sunlight fell upon it, the gentle eyes looked a reproachful gaze on him.
He was not a hard-hearted man. Pride was his ruling passion. False pride
it might have been; whether false or true, it fastened on him then,
driving back the kindlier feelings the memory of his wife had roused
within him. He checked the tear before it came to his eyes, and putting
on a heavy frown—
“Rise, sir minion,” said he, “I have told thee my daughter shall wed the
Talavera—_and she shall!_”
“_Never!_ as I live, never!” said the girl. “Never shall a Llenaro
become the bride of the man she cannot love!—never!”
The lady looked her father’s child—as though she had been born to be
obeyed. The softness of the mother had gone. Her slight, round figure,
straight as a young Indian’s, had risen to its full height. Her eyes
dilated—those eyes, where shone her soul—those warm, black eyes, whose
every glance kept time to the throbbings of her impulsive heart.
“Ysabel,” said Llenaro, sadly, after a pause, “thou forgetest I am thy
father.”
“My father! dearest papa!—my own father, forgive me. Thou _art_ my
father! but do not,” her tones were low and earnest, “oh! do not force
this hated match on thy child. She will do anything—_all_ thou
wishest—but oh! do not seal her misery forever.”
The count permitted the ardent caresses of the maiden, then putting her
gently from him, he told her to remain in her turret. He had much to say
to her. He would seek her when he was ready to tell her what he had to
say. Then turning to Jose, he added, “Follow me, sir page, I have
somewhat to say to thee also.”
The maiden watched the receding forms of the two until they had
disappeared, and then she murmured, “He spoke kindly to me,” and _Hope_
warmed her heart. A bright Hope! Hope the deceiver! What would the world
be without thee, fairy Hope? Thou comest like a dream, whispering in our
soul’s ear thy witching fancies, until they seem realities—and the _is
to be_, stands before us a living _now_! Great is thy power, fair
Hope—and thou knowest it,—and so thou goest on deluding
mortals,—making the dim shadowy perspective a glorious foreground. So,
when our hearts feel sad and weary, and long to burst the chain that
binds them to this dark earth, thou comest with the dews of heaven fresh
glistening on thy lips—and tellest us fairy tales, and singest us fairy
songs—and kissest our hearts with thy cool, dewy lips. And we believe
thee, syren, and let thee deceive us again and again.
The Lady Ysabel rested her wild, black eyes—beaming with a thousand
thoughts—upon her mother’s picture, and kneeling before it, she clasped
her little hands and implored her gentle mother to look down kindly on
her daughter. “And, mother,” continued she—her lute-like voice scarce
audible—“ask _Him_, the mighty one—whose throne is in high heaven—to
forgive thy erring child, if she forgets, in her love for the creature,
the Creator. God forgive me if I love _him_ more than I ought, for I
cannot love him less.”
The Lady Ysabel watched all that evening for her father, and the next
day—and the next—and the next—and then her cheek began to pale, and
her eye grew dim with weeping. For Hope had grown weary and fled. She
could not dream either why the page came not—a little indignation
mingled with her sorrow.
The duenna did all she could to restore her young lady to her right
mind, as she said. At length she brought her a letter—saying—
“Take it, _mi_ señorita, a holy friar gave it me for thee. Learn from
it, Señorita Ysabel, to control thy too great grief. It is sinful and
wrong to indulge in sorrow as thou dost.”
The Lady Ysabel knew the writing—tremblingly she broke the seal, and
read,
“_My gentle Ysabel_—Thy father hath forbidden me the castle, or
ever to see thee again—but fear not, dearest, thy father cannot
withstand thy gentleness—thy goodness. Thou wert not made to be
unhappy—thou art too good—too kind—too true. God will not see
thee made wretched. He watches over thee. He will not desert
thee—and, dearest, remember there is one heart that beats for
thee—and thee alone—whose every pulse is thine. Sunshine is
midnight without the light of thine eyes to tell where shineth
the sun, and when, gentlest, I would see thee, I would press thy
hands upon my heart—that its wild throbbings might be stilled.
I would look into the clear depths of thy truthful eyes, and
learn there a lesson of calmness—of faith to bear, and hope to
look beyond. Thy duenna, sweetest, more than mistrusts my
disguise—but a golden bait has lured stronger minds than hers
from the clear waters of truth. I cannot quit the castle
grounds, for in it is all that is dear to me on earth. Write,
dearest, if thou canst, to thine own
Jose.”
