departure in the _St. Mary_, to sail from Barbadoes in a few days.
Lewis, at the same time, returned from Spain: he was invalided, in his
very first action, by a bad wound in his side. He arrived, and each day
expected to hear of the landing of his friends, when that common
messenger, the newspaper, brought him tidings to fill him with more than
anxiety—with fear and agonizing doubt. The _St. Mary_ had caught fire,
and had burned in the open sea. A frigate, the _Bellerophon_, had saved
a part of the crew. In spite of illness and a physician’s commands,
Lewis set out the same day for London to ascertain as speedily as
possible the fate of her he loved. There he heard that the frigate was
expected in the Downs. Without alighting from his travelling chaise, he
posted thither, arriving in a burning fever. He went on board, saw the
commander, and spoke with the crew. They could give him few particulars
as to whom they had saved; they had touched at Liverpool, and left there
most of the persons, including all the passengers rescued from the _St.
Mary_. Physical suffering for awhile disabled Mr. Elmore; he was
confined by his wound and consequent fever, and only recovered to give
himself up to his exertions to discover the fate of his friends;—they
did not appear nor write; and all Lewis’ inquiries only tended to
confirm his worst fears; yet still he hoped, and still continued
indefatigable in his perquisitions. He visited Liverpool and Ireland,
whither some of the passengers had gone, and learnt only scattered,
incongruous details of the fearful tragedy, that told nothing of Miss
Eversham’s present abode, though much that confirmed his suspicion that
she still lived.
“The fire on board the _St. Mary_ had raged long and fearfully before
the _Bellerophon_ hove in sight, and boats came off for the rescue of
the crew. The women were to be first embarked; but Clarice clung to her
father, and refused to go till he should accompany her. Some fearful
presentiment that, if she were saved, he would remain and die, gave such
energy to her resolve, that not the entreaties of her father, nor the
angry expostulations of the captain, could shake it. Lewis saw this man,
after the lapse of two or three months, and he threw most light on the
dark scene. He well remembered that, transported with anger by her
obstinacy, he had said to her, ‘You will cause your father’s death—and
be as much a parricide as if you put poison into his cup; you are not
the first girl who has murdered her father in her wilful mood.’ Still
Clarice passionately refused to go—there was no time for long parley—the
point was yielded, and she remained pale, but firm, near her parent,
whose arm was around her, supporting her during the awful interval. It
was no period for regular action and calm order; a tempest was rising,
the scorching waves blew this way and that, making a fearful day of the
night which veiled all except the burning ship. The boats returned with
difficulty, and one only could contrive to approach; it was nearly full;
Lord Eversham and his daughter advanced to the deck’s edge to get in.
‘We can only take one of you,’ vociferated the sailors; ‘keep back on
your life! throw the girl to us—we will come back for you if we can.’
Lord Eversham cast with a strong arm his daughter, who had now entirely
lost her self-possession, into the boat; she was alive again in a
minute; she called to her father, held out her arms to him, and would
have thrown herself into the sea, but was held back by the sailors.
Meanwhile Lord Eversham, feeling that no boat could again approach the
lost vessel, contrived to heave a spar overboard, and threw himself into
the sea, clinging to it. The boat, tossed by the huge waves, with
difficulty made its way to the frigate; and as it rose from the trough
of the sea, Clarice saw her father struggling with his fate—battling
with the death that at last became the victor; the spar floated by, his
arms had fallen from it; were those his pallid features? She neither
wept nor fainted, but her limbs grew rigid, her face colourless, and she
was lifted as a log on to the deck of the frigate.
“The captain allowed that on her homeward voyage the people had rather a
horror of her, as having caused her father’s death; her own servants had
perished, few people remembered who she was; but they talked together
with no careful voices as they passed her, and a hundred times she must
have heard herself accused of having destroyed her parent. She spoke to
no one, or only in brief reply when addressed; to avoid the rough
remonstrances of those around, she appeared at table, ate as well as she
could; but there was a settled wretchedness in her face that never
changed. When they landed at Liverpool, the captain conducted her to an
hotel; he left her, meaning to return, but an opportunity of sailing
that night for the Downs occurred, of which he availed himself, without
again visiting her. He knew, he said, and truly, that she was in her
native country, where she had but to write a letter to gather crowds of
friends about her; and where can greater civility be found than at an
English hotel, if it is known that you are perfectly able to pay your
bill?
