“Constance, my child! take comfort; all is not lost to thee, though I must leave thee sooner than I expected,” were the almost inarticulate words of a dying warrior, as, supported in the arms of an attendant, he bent over a beautiful girl who had flung herself on her knees beside his rude pallet, burying her face in his hand in all the abandonment of grief. It was a low-roofed, rudely-furnished chamber in the olden castle of Ruvo, supporting on its panelled walls and divisions of the ceiling many specimens of the warlike implements of the time. Shields of massive workmanship, with the overhanging helmet, the long sword, and misericorde or dagger, interspersed with spears and iron caps, were suspended on all sides; while jars and flasks, a bugle horn, an unsheathed sword and belt, and such like gear, were scattered on the floor. The dying man was stretched on the only couch the room afforded; a wooden pallet serving alike for bed and chair, one part of which was occupied by two of the warrior’s men-at-arms, their eyes fixed alternately on their beloved commander and the fair being on whom his last thoughts seemed centred. On their left stood two venerable monks; the one holding aloft the cross, the other bearing on a silver salver the consecrated bread and wine, which the warrior had received in lowly faith, convinced his last moment was at hand. Two other armed figures, sturdy cavaliers, finished the group. Individual sorrow was deepened by the thought, that with Duke Manfred died the last lingering hopes of Naples. He had refused to follow his brother, the voluntarily-exiled monarch Frederic, to the court of France, hoping still to preserve his ill-fated country from being trampled on, even if its liberty were gone;—struggling against Spain, and her great captain, simply because he thought France less likely to look on Naples as a slave, though for him individually life had lost all joy—for he felt his country would never again rise, beautiful and free, as she had been. Mortally wounded in an unexpected skirmish with the Spaniards, Manfred would yet have met death calmly, if not willingly, had not the deep grief of the fair girl who had clung to him as to a second father—preferring to linger by his side in the roughest part of Naples, to accompanying her own royal parent to the luxurious court of Louis—distracted him to the forgetfulness of all, save how to comfort her. He knew it was no small loss she mourned,—the young, impoverished, yet noble Luigi Vincenzio, to whom the first freshness of her young affections had been given, with all the fervid warmth of an Italian heart, was as dear to Manfred as his own son, and he had promised to plead for Vincenzio with her father, in lieu of the gay Duke de Nemours, whom Frederic favoured, but whom Constance instinctively abhorred. No marvel the words of the dying man fell vainly and discordantly upon her ear,—that she clung to him as if that wild embrace should fetter life within;—he should not, must not leave her! Fainter and fainter became the voice of Manfred,—and then all was silent, save the convulsive sobs of the kneeling girl, whose tears had so bedewed the rough hand she clasped that she knew not how cold it grew, and the deep yet suppressed breathings of those around. A quick step made its way through the groups of mourning Neapolitans, who thronged the chamber, and a tall manly form stood reverentially and mournfully beside the pallet.
“Alas! alas! too late,—he has gone! his look, his voice of kindly blessing—all denied me! Constance! my beloved!”
The voice aroused her; she started to her feet, looked shudderingly on the face of the dead, and then sinking in the arms of Vincenzio, wept less painfully upon his bosom. But, brief as was that upward glance, it displayed a face so youthful, and of such touching loveliness, that tears should have been strangers there; child-like as it was, yet there was something in its sweet expression which told the threshold of life was past; she had looked beyond, and tasted the magic draught whose first drop transforms the being, and influences the whole of after life. Her rich golden hair hung loose and dishevelled over her pale cheek, and her deep blue beautifully-formed eye was swollen with weeping, yet was she lovely despite of all.
But short communion was allowed the youthful pair, for the last wish of the dying warrior had been that his niece should seek the convent of St. Alice, twenty miles distant, there to remain till happier hours dawned for Naples, or she could more securely rejoin her father.
