at a castle but a few miles distant. Before dawn a young cavalier was
introduced into his chamber. The knight had a serious, nay, a sad
aspect; and all beautiful as he was in feature and limb, looked wayworn
and haggard. He stood silent in Henry’s presence, who, alert and gay,
turned his lively blue eyes upon his guest, saying gently, “So thou
foundest her obdurate, Gaspar?”
“I found her resolved on our mutual misery. Alas! my liege, it is not,
credit me, the least of my grief, that Constance sacrifices her own
happiness when she destroys mine.”
“And thou believest that she will say nay to the gaillard chevalier whom
we ourselves present to her?”
“Oh, my liege, think not that thought! it cannot be. My heart deeply,
most deeply, thanks you for your generous condescension. But she whom
her lover’s voice in solitude—whose entreaties, when memory and
seclusion aided the spell—could not persuade, will resist even your
majesty’s commands. She is bent upon entering a cloister; and I, so
please you, will now take my leave:—I am henceforth a soldier of the
cross.”
“Gaspar,” said the monarch, “I know woman better than thou. It is not by
submission nor tearful plaints she is to be won. The death of her
relatives naturally sits heavy at the young countess’s heart; and
nourishing in solitude her regret and her repentance, she fancies that
Heaven itself forbids your union. Let the voice of the world reach
her—the voice of earthly power and earthly kindness—the one commanding,
the other pleading, and both finding response in her own heart—and by my
fay and the Holy Cross, she will be yours. Let our plan still hold. And
now to horse: the morning wears, and the sun is risen.”
The king arrived at the bishop’s palace, and proceeded forthwith to mass
in the cathedral. A sumptuous dinner succeeded, and it was afternoon
before the monarch proceeded through the town beside the Loire to where,
a little above Nantes, the Chateau Villeneuve was situated. The young
countess received him at the gate. Henry looked in vain for the cheek
blanched by misery, the aspect of downcast despair which he had been
taught to expect. Her cheek was flushed, her manner animated, her voice
scarce tremulous. “She loves him not,” thought Henry, “or already her
heart has consented.”
A collation was prepared for the monarch; and after some little
hesitation, arising even from the cheerfulness of her mien, he mentioned
the name of Gaspar. Constance blushed instead of turning pale, and
replied very quickly, “To-morrow, good my liege; I ask for a respite but
until to-morrow;—all will then be decided;—to-morrow I am vowed to
God—or”—
She looked confused, and the king, at once surprised and pleased, said,
“Then you hate not young De Vaudemont;—you forgive him for the inimical
blood that warms his veins.”
“We are taught that we should forgive, that we should love our enemies,”
the countess replied, with some trepidation.
“Now, by Saint Denis, that is a right welcome answer for the novice,”
said the king, laughing. “What ho! my faithful serving-man, Dan Apollo
in disguise! come forward, and thank your lady for her love.”
In such disguise as had concealed him from all, the cavalier had hung
behind, and viewed with infinite surprise the demeanour and calm
countenance of the lady. He could not hear her words: but was this even
she whom he had seen trembling and weeping the evening before?—this she
whose very heart was torn by conflicting passion?—who saw the pale
ghosts of parent and kinsman stand between her and the lover whom more
than her life she adored? It was a riddle hard to solve. The king’s call
was in unison with his impatience, and he sprang forward. He was at her
feet; while she, still passion-driven, overwrought by the very calmness
she had assumed, uttered one cry as she recognised him, and sank
senseless on the floor.
All this was very unintelligible. Even when her attendants had brought
her to life, another fit succeeded, and then passionate floods of tears;
while the monarch, waiting in the hall, eyeing the half-eaten collation,
and humming some romance in commemoration of woman’s waywardness, knew
not how to reply to Vaudemont’s look of bitter disappointment and
anxiety. At length the countess’ chief attendant came with an apology:
“Her lady was ill, very ill The next day she would throw herself at the
king’s feet, at once to solicit his excuse, and to disclose her
purpose.”
“To-morrow—again to-morrow!—Does to-morrow bear some charm, maiden?”
said the king. “Can you read us the riddle, pretty one? What strange
tale belongs to to-morrow, that all rests on its advent?”