“This was all that Mr. Elmore could learn, and it took many months to
gather together these few particulars. He went to the hotel at
Liverpool. It seemed that as soon as there appeared some hope of rescue
from the frigate, Lord Eversham had given his pocket-book to his
daughter’s care, containing bills on a banking-house at Liverpool to the
amount of a few hundred pounds. On the second day after Clarice’s
arrival there, she had sent for the master of the hotel, and showed him
these. He got the cash for her; and the next day she quitted Liverpool
in a little coasting vessel. In vain Lewis endeavoured to trace her.
Apparently she had crossed to Ireland; but whatever she had done,
wherever she had gone, she had taken infinite pains to conceal herself,
and all due was speedily lost.
“Lewis had not yet despaired; he was even now perpetually making
journeys, sending emissaries, employing every possible means for her
discovery. From the moment he told me this story, we talked of nothing
else. I became deeply interested, and we ceaselessly discussed the
probabilities of the case, and where she might be concealed. That she
did not meditate suicide was evident from her having possessed herself
of money; yet, unused to the world, young, lovely, and inexperienced,
what could be her plan? What might not have been her fate?
“Meanwhile I continued for nearly three months confined by the fracture
of my limb; before the lapse of that time, I had begun to crawl about
the ground, and now I considered myself as nearly recovered. It had been
settled that I should not return to Eton, but be entered at Oxford; and
this leap from boyhood to man’s estate elated me considerably. Yet still
I thought of my poor Ellen, and was angry at her obstinate silence. Once
or twice I had, disobeying her command, written to her, mentioning my
accident, and the kind attentions of Mr. Elmore. Still she wrote not;
and I began to fear that her illness might have had a fatal termination.
She had made me vow so solemnly never to mention her name, never to
inquire about her during my absence, that, considering obedience the
first duty of a young inexperienced boy to one older than himself, I
resisted each suggestion of my affection or my fears to transgress her
orders.
“And now spring came, with its gift of opening buds, odoriferous
flowers, and sunny genial days. I returned home, and found my family on
the eve of their departure for London; my long confinement had weakened
me; it was deemed inadvisable for me to encounter the bad air and
fatigues of the metropolis, and I remained to rusticate. I rode and
hunted, and thought of Ellen; missing the excitement of her
conversation, and feeling a vacancy in my heart which she had filled. I
began to think of riding across the country from Shropshire to Berks for
the purpose of seeing her. The whole landscape haunted my
imagination—the fields round Eton—the silver Thames—the majestic
forest—this lovely scene of Virginia Water—the heath and her desolate
cottage—she herself pale, slightly bending from weakness of health,
awakening from dark abstraction to bestow on me a kind smile of welcome.
It grew into a passionate desire of my heart to behold her, to cheer her
as I might by my affectionate attentions, to hear her, and to hang upon
her accents of inconsolable despair as if it had been celestial harmony.
As I meditated on these things, a voice seemed for ever to repeat, Now
go, or it will be too late; while another yet more mournful tone
responded, You can never see her more!
“I was occupied by these thoughts, as, on a summer moonlight night, I
loitered in the shrubbery, unable to quit a scene of entrancing beauty,
when I was startled at hearing myself called by Mr. Elmore. He came on
his way to the coast; he had received a letter from Ireland, which made
him think that Miss Eversham was residing near Enniscorthy,—a strange
place for her to select, but as concealment was evidently her object,
not an improbable one. Yet his hopes were not high; on the contrary, he
performed this journey more from the resolve to leave nothing undone,
than in expectation of a happy result. He asked me if I would accompany
him; I was delighted with the offer, and we departed together on the
following morning.
“We arrived at Milford Haven, where we were to take our passage. The
packet was to sail early in the morning—we walked on the beach, and
beguiled the time by talk. I had never mentioned Ellen to Lewis; I felt
now strongly inclined to break my vow, and to relate my whole adventure
with her; but restrained myself, and we spoke only of the unhappy
Clarice—of the despair that must have been hers, of her remorse and
unavailing regret.
“We retired to rest; and early in the morning I was called to prepare
for going on board. I got ready, and then knocked at Lewis’ door; he
admitted me, for he was dressed, though a few of his things were still
unpacked, and scattered about the room. The morocco case of a miniature
was on his table; I took it up. ‘Did I never show you that?’ said
Elmore; ‘poor dear Clarice! she was very happy when that was painted!’