“Yes, better there than lingering here, where Nemours may deem himself privileged to seek thee when he lists,” resumed the young Neapolitan when his words of gentle soothing had had effect, and Constance was comforted. “Sweetest! it shall be but a very brief farewell; the thought that thou art in safety shall soothe the hours of absence, and thou wilt promise to think of me—my own!”
“Think of thee!” she repeated, and a smile lit up that sweet face, till to say in which it looked more lovely, smiles or tears, would have been difficult. “There is no need to make me promise that, my Luigi; I could not, if I would, think aught of other save” (her voice faltered) “of the kind heart gone!” She paused a moment, then added, sorrowfully, “My father, my poor father! I should wish to join him—yet I cannot. Luigi, dearest Luigi, ’tis my turn to chide now, if thou lookest doubtingly and sad; our best friend has gone! Oh, we cannot weep too long for him! yet, canst thou think if Frederic knew whom his Constance loved he would still deny her? No! no! smile on me, love, and trust me, Constance of Naples will have none other lord but thee.”
He did trust her; and the brief period left them passed in such sweet, and hopeful converse, that sorrow itself was soothed, and both were strengthened for the parting hour.
Luigi himself headed the gallant little troop of native warriors, collected to convey her with all honour to the convent. He dreaded that Nemours, obtaining notice of the intended movement, would attempt the capture of the princess by force, and otherwise annoy them; but to his surprise not a trace of the French army awaited them.
Quartered as they were almost all over Calabria, generally presenting their steel fronts as strong lines of defence for the towns and castles round, this desertion appeared extraordinary; particularly as their aim had been to incapacitate the Spaniards from leaving their entrenchments within the fortified city of Barletta, twelve miles to the south of Ruvo, where they were at present quartered.
Night was falling when Vincenzio returned to Ruvo; but there was still light enough for him to distinguish more than usual military bustle within the walls; soldiers were hurrying to and fro; arms were burnishing; lances and swords sharpening; large fires blazing up; bands of armed men assembling; the heavy harness and unsheathed weapons forming in heaps and lines to be donned and grasped at a moment’s warning. Anxious and curious, Vincenzio hastened to the quarters of the Sire de La Palice, governor of the town, and found him, though joyous and laughter-loving as was his wont, alternately giving orders to several officers, who seemed to appear and disappear with a glance, and muttering oaths and execrations on some extraordinary act of folly, the nature of which, or by whom committed Luigi found some difficulty in comprehending.
Our limits will not permit our becoming personally acquainted with La Palice, which a conversation might accomplish. We must confine ourselves to a brief relation of historical facts. It appeared that the inhabitants of Castellanata, enraged beyond all measure at the licentious and insulting conduct of the French troops quartered in their vicinity, had risen in sudden revolt, and finally betrayed the town into the hands of the Spaniards. Nemours, thinking more of his own dignity, which he imagined had been outraged in this revolt, than of the real interests of his sovereign, swore the most signal vengeance, and marched his whole force north-ward, disregarding the representations of more experienced officers, that it would be the height of folly to leave all Calabria unguarded, for the reduction of one paltry town. The character of Gonzalvo was too well known to admit a thought of his neglecting this opportunity of attack; and La Palice therefore, on his part, determined to be on the alert, though he guessed not how soon or whence the attack would come.
There were many sad thoughts on the young Neapolitan’s heart as he returned to his own chamber. Alas! it little signified to Naples who were her masters, French or Spaniards; but he recalled that period of his country’s brief prosperity, when the celebrated Captain Gonzalvo had been his monarch’s guest and honoured friend, and grieved that Frederic had chosen France, instead of Spain, for refuge: perhaps his instinctive hatred to Nemours, as the encouraged aspirant to the hand of his Constance, increased these regrets; but still to La Palice he was bound by all the chivalric ties of military companionship, and he determined, if danger threatened, to forget his nationality awhile, and fight in his friend’s defence.