Manon coloured, looked down, and hesitated. But Henry was no tyro in the
art of enticing ladies’ attendants to disclose their ladies’ counsel.
Manon was besides frightened by the countess’ scheme, on which she was
still obstinately bent, so she was the more readily induced to betray
it. To sleep in St. Catherine’s bed, to rest on a narrow ledge
overhanging the deep rapid Loire, and if, as was most probable, the
luckless dreamer escaped from falling into it, to take the disturbed
visions that such uneasy slumber might produce for the dictate of
Heaven, was a madness of which even Henry himself could scarcely deem
any woman capable. But could Constance, her whose beauty was so highly
intellectual, and whom he had heard perpetually praised for her strength
of mind and talents, could _she_ be so strangely infatuated! And can
passion play such freaks with us?—like death, levelling even the
aristocracy of the soul, and bringing noble and peasant, the wise and
foolish, under one thraldom? It was strange—yet she must have her way.
That she hesitated in her decision was much; and it was to be hoped that
St. Catherine would play no ill-natured part. Should it be otherwise, a
purpose to be swayed by a dream might be influenced by other waking
thoughts. To the more material kind of danger some safeguard should be
brought.
There is no feeling more awful than that which invades a weak human
heart bent upon gratifying its ungovernable impulses in contradiction to
the dictates of conscience. Forbidden pleasures are said to be the most
agreeable;—it may be so to rude natures, to those who love to struggle,
combat, and contend; who find happiness in a fray, and joy in the
conflict of passion. But softer and sweeter was the gentle spirit of
Constance; and love and duty contending crushed and tortured her poor
heart. To commit her conduct to the inspirations of religion, or, if it
was so to be named, of superstition, was a blessed relief. The very
perils that threatened her undertaking gave a zest to it;—to dare for
his sake was happiness;—the very difficulty of the way that led to the
completion of her wishes at once gratified her love and distracted her
thoughts from her despair. Or if it was decreed that she must sacrifice
all, the risk of danger and of death were of trifling import in
comparison with the anguish which would then be her portion for ever.
The night threatened to be stormy, the raging wind shook the casements,
and the trees waved their huge shadowy arms, as giants might in
fantastic dance and mortal broil. Constance and Manon, unattended,
quitted the chateau by a postern, and began to descend the hill-side.
The moon had not yet risen; and though the way was familiar to both,
Manon tottered and trembled; while the countess, drawing her silken
cloak round her, walked with a firm step down the steep. They came to
the river’s side, where a small boat was moored, and one man was in
waiting. Constance stepped lightly in, and then aided her fearful
companion. In a few moments they were in the middle of the stream. The
warm, tempestuous, animating, equinoctial wind swept over them. For the
first time since her mourning, a thrill of pleasure swelled the bosom of
Constance. She hailed the emotion with double joy. It cannot be, she
thought, that Heaven will forbid me to love one so brave, so generous,
and so good as the noble Gaspar. Another I can never love; I shall die
if divided from him; and this heart, these limbs, so alive with glowing
sensation, are they already predestined to an early grave? Oh no! life
speaks aloud within them. I shall live to love. Do not all things
love?—the winds as they whisper to the rushing waters? the waters as
they kiss the flowery banks, and speed to mingle with the sea? Heaven
and earth are sustained by, and live through, love; and shall Constance
alone, whose heart has ever been a deep, gushing, overflowing well of
true affection, be compelled to set a stone upon the fount to lock it up
for ever?
These thoughts bade fair for pleasant dreams; and perhaps the countess,
an adept in the blind god’s lore, therefore indulged them the more
readily. But as thus she was engrossed by soft emotions, Manon caught
her arm:—“Lady, look,” she cried; “it comes—yet the oars have no sound.
Now the Virgin shield us! Would we were at home!”
A dark boat glided by them. Four rowers, habited in black cloaks, pulled
at oars which, as Manon said, gave no sound; another sat at the helm:
like the rest, his person was veiled in a dark mantle, but he wore no
cap; and though his face was turned from them, Constance recognised her
lover. “Gaspar,” she cried aloud, “dost thou live?”—but the figure in
the boat neither turned its head nor replied, and quickly it was lost in
the shadowy waters.
