heard, his approach,—and confused by his presence, half
suspecting her own deficiency in the art, yet afraid to discontinue her
directions at once, her face suffused with blushes, she tried in vain to
proceed. Little Lizzie saw her tears, and springing from her seat,
climbed a chair to caress her, exclaiming, “Don’t cry! papa won’t hurt
you! Papa loves you dearly—don’t you, papa?”
Here was a situation! It was now the Earl’s turn to color; but the
artless and innocent May, who had as yet known only a father’s and a
brother’s love, did not dream of any other in the present case; on the
contrary, she was soothed by the affectionate assurances of the child,
and, smiling through her tears, looked up confidingly in the Earl’s
face. Charmed with the childlike sweetness of her expression he could
not resist taking her hand, with almost paternal tenderness, in his,
while May, reassured by the gentleness of his manner, ventured to
acknowledge her own ignorance, and to request his assistance in the
sketch before them. This, to the delight of all, he willingly consented
to give, and when, at two o’clock, the nurse came to take the children
to dinner, she found May seated alone at the table, intent on a newly
commenced drawing—the Earl leaning over her chair and instructing her
in its progress—Julia singing “Love’s Young Dream,” and the three
children gone no one knew where.
The next day, and the next, the Earl was still to be found in the
school-room, sometimes spinning Willie’s top, sometimes reading an
Italian author aloud to his daughter and her governess—often sharing
the book with the latter, and oftener still, blending his rich and manly
voice with hers as she sang to the harp or piano. One day a visiter
asked Willie how he liked his new governess? “Oh!” said the boy, “_papa_
is governess now. May is only our sister, and we are all _so_ happy!”
Thus passed a year—Julia and May daily improving under their indulgent
and unwearied teacher—and imparting in their turn instruction to the
younger branches of the family. May had confided to Julia all her little
history. She had written often to her father, and had received many
letters in return. From one of them she learned, to her great joy and
surprise, that Lionel had received his commission from some unknown
friend. At the same time, her father advised her, as she had engaged for
a year, to be contented until the expiration of it. “Contented!”
The last day of the year had arrived—May had lately been so happy that
she had forgotten to think of being separated from the family she loved
so much.
On the morning of the day, the Earl was in his library, Julia making
tea, and May on a low ottoman at his feet, reading aloud the morning
paper. Suddenly she paused, dropped the paper, and covered her face with
her hands. The Earl, alarmed, bent tenderly over her, and Julia was by
her side in a moment.
“What is it, dear May?” she said.
“Oh, the paper—look at the paper, Julia!”
The Earl caught it up—“Where—tell me where to look, May?”
“At the date—the date!”
“The date—it is the first of June—and what then?”
“Oh! did I not _come_ the first of June and must I not go to-morrow? I
am sure I shall never do for a governess!” and she hid her face on
Julia’s shoulder, and wept afresh.
The Earl raised her gently—“Perhaps not; but you will do for something
else, sweet May!”
“For what?” she asked earnestly—half wondering whether he could mean
_housekeeper_!
“Come into the garden with me, dear, dear May, and I will tell you,” he
whispered in her ear.
At once the whole truth flashed upon her heart. “She loved—she was
beloved!” She was no longer a child—that moment transformed her; and
shrinking instantly from his embrace and blushing till her very temples
glowed again—she said in a low and timid voice, “I think I had better
go home to-morrow—perhaps to-day: my father will expect me.”
“Julia,” said the Earl, “run into the garden, love, and see to
Willie—he is in mischief, I dare say.” His daughter was out of sight in
a moment. May stood shrinking and trembling, but unable to move. The
Earl gazed, with a feeling bordering upon reverence, at the young girl,
as she stood alone in her innocence. He drew slowly towards
her—hesitated—again approached, and taking her hand with respectful
tenderness, he said—“You know that I love you, May—how fondly—how
fervently—time must show for language cannot:—will you—_say_ you will
be mine—with your father’s consent, dear May—or say that I may hope!”
Her whole soul was in her eyes as she raised them slowly to his and
dropped them instantly again beneath his ardent gaze. “But—papa!” she
murmured.
“We will all go together, and ask ‘papa,’ dearest; and now for a turn in
the garden. You will not refuse now, love?” And May Evelyn, blushing and
smiling, took his offered arm, wondering what “dear papa and Lionel”
would say to all this.
It was a lovely evening in the early part of June, that, while Mr.
Evelyn sat dozing in his arm chair and dreaming of his absent children,
a light form stole over the threshold, and when he awoke, his gray hair
was mingled with the glistening locks of his own beautiful and beloved
May—his head resting on her shoulder, and her kiss warm upon his cheek!
“My Lord,” said May, demurely, as she entered, with her father, the
drawing-room in which the Earl awaited them—“papa is very glad that I
have _given satisfaction_;—he thinks your visit a proof of it—although
he could hardly have expected so much from his little ignoramus, as he
will persist in calling me.”
“My dear sir,” said the Earl, cordially pressing the offered hand of his
host, “she has given _so much satisfaction_, that I wish, with your
consent, to retain her as _governess_ for life, not for my children, but
myself.”