The night was peculiarly mild and lovely; the soft silvery halo flung down from the full moon on the clustering olives and vineyards, stretching beneath the young Italian’s window, over some miles of fertile country, seemed to whisper tranquillity and peace, that war had not yet disturbed; and Luigi looked forth lingeringly till the calm sank into his own soul, and Constance alone stood forth amid those troubled visions like a star gleaming through clouds on the trembling waves.
It was near daybreak ere he sought his couch and slept; but not for long. One pale streak of dawn alone was visible; but there were sounds on the still air little in accordance with the lingering night. A dull, heavy, monotonous roar, as of a continued cannonade close at hand, was accompanied by sharp, vivid flashes of light playing athwart the casement; then followed the roll of many drums,—the shout “to arms,” “the foe! the foe!”—the clash of the alarum bell—the heavy trampling of a hundred feet—the shrill shrieks of woman’s terror, and other sounds of tumult and war. Vincenzio listened a moment as one still dreaming: but then La Palice’s warning flashing on his mind, he sprang to his feet and glanced beneath him. Far, far as his eye could reach, trampling down that fair scene of fertility and peace, there came band after band of armed men, rolling onward in such dense masses, that he felt at a glance resistance was in vain. Marvellous as it seemed, Gonzalvo de Cordova himself was upon them; and that name in its mighty eloquence was paralysing terror! A very brief interval sufficed to banish every thought from Luigi’s mind but fears for La Palice, by whose side he speedily was. The noise waxed louder, closer, but there was no trace of disturbance, or even anxiety, on the governor’s open brow, as he gaily marshalled his little band of three hundred lances, to throw themselves into the first breach which Gonzalvo’s unceasing cannonade was rapidly making in the walls.
“Ha! welcome, comrade mine!” he cried, grasping Vincenzio’s hand. “Mark La Palice as a true prophet, and Nemours the most egregious blockhead that ever wrote himself a man. Ha! all compact there; ready! that’s well—to the right, forward!” and on they rushed through the town. Already every wall was manned, and showers of arrows and stones galled the Spaniards at every turn, but had no power on the immense mass at work against the ramparts. Already the walls were tottering, falling, borne down by the heavy cannonade. On the opposite side the walls had been scaled, and Spanish and French fought hand to hand on the summit. A yell of triumph soon after proclaimed the formation of an immense breach, into which Gonzalvo himself and his choicest troops poured like a mountain torrent, increasing, swelling, as it came, as if utterly to overwhelm the compact little phalanx which La Palice threw forward to oppose him. A very brief struggle sufficed to show how fruitless was every effort of the French; the immense odds speedily forced the breach; but still, hemmed in on all sides so closely that their swords had scarcely room for full play, there was no word of surrender or defeat; struggling only to preserve their honour in their death, man after man fell, without yielding an inch, around his leader. Presently wilder and more deafening sounds arose; mingling indiscriminately the roar of artillery, the clang of steel, the rush of a hundred chargers, the shrill shrieks of women, so that not one could be distinguished from another. The town was forced, and every street, for a brief interval, became the scene of combat. Another hour, and the strife was at an end. La Palice, who had striven as if his individual efforts could avert defeat, had been overwhelmed with numbers, and brought to the ground with the crushing blow of a battle-axe; yet even then, with his own gay laugh, he flung his sword over the heads of his captors, that none should claim him as an individual prize. Vincenzio shared his fate, the capture of his friend removing from him all inclination to prolong the fruitless combat, and yet more exasperate the Spaniards against his ill-fated countrymen.
The close of that day beheld Ruvo deserted; the heavy banner of Spain waving above the ruined ramparts alone marked what had been; for the riches of Ruvo,—gold, treasure, horses and arms, the French prisoners, almost all of whom were badly wounded, and the principal Neapolitan citizens, were conveyed under strong detachments to Barletta, the head-quarters of the great captain and his troops.