“I opened it;—rich, luxuriant curls clustered on her brow and the
snow-white throat; there was a light zephyr appearance in the figure; an
expression of unalloyed exuberant happiness in the countenance; but
those large dove’s eyes, the innocence that dwelt on her mouth, could
not be mistaken, and the name of Ellen Burnet burst from my lips.
“There was no doubt: why had I ever doubted? the thing was so plain! Who
but the survivor of such a parent, and she the apparent cause of his
death, could be so miserable as Ellen? A torrent of explanation
followed, and a thousand minute circumstances, forgotten before, now
assured us that my sad hermitess was the beloved of Elmore. No more sea
voyage—not a second of delay—our chaise, the horses’ heads tamed to the
east, rolled on with lightning rapidity, yet far too slowly to satisfy
our impatience. It was not until we arrived at Worcester that the tide
of expectation, flowing all one way, ebbed. Suddenly, even while I was
telling Elmore some anecdote to prove that, in spite of all, she would
be accessible to consolation, I remembered her ill-health and my fears.
Lewis saw the change my countenance underwent; for some time I could not
command my voice; and when at last I spoke, my gloomy anticipations
passed like an electric shock into my friend’s soul.
“When we arrived at Oxford we halted for an hour or two, unable to
proceed; yet we did not converse on the subject so near our hearts, nor
until we arrived in sight of Windsor did a word pass between us; then
Elmore said, ‘To-morrow morning, dear Neville, you shall visit Clarice;
we must not be too precipitate.’
“The morrow came. I arose with that intolerable weight at my breast,
which it is grief’s worst heritage to feel. A sunny day it was; yet the
atmosphere looked black to me; my heart was dead within me. We sat at
the breakfast-table, but neither ate, and after some restless
indecision, we left our inn, and (to protract the interval) walked to
Bishopsgate. Our conversation belied our feelings: we spoke as if we
expected all to be well; we felt that there was no hope. We crossed the
heath along the accustomed path. On one side was the luxuriant foliage
of the forest, on the other the widespread moor; her cottage was
situated at one extremity, and could hardly be distinguished, until we
should arrive close to it. When we drew near, Lewis bade me go on alone;
he would wait my return. I obeyed, and reluctantly approached the
confirmation of my fears. At length it stood before me, the lonely cot
and desolate garden; the unfastened wicket swung in the breeze; every
shutter was closed.
“To stand motionless and gaze on these symbols of my worst forebodings
was all that I could do. My heart seemed to me to call aloud for
Ellen,—for such was she to me,—her other name might be a fiction—but
silent as her own life-deserted lips were mine. Lewis grew impatient,
and advanced. My stay had occasioned a transient ray of hope to enter
his mind; it vanished when he saw me and _her_ deserted dwelling. Slowly
we turned away, and were directing our steps back again, when my name
was called by a child. A little girl came running across some fields
towards us, whom at last I recognised as having seen before with Ellen.
‘Mr. Neville, there is a letter for you!’ cried the child. ‘A letter;
where?—who?’ ‘The lady left a letter for you. You must go to Old
Windsor, to Mr. Cooke’s; he has got it for you.’
“She had left a letter: was she then departed on an earthly journey? ‘I
will go for it immediately. Mr. Cooke! Old Windsor! where shall I find
him? who is he?’
“‘Oh, sir, everybody knows him,’ said the child; ‘he lives close to the
churchyard; he is the sexton. After the burial, Nancy gave him the
letter to take care of.’
“Had we hoped? had we for a moment indulged the expectation of ever
again seeing our miserable friend? Never! O never! Our hearts had told
us that the sufferer was at peace—the unhappy orphan with her father in
the abode of spirits! Why, then, were we here? Why had a smile dwelt on
our lips, now wreathed into the expression of anguish? Our full hearts
demanded one consolation—to weep upon her grave; her sole link now with
us, her mourners. There at last my boy’s grief found vent in tears, in
lamentation. You saw the spot; the grassy mound rests lightly on the
bosom of fair Clarice, of my own poor Ellen. Stretched upon this,
kissing the scarcely springing turf; for many hours no thought visited
me but the wretched one, that she had lived, and was lost to me for
ever!