The lady sat before her scrutoire to write to him she loved, when she
heard her father’s step. She had only time to crumple his letter in her
bosom as the father entered. Ever obedient to her heart’s impulse, she
sprang towards him, and throwing her white arms about his neck, she
called him her dear, _dear_ papa, and burst into tears.
“Calm thyself, my Ysabel. I would tell thee frankly why I ask thee to
sacrifice thyself—to seal thy misery, as thou sayest.” He led her
gently to an ottoman, and seated himself beside her.
“Ysabel, wouldst thou see thy father penniless, homeless, a beggar?”
“Papa!” looked the wondering eyes of Ysabel.
“I repeat it, Ysy, wouldst thou see thy father resign all these fair
acres, and starve a houseless beggar? Wouldst thou, Ysy?”
“What meanest thou, papa? in mercy tell me.”
“If by one act of thine, it were in thy power to make thy father’s
happiness, wouldst thou not do that act?”
“Dear papa, thou knowest I would—but oh! tell me all. What am I to do?
And yet I know—but _why_? tell me why”—
“Ysabel, by becoming his bride, thou canst save thy father from becoming
a beggar.”
The girl shuddered but said in a low calm voice,
“Father, tell me why—tell me _all_. Make a confidant of thy child. I
can bear anything. See! I am calm.”
“Ysabel, I will! in as few words as possible. A year ago, you may
remember, Talavera was here. He has not been here since. A short time
after that, his last visit, the page came—though it is not of him I
would speak. We played—Talavera and I. At first I won—in the success
of the moment I staked high—and lost. I still played on—every throw
swept off acre after acre of the lands my fathers owned. Midnight saw me
without a farthing—and without a foot of earth to call my own. Then
came a bond. I signed it. It gave me back my broad lands—my wealth—but
it deprived me of the only thing I had on earth to love—of you, my
Ysabel! See! here is the bond.”
The lady’s heart was still—very still—so still it almost frightened
her. Her cheek, lips, hands, were cold and bloodless. It seemed as
though her blood had all gone to her heart—and frozen there! Her eye
was passionless, it was so calm. She held the open paper before her, and
without reading or seeing, she read and saw enough to know that the fair
grounds and castle of Ysolo-Rosse—where she had lived from her
infancy—where her father had loved her mother—were to go into the
hands of the Talavera, unless she became his bride.
“Ysabel, I have sworn thou shalt be his bride, but I will recall my oath
if thou sayest so. What is thy decision?”
“I will wed him,” replied the girl.
Llenaro clasped her to his heart, and kissing her cold brow, he added,
“The day thou art seventeen was the day decided upon—it will be here in
a week. But if ’twill be too soon, no doubt the Marquis will”—
“’Twill not be too soon.”
“Ysabel, thou frightenest me, thou art so pale—I will not force thee
into what would be thy unhappiness.”
“Nay, papa, I had much rather be unhappy myself than to see thee so. But
I will not be. To-morrow thou shalt see me more cheerful.”
The wily lord had learned the way to make his daughter’s will his own.
He loved that daughter, and felt a father’s pity for her. But he thought
although she suffered then—and it pained him to the soul to see it—she
would soon forget her youthful passion, and, as the wife of the
Talavera, she would gradually learn to be happy. Her future husband was
all that was noble and good—all this thought the father—and then he
thought “the Castle of Ysolo-Rosse will still be mine.” The father’s
conscience was _almost_ quieted.
“I have foresworn playing, Belle,” said he, sadly, “never, should I live
forever, will another card pass through my hands. Ysabel, my darling
child! do not look so sad,—seek the cool air, it will revive thee. Go
and gather thy favorite wild flowers: they will divert thy mind from its
sorrow. My noble, generous girl.” He fondly kissed his child and then
withdrew.
Ysabel left to herself mechanically sought the garden. She wandered over
her favorite haunts, scarce knowing what she did. Her heart, her
thoughts were still as the grave. She reached her bower—the little
vine-clad bower, where the page and she had so often sat listening to
the music of each other’s voices. And there, on the very seat where they
were wont to sit—was Jose! the page!
“Ysabel! beloved!” exclaimed he in unfeigned delight—and the girl was
in his arms.
“Dearest, best, my gentle Ysabel! am I once more permitted to see
thee?—to clasp thee to my heart? But, sweetest, how thou hast changed.