How changed now was the fair countess’ reverie! Already Heaven had begun
its spell, and unearthly forms were around, as she strained her eyes
through the gloom. Now she saw and now she lost view of the bark that
occasioned her terror; and now it seemed that another was there, which
held the spirits of the dead; and her father waved to her from shore,
and her brothers frowned on her.
Meanwhile they neared the landing. Her bark was moored in a little cove,
and Constance stood upon the bank. Now she trembled, and half yielded to
Manon’s entreaty to return; till the unwise _suivante_ mentioned the
king’s and De Vaudemont’s name, and spoke of the answer to be given
to-morrow. What answer, if she turned back from her intent?
She now hurried forward up the broken ground of the bank, and then along
its edge, till they came to a hill which abruptly hung over the tide. A
small chapel stood near. With trembling fingers the countess drew forth
the key and unlocked its door. They entered. It was dark—save that a
little lamp, flickering in the wind, showed an uncertain light from
before the figure of Saint Catherine. The two women knelt; they prayed;
and then rising, with a cheerful accent the countess bade her attendant
good-night. She unlocked a little low iron door. It opened on a narrow
cavern. The roar of waters was heard beyond. “Thou mayest not follow, my
poor Manon,” said Constance,—“nor dost thou much desire:—this adventure
is for me alone.”
It was hardly fair to leave the trembling servant in the chapel alone,
who had neither hope nor fear, nor love, nor grief to beguile her; but,
in those days, esquires and waiting-women often played the part of
subalterns in the army, gaining knocks and no fame. Besides, Manon was
safe in holy ground. The countess meanwhile pursued her way groping in
the dark through the narrow tortuous passage. At length what seemed
light to her long-darkened sense gleamed on her. She reached an open
cavern in the overhanging hill’s side, looking over the rushing tide
beneath. She looked out upon the night. The waters of the Loire were
speeding, as since that day have they ever sped—changeful, yet the same;
the heavens were thickly veiled with clouds, and the wind in the trees
was as mournful and ill-omened as if it rushed round a murderer’s tomb.
Constance shuddered a little, and looked upon her bed,—a narrow ledge of
earth and a moss-grown stone bordering on the very verge of the
precipice. She doffed her mantle,—such was one of the conditions of the
spell;—she bowed her head, and loosened the tresses of her dark hair;
she bared her feet; and thus, fully prepared for suffering to the utmost
the chill influence of the cold night, she stretched herself on the
narrow couch that scarce afforded room for her repose, and whence, if
she moved in sleep, she must be precipitated into the cold waters below.
At first it seemed to her as if she never should sleep again. No great
wonder that exposure to the blast and her perilous position should
forbid her eyelids to close. At length she fell into a reverie so soft
and soothing that she wished even to watch; and then by degrees her
senses became confused; and now she was on St. Catherine’s bed—the Loire
rushing beneath, and the wild wind sweeping by—and now—oh whither?—and
what dreams did the saint send, to drive her to despair, or to bid her
be blest for ever?
Beneath the rugged hill, upon the dark tide, another watched, who feared
a thousand things, and scarce dared hope. He had meant to precede the
lady on her way, but when he found that he had outstayed his time, with
muffled oars and breathless haste he had shot by the bark that contained
his Constance, nor even turned at her voice, fearful to incur her blame,
and her commands to return. He had seen her emerge from the passage, and
shuddered as she leant over the cliff. He saw her step forth, clad as
she was in white, and could mark her as she lay on the ledge beetling
above. What a vigil did the lovers keep!—she given up to visionary
thoughts, he knowing—and the consciousness thrilled his bosom with
strange emotion—that love, and love for him, had led her to that
perilous couch; and that while dangers surrounded her in every shape,
she was alive only to the small still voice that whispered to her heart
the dream which was to decide their destinies. She slept perhaps—but he
waked and watched, and night wore away, as, now praying, now entranced
by alternating hope and fear, he sat in his boat, his eyes fixed on the
white garb of the slumberer above.