Twenty-four hours after his daring reduction of Ruvo, Gonzalvo de Cordova was seated in one of the best furnished apartments of Barletta, bearing little trace either of the eager warrior or sagacious general; all other emotions merged in that one which, even in his glorious campaigns, reigned uppermost—love for the lovely, the transcendent being, who, in woman’s freshest, most beautiful prime, was seated at his feet, her arm reclining caressingly on his knee, and her dark, splendid orbs, all their flashing passion stilled in filial love, fixed on his face as he narrated his last triumph. It was his daughter Elvira, for whom so deep was the hero’s love that even in his foreign wars she was never known to be parted from his side.
“Trust me, they shall be seen to, my father,” she said, in answer to his entreaty that her woman’s tenderness and care would look to the comfort of his wounded prisoners, whom he had already luxuriously installed, with his own surgeon to attend them. “La Palice is in truth a champion to gain guerdon of woman’s care.”
“But not of woman’s heart, my gentle one; thine must not pass to the wardence of our foes.”
“Nor shall it, father; it is thine, all thine!” and the rich burning flush resting on her cheek, as she spoke, was deemed by her father but the glow of sunset which played around her. He kissed her fondly, vowing he would accept such devotedness only till another and a dearer sought it. “Find but one deserving of thy love, my child, and no selfish pangs shall bid me keep thee by my side; yet, methinks, thou as myself art difficult to please; the noblest and the best have bowed to thee in vain—thy heart was ice to all, and selfish as I am, I have rejoiced it was so.”
Her face was buried in his hand, and he saw not how painfully its colour varied. He did not feel the full, quick throb of that maiden heart: if her fond father penetrated not its secret, how may we?
In obedience to Gonzalvo’s command (in those days no strange one), Elvira, attended by her women, herself visited the apartments of the wounded prisoners, administered to their wants, superintended the healing of their wounds, speaking words of comfort and of hope, till—veiled as she was, her rank, even her name often unknown—the sound of her voice, the touch of her gentle hand, were hailed by each sufferer with such feeling of devotion and gratitude, as might have marked her indeed the angel visitant their fevered fancies deemed her.
“And I have seen all?—thou art sure none other needs my tending?” she asked of an attendant. “Methinks those rooms we have not visited.”
“There are no prisoners of moment there, lady; but one room tenanted;—a poor Italian—Neapolitan, I should say—who, as he may bring little honour and less ransom to our leader’s coffers, scarce needs your gracious care; he will do well enough.”
“Peace, slave! it is well Gonzalvo hears you not;” he crouched beneath her flashing scorn. “Poor—friendless; the more he needs his captor’s care: lead on!”
She was obeyed, and the apartment gained. A young man was reclining on a rude couch—his limbs stretched out, his head bent forward, resting on his arm in all the abandonment of complete repose; his long jetty hair had fallen as partly to shade his face, but there was just enough visible of his cheek and brow to startle by their ghastly whiteness, gleaming out in fearful contrast with the crimson cloak he had drawn around him. The opening of the door had not aroused him, and a moment the intruders paused; there was a start, a quick and choking breath, as if respiration had been suddenly impeded; and the Lady Elvira stood beside the slumberer, and lifted the damp curls from his brow. Why did she so pause, so stand, pale, rigid, breathless?—feared she to break those peaceful slumbers?—if so, her caution was in vain: the young man started, looked wildly round, then heavily and painfully arose, as if conscious he was in the presence of rank and beauty, and struggled to give them homage.
“Nay, fair sir, we come to thee as leech, not queen, and must refuse all homage but obedience,” the lady said, calmly. “We must condemn thee to thy couch, not to thy knee.”
“Who is it that speaks? Lady, that voice comes to my ear laden with happy memories, bringing a vision of one whose faintest smile was chivalry’s best fame—aye, e’en to Naples’ sons.”
“And is it marvel, Signor Vincenzio, the daughter of Gonzalvo should be with her father still, though Naples no longer calls him friend? Nay, we have refused thine homage, as little suited to thy weakness, gentle sir. Resign thee for a brief while to the leech’s art, and take comfort; Gonzalvo wars with France, not Naples. We will visit thee again.”