“If Lewis had ever doubted the identity of my friend with her he loved,
the letter put into our hands undeceived him; the handwriting was Miss
Eversham’s, it was directed to me, and contained words like these:—
“‘_April 11_.
“‘I have vowed never to mention certain beloved names, never to
communicate with beings who cherished me once, to whom my deepest
gratitude is due; and, as well as poor bankrupt can, is paid.
Perhaps it is a mere prevarication to write to you, dear Horace,
concerning them; but Heaven pardon me! my disrobed spirit would not
repose, I fear, if I did not thus imperfectly bid them a last
farewell.
“‘You know him, Neville; and know that he for ever laments her whom
he has lost. Describe your poor Ellen to him, and he will speedily
see that _she_ died on the waves of the murderous Atlantic. Ellen
had nothing in common with _her_, save love for, and interest in
him. Tell him it had been well for him, perhaps, to have united
himself to the child of prosperity, the nursling of deep love; but
it had been destruction, even could he have meditated such an act,
to wed the parrici—.
“‘I will not write that word. Sickness and near death have taken the
sting from my despair. The agony of woe which you witnessed is
melted into tender affliction and pious hope. I am not miserable
now. Now! When you read these words, the hand that writes, the eye
that sees, will be a little dust, becoming one with the earth around
it. You, perhaps he, will visit my quiet retreat, bestow a few tears
on my fate, but let them be secret; they may make green my grave,
but do not let a misplaced feeling adorn it with any other tribute.
It is my last request; let no stone, no name, mark that spot.
“‘Farewell, dear Horace! Farewell to one other whom I may not name.
May the God to whom I am about to resign my spirit in confidence and
hope, bless your earthly career! Blindly, perhaps, you will regret
me for your own sakes; but for mine, you will be grateful to the
Providence which has snapt the heavy chain binding me to unutterable
sorrow, and which permits me from my lowly grass-grown tomb to say
to you, I am at peace.
“‘ELLEN.’”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
VI.
_THE FALSE RHYME._
“Come, tell me where the maid is found
Whose heart can love without deceit,
And I will range the world around
To sigh one moment at her feet.”
—MOORE.
ON a fine July day, the fair Margaret, Queen of Navarre, then on a visit
to her royal brother, had arranged a rural feast for the morning
following, which Francis declined attending. He was melancholy; and the
cause was said to be some lover’s quarrel with a favourite dame. The
morrow came, and dark rain and murky clouds destroyed at once the
schemes of the courtly throng. Margaret was angry, and she grew weary:
her only hope for amusement was in Francis, and he had shut himself
up,—an excellent reason why she should the more desire to see him. She
entered his apartment: he was standing at the casement, against which
the noisy shower beat, writing with a diamond on the glass. Two
beautiful dogs were his sole companions. As Queen Margaret entered, he
hastily let down the silken curtain before the window, and looked a
little confused.
“What treason is this, my liege,” said the queen, “which crimsons your
cheek? I must see the same.”
“It is treason,” replied the king, “and therefore, sweet sister, thou
mayest not see it.”
This the more excited Margaret’s curiosity, and a playful contest
ensued. Francis at last yielded: he threw himself on a huge high-backed
settee; and as the lady drew back the curtain with an arch smile, he
grew grave and sentimental, as he reflected on the cause which had
inspired his libel against all womankind.
“What have we here?” cried Margaret; “nay, this is lêse majesté—
“‘Souvent femme varie,
Bien fou qui s’y fie!’
Very little change would greatly amend your couplet:—would it not run
better thus—
“‘Souvent homme varie,
Bien folle qui s’y fie?’
I could tell you twenty stories of man’s inconstancy.”
“I will be content with one true tale of woman’s fidelity,” said Francis
drily; “but do not provoke me. I would fain be at peace with the soft
Mutabilities, for thy dear sake.”
“I defy your grace,” replied Margaret rashly, “to instance the falsehood
of one noble and well-reputed dame.”
“Not even Emilie de Lagny?” asked the king.