The reader has already foreseen the conclusion. Mr. Evelyn’s consent was
obtained;—Lionel was sent for to be present at the wedding;—the
ceremony was quietly performed in the little church of the village;—and
for many succeeding seasons in London, the graceful and elegant wife of
the Earl of —— was “the observed of all observers,” “the cynosure of
neighboring eyes.”
* * * * *
AN EPISTLE TO FANNY.
BY PARK BENJAMIN.
Sweet Fanny, though I know you not,
And I have never seen the splendor
That flashes from your hazel eyes
To make the souls of men surrender;
Though, when they ask me how you look,
I’m forced to say “I never met her,”
I hope you will not deem it wrong
If I address to you a letter.
Here in mine own secluded room,
Forgetful of life’s sober duty,
Lapped in the stillness of repose,
I sit and muse and dream of beauty;
I picture all that’s fair and bright
Which poets sometimes call Elysian,
And, ’mid the shapes that round me throng,
Behold one soft, enchanting vision.
A lady—lovely as the morn
When Night her starry mansion closes,
And gentle winds with fairy feet
Toss the sweet dew from blushing roses—
A lady—to whose lip and cheek
Some twenty summer suns have given
Colors as rich as those that melt
Along the evening clouds of Heaven.
Her stature tall, her tresses dark,
Her brow like light in ambush lying,
Her hand—the very hand I’d give
The world to clasp if I were dying!
Her eyes, the glowing types of love,
Upon the heart they print their meaning—
How mild they shine as o’er them fall
Those lashes long their lustre screening!
Sweet Fanny, can you not divine
The form that floats before my dreaming,
And whose the pictured smiles I see
This moment on my canvass beaming?
You cannot! then I’ve failed indeed,
To paint a single look I cherish—
So, you may cast my lines aside,
And bid them like my memory perish.
My memory! what am I to thee,
Oh purest, gentlest, fairest, dearest!
Yes, _dearest_, though thy glance be cold
When first my humble name thou hearest.
Though I am nothing, thou to me
Art Fancy’s best beloved ideal;
And well I know the form she paints
Is far less charming than the real.
* * * * *
THE DOOM OF THE TRAITRESS.[1]
BY THE AUTHOR OF “CROMWELL,” “THE BROTHERS,” ETC.
A cold and dark northeaster had swept together a host of straggling
vapors and thin lowering clouds over the French metropolis—the course
of the Seine might be traced easily among the grotesque roofs and gothic
towers which at that day adorned its banks, by the gray ghostly mist
which seethed up from its sluggish waters—a small fine rain was falling
noiselessly and almost imperceptibly, by its own weight as it were, from
the surcharged and watery atmosphere—the air was keenly cold and
piercing, although the seasons had not crept far as yet beyond the
confines of the summer. The trees, for there were many in the streets of
Paris and still more in the fauxbourgs and gardens of the haute
noblesse, were thickly covered with white rime, as were the manes and
frontlets of the horses, the clothes, and hair, and eyebrows of the
human beings who ventured forth in spite of the inclement weather. A
sadder and more gloomy scene can scarcely be conceived than is presented
by the streets of a large city in such a time as that I have attempted
to describe. But this peculiar sadness was, on the day of which I write,
augmented and exaggerated by the continual tolling of the great bell of
St. Germain Auxerrois, replying to the iron din which arose from the
gray towers of Notre Dâme. From an early hour of the day the people had
been congregating in the streets and about the bridges leading to the
precincts of the royal palace, the Chateau des Tournelles, which then
stood—long since obliterated almost from the memory of men—upon the
Isle de Paris, the greater part of which was covered then with the
courts, and terraces, and gardens of that princely pile.
Strong bodies of the household troops were posted here and there about
the avenues and gates of the royal demesne, and several large
detachments of the archers of the prevôt’s guard—still called so from
the arms which they had long since ceased to carry—might be seen every
where on duty. Yet there were no symptoms of an émeute among the
populace, nor any signs of angry feeling or excitement in the features
of the loitering crowd, which was increasing every moment as the day
waxed toward noon. Some feeling certainly there was—some dark and
earnest interest, as might be judged from the knit brows, clinched
hands, and anxious whispers which every where attended the exchange of
thought throughout the concourse—but it was by no means of an alarming
or an angry character. Grief, wonder, expectation, and a sort of half
doubtful pity, as far as might be gathered from the words of the passing
speakers, were the more prominent ingredients of the common feeling,
which had called out so large a portion of the city’s population on a
day so unsuited to any spectacle of interest. For several hours this
mob, increasing as it has been described from hour to hour, varied but
little in its character, save that as the day wore it became more and
more respectable in the appearance of its members. At first it had been
composed almost without exception of artisans and shop boys, and
mechanics of the lowest order, with not a few of the cheats, bravoes,
pickpockets, and similar ruffians, who then as now formed a fraternity
of no mean size in the Parisian world. As the morning advanced, however,
many of the burghers of the city, and respectable craftsmen, might be
seen among the crowd; and a little later many of the secondary gentry
and petite noblesse, with well-dressed women and even children, all
showing the same symptoms of sad yet eager expectation. Now, when it
lacked but a few minutes of noon, long trains of courtiers with their
retinues and armed attendants, many a head of a renowned and ancient
house, many a warrior famous for valor and for conduct might be seen
threading the mazes of the crowded thoroughfares toward the royal
palace.