Morning—was it morning that struggled in the clouds? Would morning ever
come to waken her? And had she slept? and what dreams of weal or woe had
peopled her sleep? Gaspar grew impatient. He commanded his boatmen still
to wait, and he sprang forward, intent on clambering the precipice. In
vain they urged the danger, nay, the impossibility of the attempt; he
clung to the rugged face of the hill, and found footing where it would
seem no footing was. The acclivity, indeed, was not high; the dangers of
St. Catherine’s bed arising from the likelihood that any one who slept
on so narrow a couch would be precipitated into the waters beneath. Up
the steep ascent Gaspar continued to toil, and at last reached the roots
of a tree that grew near the summit. Aided by its branches, he made good
his stand at the very extremity of the ledge, near the pillow on which
lay the uncovered head of his beloved. Her hands were folded on her
bosom; her dark hair fell round her throat and pillowed her cheek; her
face was serene: sleep was there in all its innocence and in all its
helplessness; every wilder emotion was hushed, and her bosom heaved in
regular breathing. He could see her heart beat as it lifted her fair
hands crossed above. No statue hewn of marble in monumental effigy was
ever half so fair; and within that surpassing form dwelt a soul true,
tender, self-devoted, and affectionate as ever warmed a human breast.
With what deep passion did Gaspar gaze, gathering hope from the
placidity of her angel countenance! A smile wreathed her lips; and he
too involuntarily smiled, as he hailed the happy omen; when suddenly her
cheek was flushed, her bosom heaved, a tear stole from her dark lashes,
and then a whole shower fell, as starting up she cried, “No!—he shall
not die!—I will unloose his chains!—I will save him!” Gaspar’s hand was
there. He caught her light form ready to fall from the perilous couch.
She opened her eyes and beheld her lover, who had watched over her dream
of fate, and who had saved her.
Manon also had slept well, dreaming or not, and was startled in the
morning to find that she waked surrounded by a crowd. The little
desolate chapel was hung with tapestry—the altar adorned with golden
chalices—the priest was chanting mass to a goodly array of kneeling
knights. Manon saw that King Henry was there; and she looked for another
whom she found not, when the iron door of the cavern passage opened, and
Gaspar de Vaudemont entered from it, leading the fair form of Constance;
who, in her white robes and dark dishevelled hair, with a face in which
smiles and blushes contended with deeper emotion, approached the altar,
and, kneeling with her lover, pronounced the vows that united them for
ever.
It was long before the happy Gaspar could win from his lady the secret
of her dream. In spite of the happiness she now enjoyed, she had
suffered too much not to look back even with terror to those days when
she thought love a crime, and every event connected with them wore an
awful aspect. “Many a vision,” she said, “she had that fearful night.
She had seen the spirits of her father and brothers in Paradise; she had
beheld Gaspar victoriously combating among the infidels; she had beheld
him in King Henry’s court, favoured and beloved; and she herself—now
pining in a cloister, now a bride, now grateful to Heaven for the full
measure of bliss presented to her, now weeping away her sad days—till
suddenly she thought herself in Paynim land; and the saint herself, St
Catherine, guiding her unseen through the city of the infidels. She
entered a palace, and beheld the miscreants rejoicing in victory; and
then, descending to the dungeons beneath, they groped their way through
damp vaults, and low, mildewed passages, to one cell, darker and more
frightful than the rest. On the floor lay one with soiled and tattered
garments, with unkempt locks and wild, matted beard. His cheek was worn
and thin; his eyes had lost their fire; his form was a mere skeleton;
the chains hung loosely on the fleshless bones.”
“And was it my appearance in that attractive state and winning costume
that softened the hard heart of Constance!” asked Gaspar, smiling at
this painting of what would never be.
“Even so,” replied Constance; “for my heart whispered me that this was
my doing; and who could recall the life that waned in your pulses—who
restore, save the destroyer! My heart never warmed to my living, happy
knight as then it did to his wasted image as it lay, in the visions of
night, at my feet. A veil fell from my eyes; a darkness was dispelled
from before me. Methought I then knew for the first time what life and
what death was. I was bid believe that to make the living happy was not
to injure the dead; and I felt how wicked and how vain was that false
philosophy which placed virtue and good in hatred and unkindness. You
should not die; I would loosen your chains and save you, and bid you
live for love. I sprung forward, and the death I deprecated for you
would, in my presumption, have been mine,—then, when first I felt the
real value of life,—but that your arm was there to save me, your dear
voice to bid me be blest for evermore.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
V.
_THE MOURNER._
“One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws
Its bleak shade alike o’er our joys and our woes,
To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring,
For which joy has no balm, and affliction no sting!”