This was a sore subject for the queen. Emilie had been brought up in her
own household, the most beautiful and the most virtuous of her maids of
honour. She had long loved the Sire de Lagny, and their nuptials were
celebrated with rejoicings but little ominous of the result. De Lagny
was accused but a year after of traitorously yielding to the emperor a
fortress under his command, and he was condemned to perpetual
imprisonment. For some time Emilie seemed inconsolable, often visiting
the miserable dungeon of her husband, and suffering on her return, from
witnessing his wretchedness, such paroxysms of grief as threatened her
life. Suddenly, in the midst of her sorrow, she disappeared; and inquiry
only divulged the disgraceful fact, that she had escaped from France,
bearing her jewels with her, and accompanied by her page, Robinet
Leroux. It was whispered that, during their journey, the lady and the
stripling often occupied one chamber; and Margaret, enraged at these
discoveries, commanded that no further quest should be made for her lost
favourite.
Taunted now by her brother, she defended Emilie, declaring that she
believed her to be guiltless, even going so far as to boast that within
a month she would bring proof of her innocence.
“Robinet was a pretty boy,” said Francis, laughing.
“Let us make a bet,” cried Margaret: “if I lose, I will bear this vile
rhyme of thine as a motto to my shame to my grave; if I win”—
“I will break my window, and grant thee whatever boon thou askest.”
The result of this bet was long sung by troubadour and minstrel. The
queen employed a hundred emissaries,—published rewards for any
intelligence of Emilie,—all in vain. The month was expiring, and
Margaret would have given many bright jewels to redeem her word. On the
eve of the fatal day, the jailor of the prison in which the Sire de
Lagny was confined sought an audience of the queen; he brought her a
message from the knight to say, that if the Lady Margaret would ask his
pardon as her boon, and obtain from her royal brother that he might be
brought before him, her bet was won. Fair Margaret was very joyful, and
readily made the desired promise. Francis was unwilling to see his false
servant, but he was in high good-humour, for a cavalier had that morning
brought intelligence of a victory over the Imperialists. The messenger
himself was lauded in the despatches as the most fearless and bravest
knight in France. The king loaded him with presents, only regretting
that a vow prevented the soldier from raising his visor or declaring his
name.
That same evening as the setting sun shone on the lattice on which the
ungallant rhyme was traced, Francis reposed on the same settee, and the
beautiful Queen of Navarre, with triumph in her bright eyes, sat beside
him. Attended by guards, the prisoner was brought in: his frame was
attenuated by privation, and he walked with tottering steps. He knelt at
the feet of Francis, and uncovered his head; a quantity of rich golden
hair then escaping, fell over the sunken cheeks and pallid brow of the
suppliant.
“We have treason here!” cried the king. “Sir jailor, where is your
prisoner!”
“Sire, blame him not,” said the soft faltering voice of Emilie; “wiser
men than he have been deceived by woman. My dear lord was guiltless of
the crime for which he suffered. There was but one mode to save him:—I
assumed his chains—he escaped with poor Robinet Leroux in my attire—he
joined your army: the young and gallant cavalier who delivered the
despatches to your grace, whom you overwhelmed with honours and reward,
is my own Enguerrard de Lagny. I waited but for his arrival with
testimonials of his innocence, to declare myself to my lady, the queen.
Has she not won her bet! And the boon she asks”—
“Is de Lagny’s pardon,” said Margaret, as she also knelt to the king.
“Spare your faithful vassal, sire, and reward this lady’s truth.”
Francis first broke the false-speaking window, then he raised the ladies
from their supplicatory posture.
In the tournament given to celebrate this “Triumph of Ladies,” the Sire
de Lagny bore off every prize; and surely there was more loveliness in
Emilie’s faded cheek—more grace in her emaciated form, type as they were
of truest affection—than in the prouder bearing and fresher complexion
of the most brilliant beauty in attendance on the courtly festival.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
VII.
_A TALE OF THE PASSIONS; OR, THE DEATH OF DESPINA._
AFTER the death of Manfred, King of Naples, the Ghibellines lost their
ascendency throughout Italy. The exiled Guelphs returned to their native
cities; and, not contented with resuming the reins of government, they
prosecuted their triumph until the Ghibellines in their turn were
obliged to fly, and to mourn in banishment over the violent party spirit
which had before occasioned their bloody victories, and now their
irretrievable defeat. After an obstinate contest, the Florentine
Ghibellines were forced to quit their native town; their estates were
confiscated; their attempts to reinstate themselves frustrated; and
receding from castle to castle, they at length took refuge in Lucca, and
awaited with impatience the arrival of Corradino from Germany, through
whose influence they hoped again to establish the Imperial supremacy.