A double ceremony of singular and solemn nature was soon to be enacted
there—the interment of a noble soldier, slain lately in an unjust
quarrel, and the investiture of an unwilling woman with the robes of a
holy sisterhood preparatory to her lifelong interment in that sepulchre
of the living body—sepulchre of the pining soul—the convent cloisters.
Armand de Laguy!—Marguerite de Vaudreuil!
Many circumstances had united in this matter to call forth much
excitement, much grave interest in the minds of all who had heard tell
of it!—the singular and wild romance of the story, the furious and
cruel combat which had resulted from it—and last not least, the
violent, and, as it was generally considered, unnatural resentment of
the King toward the guilty victim who survived the ruin she had wrought.
The story was in truth, then, but little understood—a thousand rumors
were abroad, and of course no one accurately true—yet in each there was
a share of truth, and the amount of the whole was, perhaps, less wide of
the mark than is usual in matters of the kind. And thus they ran.
Marguerite de Vaudreuil had been betrothed to the youngest of France’s
famous warriors, Charles de La-Hirè, who after a time fell—as it was
related by his young friend and kinsman, Armand de Laguy—covered with
wounds and honor. The body had been found outstretched beneath the
surviver, who, himself desperately hurt, had alone witnessed, and in
vain endeavored to prevent, his cousin’s slaughter. The face of Charles
de La-Hirè, as all men deemed the corpse to be, was mangled and defaced
so frightfully as to render recognition by the features utterly
hopeless—yet from the emblazoned surcoat which it bore, the well-known
armor on the limbs, the signet ring upon the finger, and the accustomed
sword clenched in the dead right hand, none doubted the identity of the
body, or questioned the truth of Armand’s story.
Armand de Laguy, succeeding by his cousin’s death to all his lands and
lordships, returned to the metropolis, mixed in the gayeties of that gay
period, when all the court of France was revelling in the celebration of
the union of the Dauphin with the lovely Mary Stuart, in after days the
hapless queen of Scotland.
He wore no decent and accustomed garb of mourning—he suffered no
interval, however brief, due to decorum at least if not to kindly
feeling, to elapse before it was announced that Marguerite de Vaudreuil,
the dead man’s late betrothed, was instantly to wed his living cousin.
Her wondrous beauty, her all-seductive manners, her extreme youth had in
vain pleaded against the general censure of the court—the world! Men
had frowned on her for awhile, and women sneered and slandered!—but
after a little while, as the novelty of the story wore away, the
indignation against her inconstancy ceased, and she was once again
installed the leader of the court’s unwedded beauties.
Suddenly, on the very eve of her intended nuptials, Charles de La-Hirè
returned—ransomed, as it turned out, by Brissac, from the Italian
dungeons of the Prince of Parma, and making fearful charges of treason
and intended murder against Armand de Laguy. The King had commanded that
the truth should be proved by a solemn combat, had sworn to execute upon
the felon’s block whichever of the two should yield or confess
falsehood, had sworn that the inconstant Marguerite, who, on the return
of De La-Hirè, had returned instantly to her former feelings, asserting
her perfect confidence in the truth of Charles, the treachery of Armand,
should either wed the victor, or live and die the inmate of the most
rigorous convent in his realm.
The battle had been fought yesterday!—Armand de Laguy fell, mortally
wounded by his wronged cousin’s hand, and with his latest breath
declared his treasons, and implored pardon from his King, his kinsman,
and his God—happy to perish by a brave man’s sword not by a headsman’s
axe. And Marguerite—the victor’s prize—rejected by the man she had
betrayed—herself refusing, even if he were willing, to wed with him
whom she could but dishonor—had now no option save death or the
detested cloister.
And now men pitied—women wept—all frowned and wondered and kept
silence. That a young, vain, capricious beauty—the pet and spoiled
child from her very cradle of a gay and luxurious court—worshipped for
her charms like a second Aphrodite—intoxicated with the love of
admiration—that such an one should be inconstant, fickle!—should
swerve from her fealty to the dead!—a questionable fealty always!—and
be won to a rash second love by the falsehood and treasons of a man,
young and brave and handsome—falsehood which had deceived wise
men—that such should be the course of events, men said, was neither
strange nor monstrous! It was a fault, a lapse of which she had been
guilty, which might indeed make her future faith suspected, which would
surely justify Charles de La-Hirè in casting back her proffered hand,
but which at the worst was venial, and deserving no such doom as the
soul-chilling cloister.
She had, they said, in no respect participated in the guilt, or shared
the treacheries of Armand—on the contrary—she, the victim of his
fraud, had been the first to denounce, to spit at, to defy him.
Moreover it was understood that although de La-Hirè had refused her
hand, several of equal and even higher birth than he had offered to
redeem her from the cloister by taking her to wife of their free
choice—Jarnac had claimed the beauty—and it was whispered that the
Duke de Nevers had sued to Henry vainly for the fair hand of the
unwilling novice.