How pale thou art. Go with me dearest, I will be thy father, brother,
husband, friend. Leave this hated castle—now—speak, dear one, wilt
thou go with me? Dear, _dear_ Ysabel, tell me.”
“Jose, I cannot—I have promised to become his bride!”
“But, dearest, they shall not force thee to do what thou dost not wish.”
“Jose, I had my own free choice.”
“And thou didst choose—”
“To become his bride.”
“Will nothing induce thee to alter thy determination?”
“_Nothing!_”
“Good bye, Ysabel.”
“Jose! Dear Jose—” but the page was gone.
The next morning found the lady Ysabel in the spot where the page had
left her. Then followed many days of sickness. Her life was despaired
of. Day after day she lay, pale, cold, insensible. Reason had forsaken
her throne. Her sweet smiles were gone; and the speaking glances of her
dewy eyes had fled. Her voice too—for she had not spoken since that
night. Even the pulsations of her heart were silent. Life alone
remained—life without its light. And how her father watched over
her—and how bitterly he lamented, and cursed himself for having brought
her thus. At length light shone in her eyes—the light of life. Morning
dawned in upon the darkness of her soul.
“_Good bye, Ysabel_,” said she.
“My own child, what dost thou say?” asked the father, bending anxiously
over her.
“Good bye, Ysabel—” and she looked up in her father’s face and
smiled.—_That smile!_ it haunted him to his grave!
“Are you better, my own Ysabel? my dearest child?”
“Yes papa,—I am well. What a strange dream I have had. Ah! now I
recollect—” and she sunk into a gentle sleep.
Day by day she gained health and strength. The father never left her
side.
“Papa,” said she one day, “will you let me see that paper again? you
know the one I mean.”
“No, my child, you never need see or think of it.”
“Do let me take it, papa—you do not know how well and strong I am—do,
dearest papa?” And the father was prevailed upon. She saw she could save
her father from ruin, and her mind was made.
“How old am I, papa?”
“Three weeks ago saw you seventeen.”
“Does the—does my future husband know of my illness?”
“He has sent repeatedly to inquire after your health. His courier was
here this morning.”
“Will you send him word I am well—and am ready in two weeks from now to
become his wife?”
“Are you in earnest, Ysabel?”
“Perfectly so.”
“Is it of your own free will you speak?”
“It is, papa.” And the father was deceived—perhaps too willingly so.
The Lady Ysabel was able now to revisit her favorite haunts. Every thing
she saw brought the page vividly before her eyes. Sometimes an
inscription on a tree—the walks, the flowers, the bower where last they
met—all, all brought with them the memory of _him_. She strove to
banish, as high treason to her happiness, all thoughts of him—and the
firmness of her nature conquered. She familiarised herself to all the
old spots where she had loved to be with him—and she thought she was
happy—almost—happy.
The day at length came—clear—cloudless—sun-bright. And then the
lady’s heart misgave her—she said not a word, however, but let them
deck her in her bridal gear, scarce knowing or caring what they did.
Evening came. The chapel was brilliantly lighted. The bright red wine
flowed freely—and joy danced in all hearts, save one.
Ysabel was pale, very, very pale when she entered the chapel. The orange
buds that wreathed her hair were not more pale.
The Talavera had not yet come. All was ready. The priest in his long
flowing robes—the father—the bridesmaid—the guests; for the father
had invited many a noble house to witness his daughter’s nuptials. All
were ready, and still the bridegroom came not. At length was heard a
confused movement, and, in the midst of that joyous mass of life, the
Marquis of Talavera had been thrown from his carriage, and the servants,
in their fright and dismay, scarce knowing what they did, had borne him
in his litter to the chapel.
The Lady Ysabel grew even more pale, as she looked upon the bier. There
lay the lord who was to have been her husband! She gazed on him in a
sort of nightmare fascination—a weight seemed taken from her heart—a
feeling of relief mingled with the horror of the hour.
The Doña Ysabel enjoyed one short month of tranquillity—and then came
news from the castle of Talavera. The will of the marquis had been read.
He had bequeathed to his son and heir all his vast estates together with
the Lady Ysabel, should he himself die before the marriage took place.
The _bond_ still held good!