—MOORE.
A GORGEOUS scene of kingly pride is the prospect now before us!—the
offspring of art, the nursling of nature—where can the eye rest on a
landscape more deliciously lovely than the fair expanse of Virginia
Water, now an open mirror to the sky, now shaded by umbrageous banks,
which wind into dark recesses, or are rounded into soft promontories?
Looking down on it, now that the sun is low in the west, the eye is
dazzled, the soul oppressed, by excess of beauty. Earth, water, air
drink to overflowing the radiance that streams from yonder well of
light; the foliage of the trees seems dripping with the golden flood;
while the lake, filled with no earthly dew, appears but an imbasining of
the sun-tinctured atmosphere; and trees and gay pavilion float in its
depth, more dear, more distinct than their twins in the upper air. Nor
is the scene silent: strains more sweet than those that lull Venus to
her balmy rest, more inspiring than the song of Tiresias which awoke
Alexander to the deed of ruin, more solemn than the chantings of St.
Cecilia, float along the waves and mingle with the lagging breeze, which
ruffles not the lake. Strange, that a few dark scores should be the key
to this fountain of sound; the unconscious link between unregarded noise
and harmonies which unclose paradise to our entranced senses!
The sun touches the extreme boundary, and a softer, milder light mingles
a roseate tinge with the fiery glow. Our boat has floated long on the
broad expanse; now let it approach the umbrageous bank. The green
tresses of the graceful willow dip into the waters, which are checked by
them into a ripple. The startled teal dart from their recess, skimming
the waves with splashing wing. The stately swans float onward; while
innumerable waterfowl cluster together out of the way of the oars. The
twilight is blotted by no dark shades; it is one subdued, equal receding
of the great tide of day. We may disembark, and wander yet amid the
glades, long before the thickening shadows speak of night. The
plantations are formed of every English tree, with an old oak or two
standing out in the walks. There the glancing foliage obscures heaven,
as the silken texture of a veil a woman’s lovely features. Beneath such
fretwork we may indulge in light-hearted thoughts; or, if sadder
meditations lead us to seek darker shades, we may pass the cascade
towards the large groves of pine, with their vast undergrowth of laurel,
reaching up to the Belvidere; or, on the opposite side of the water, sit
under the shadow of the silver-stemmed birch, or beneath the leafy
pavilions of those fine old beeches, whose high fantastic roots seem
formed in nature’s sport; and the near jungle of sweet-smelling myrica
leaves no sense unvisited by pleasant ministration.
Now this splendid scene is reserved for the royal possessor; but in past
years; while the lodge was called the Regent’s Cottage, or before, when
the under-ranger inhabited it, the mazy paths of Chapel Wood were open,
and the iron gates enclosing the plantations and Virginia Water were
guarded by no Cerebus untamable by sops. It was here, on a summer’s
evening, that Horace Neville and his two fair cousins floated idly on
the placid lake,
“In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.”
Neville had been eloquent in praise of English scenery. “In distant
climes,” he said, “we may find landscapes grand in barbaric wildness, or
rich in the luxuriant vegetation of the south, or sublime in Alpine
magnificence. We may lament, though it is ungrateful to say so on such a
night as this, the want of a more genial sky; but where find scenery to
be compared to the verdant, well-wooded, well-watered groves of our
native land; the clustering cottages, shadowed by fine old elms; each
garden blooming with early flowers, each lattice gay with geraniums and
roses; the blue-eyed child devouring his white bread, while he drives a
cow to graze; the hedge redolent with summer blooms; the enclosed
cornfields, seas of golden grain, weltering in the breeze; the stile,
the track across the meadow, leading through the copse, under which the
path winds, and the meeting branches overhead, which give, by their
dimming tracery, a cathedral-like solemnity to the scene; the river,
winding ‘with sweet inland murmur;’ and, as additional graces, spots
like these—oases of taste—gardens of Eden—the works of wealth, which
evince at once the greatest power and the greatest will to create
beauty?
“And yet,” continued Neville, “it was with difficulty that I persuaded
myself to reap the best fruits of my uncle’s will, and to inhabit this
spot, familiar to my boyhood, associated with unavailing regrets and
recollected pain.”