A letter came from the young marquis to the count, demanding his
daughter’s hand in marriage. The letter was gracefully written, and told
how he had long heard of the wondrous beauty of the Doña Ysabel, and how
ardently he desired to become the possessor of it.
Again the lady yielded to her father’s persuasion. The present marquis
was young and handsome—so the objection of age was removed. All Spain
knew he was noble, and brave—and all the bright-eyed daughters of Spain
might well look envy on the favored Ysabel, that the young Talavera had
chosen her.
He was then travelling in the interior of Europe. His letter was dated,
Vienna. One year from the day of the elder Talavera’s death was the day
fixed upon to celebrate the bridals of the bravest cavalier and
loveliest flower in all Spain.
Ysabel yielded, and tried to seem cheerful, but her step grew slower and
slower, and her fair face paler and more pale. As her days went on did
she each day lose some part of this earth, earthy. So very gradual was
the change that neither her father nor those around her seemed to
observe it. So passed seven months. Four months more were to find her a
new home in the heart of the Talavera.
She daily visited the spot where she had last seen _him_, in the hope
of——she knew not what.
The Doña Ysabel was in her bower—neither reading, nor sewing, nor
watching her flowers—but in a state of listlessness, half reclining on
the cushioned seat, when suddenly her name was spoken! It was not her
father’s voice. The next instant saw the Doña close to the heart of the
page, Jose! Neither spoke—the heart of each was too full for
words—dull words cannot express our strongest emotions, when the heart
is too big for utterance, speech is but a mockery. Words came at length,
and the page told her how much anguish he had suffered, and how he could
no longer stay away from her he loved. That he came, hardly expecting to
see her, and if he did see her, he feared he should find her changed.
“And, dearest Ysabel, thou art changed—not in thy love—but thou art
but the shadow of the Ysabel that in days syne, bounded so joyfully over
these hills.” He held up her hand—
“It was so thin and transparent of hue,
You might have seen the moon shine through!”
The Lady Ysabel told the page _all_. How that she had consented to
become the bride of the young Talavera. The page learned the reason from
her too, why she had consented to become the wife of one she could not
love. He smiled when he heard that the Talavera must become master,
either of the castle and property of Ysolo-Rosse, or of the lovely Lady
Ysabel.
When Ysabel retired to rest that night, it was with a light heart. Day
after day witnessed the meetings of the lady and the page—and day after
day witnessed her returning bloom of face and buoyancy of heart. She was
once more that glad, bright Ysabel as when the page first came to her
father’s castle.
The father, without inquiring the cause, saw his child happy and
smiling, and he was satisfied. And she _was_ happy and smiling—the
smiles never left her little dimpled mouth—soon as one went another
came. Even in her sleep, her joyous heart beamed from her face.
The morning came bright and sunshiny as it had done just one year
before. The chapel was again illuminated—again were the guests
assembled—and again, surrounded by her bridesmaids, came the Lady
Ysabel into the chapel. But oh! what a different Lady Ysabel from the
one of the year ago. The bridal wreath encircled her brow—and below
that fair brow beamed out the _happiest_ pair of eyes imaginable! What
could it mean?
There was heard among the guests a universal murmur of admiration as she
made her appearance. So beautiful, so bright, so radiant a being they
had never seen. Her face appeared actually to _emit light_—so truly did
the bright sunshine of her glad young heart shine through.
A slight movement at the great double door of the chapel—and the
bridegroom, the Marquis of Talavera was announced!
Quite as great a sensation did the noble, manly figure of the young
marquis create, as had the softer and more gentle one of the Lady
Ysabel.
The father seemed struck dumb in sudden surprise!—at length, burst from
his lips—“The page!”
Any of the old gossips of Spain will tell you the rest of the story—and
what a joyous wedding there was—and how every one said there never was
so well matched—so noble a pair, as Don Jose, Marquis of Talavera, and
his gentle bride, Ysabel! They will tell you, too, that the honey-moon,
instead of lasting but thirty-one days, did outlast thirty-one
years!—and the love that was true to the sire could not but bless the
son.
* * * * *
So endeth the story of “The Lady and the Page.”
* * * * *
FANCIES ABOUT A ROSEBUD,
PRESSED IN AN OLD COPY OF SPENSER.
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
Who prest you here? The Past can tell,
When summer skies were bright above,
And some full heart did leap and swell
Beneath the white new moon of love.
Some Poet, haply, when the world
Showed like a calm sea, grand and blue,
Ere its cold, inky waves had curled
O’er the numb heart once warm and true;
When, with his soul brimful of morn,
He looked beyond the vale of Time,
Nor saw therein the dullard scorn
That made his heavenliness a crime;
When, musing o’er the Poets olden,
His soul did like a sun upstart
To shoot its arrows, clear and golden,
Through slavery’s cold and darksome heart.
Alas! too soon the veil is lifted
That hangs between the soul and pain,
Too soon the morning-red hath drifted
Into dull cloud, or fallen in rain!
Or were you prest by one who nurst
Bleak memories of love gone by,
Whose heart, like a star fallen, burst
In dark and erring vacancy?
To him you still were fresh and green
As when you grew upon the stalk,
And many a breezy summer scene
Came back—and many a moonlit walk;
And there would be a hum of bees,
A smell of childhood in the air,
And old, fresh feelings cooled the breeze
That, like loved fingers, stirred his hair!
Then would you suddenly be blasted
By the keen wind of one dark thought,
One nameless woe, that had outlasted
The sudden blow whereby ’twas brought.
Or were you pressed here by two lovers
Who seemed to read these verses rare,
But found between the antique covers
What Spenser could not prison there:
Songs which his glorious soul had heard,
But his dull pen could never write,
Which flew, like some gold-winged bird,
Through the blue heaven out of sight?
My heart is with them as they sit,
I see the rose-bud in her breast,
I see her small hand taking it
From out its odorous, snowy nest;
I hear him swear that he will keep it,
In memory of that blessed day,
To smile on it or over-weep it
When she and spring are far away.
Ah me! I needs must droop my head,
And brush away a happy tear,
For they are gone, and, dry and dead,
The rose-bud lies before me here.
Yet is it in no stranger’s hand,
For I will guard it tenderly,
And it shall be a magic wand
To bring mine own true love to me.
My heart runs o’er with sweet surmises,
The while my fancy weaves her rhyme,
Kind hopes and musical surprises
Throng round me from the olden time.
I do not care to know who prest you:
Enough for me to feel and know
That some heart’s love and longing blest you,
Knitting to-day with long-ago.
* * * * *
IMAGINATION.[2]
It is so long a time since a poem of any serious pretensions has made
its appearance before the British or American public, that we have
almost ceased to look for new metrical productions, divided into books
or cantos. We have been contented with the light, fugitive strains of
the periodicals, and have not asked for grand overtures—such as used to
absorb the whole interest of the reading public, twenty, thirty, fifty
and more years ago. In the middle of the last century, a man, to be
recognised as a poet, was required to issue some single work of a
thousand lines. Quantity was more considered than quality; intellectual
labor was judged of rather by the amount of its achievements than by
their kind.
Poetry has at times been criticised by a different rule than Painting.
That age never was, when an artist acquired a reputation in consequence
of the number of his pictures: one gem of art has always been more
highly esteemed than a million crystals. In all days past, as in the day
present, it might be said of a single head by a master, small, faded,
stained, yet beautiful through the rust of age,—“that little bit of
canvass is worth more than a whole gallery of fresh portraits, though
after living models, as beautiful as Aspasia, or as stately as
Alcibiades.” But a solitary brief poem was never so valued in comparison
with a voluminous production. Even now, formed and polished as the
public taste pretends itself to be, there lurks with us that prejudice
which more highly ranks the author of a book of verses than the author
of a sonnet. Though the book may be as negative in merit as the correct
hand of gentle dullness could make it, and the sonnet as perfect as the
best that Petrarch wrote, in the intensest glow of his love and his
genius—except by the few, the former would be regarded as the more
arduous, the more commendable performance.
The philosophy of this prejudice, is a sort of respect mankind
entertains for a constant fulfilment of the original curse. We love to
see hard work done or indicated. We look at a mass of printed leaves and
exclaim, “Goodness! what an industrious individual the writer must have
been! How much he has accomplished!” It may be that, upon examination,
his work may have added nothing to the available stock of literature; it
may be that it will prove useless lumber, destined to dust and obscurity
in men’s garrets, and not worth the corners it will encumber. “What of
that? the author had to work hard to do it—didn’t he?” Yes! such is the
question put by people who seem to love labor for its own sake. They
look upon men of talent very much in the same light that old Girard of
Philadelphia considered poor people who existed by the employment of
their arms and legs.