Luigi Vincenzio rose from his knee, where he had sunk simply in greeting to one whose resplendent gifts in happier days had excited his young imagination in no ordinary degree; and the calm unimpassioned posture in which he stood till she departed, betrayed no warmer feelings than reverence and admiration. Days passed, merging into weeks; but long before that period, Luigi Vincenzio was not only convalescent, but permitted and enabled to roam at large about Barletta and its environs; unguarded, even by his parole. Whence came this extraordinary indulgence none knew; but all supposed, that as the great captain had repeatedly declared he warred not with the Neapolitans—not at least with those who chose to accept his friendship—and own the supremacy of his sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabella—the young nobleman had accepted these conditions, and had been thus received into favour. Again, as had been the case before the capture of Ruvo, chivalric games agreeably diversified the dull routine of military duty. Nemours, overcome with shame, at the consequences of his own folly, had retired to Canosa; and as Gonzalvo had not received the expected reinforcements, enabling him to change his mode of attack to the offensive, his officers, and many of the Neapolitans friendly to his interests, entered with spirit into all their general’s plans for military recreation, while the Lady Elvira resumed her station, as queen of the revels, crowning the victor with her own fair hand. Her influence had led Vincenzio there; she rallied him on his deep gloom, playfully demanding why he alone should scorn the prize she gave; he had professed such deep gratitude for the tender care she had so silently lavished on his sufferings, soothing him by the charm of her voice to health, more powerfully than the leech’s art, and yet he refused such trifling boon. And he obeyed; he joined the combatants, received bright wreaths of glory from her hand, and lingered by her side, but the smile she sought was not upon his lips; her step, her voice, however unexpected, had no power to flush his cheek, or light his eye with joy; but his to her!—the echo of his footstep, the faintest whisper of his voice, as the smouldering fire in the bosom of the volcano, seeming so still, so silent, till, roused to whelming might, they lay upon her heart.
Fiercely and terribly the thunder-cloud of wrath had gathered on the brow of Gonzalvo de Cordova, as with heavy strides he paced his private cabinet about a month after Ruvo’s capture. He chafed not at fair and open fight, nay, gloried in the heat, the toil, the press of war; but conspiracy, treachery, or that which in the present excited state of his mind he deemed as such, he could not brook. A plot had been discovered—ill formed, ill digested, but if correct in its details, in the names of its principals, involving many of those whom Gonzalvo had treated and trusted as friends—amid the Neapolitans to throw off the yoke of the Spaniards, to be free, and preserve their liberty at the sword’s point, till seconded by other cities, and encouraged by Nemours’ inactivity, Frederic himself might be recalled; this seemed their object, pledged to by the most solemn oaths. Gonzalvo’s name was found upon their lists of victims, but all was dark and little tangible. Still warrants had been issued; those supposed the principal conspirators arrested and secured; and the great captain now chafed and fumed, unwilling to believe the whole tale true, from the heavy judgment it demanded, yet feeling to the full the tremendous responsibility devolved upon himself.
“My father! God in heaven! the tale is not false, then—yet—yet, they have dared to connect the innocent! Luigi—Vincenzio—he is not, he cannot be, of these! speak—speak, in mercy!” and the proud, the majestic daughter of Spain, whom it hath seemed no human power, no human emotion could bow, sunk in powerless agony on the earth, grasping the robe of her father, and gazing on his face, as if her life depended on his answer. Startled, amazed, Gonzalvo, who had been unconscious that for several minutes she had been in his presence reading his brow, ere she found words, vainly sought to raise and soothe her; she reiterated but those words, her tone becoming wilder and shriller in its agony, as the reply was evidently evaded.
“Aye, even he!” at length it came, and Gonzalvo sternly pointed to the young nobleman’s name upon the list. “Elvira, Gonzalvo’s daughter! away with this engrossing weakness; well is it for thee, none but thy father marks it. I have heard, and in return for that kind confidence would, had the fates decreed, have sought, fixed, gloried in thy happiness, though the choice had been other than mine own! but now—with this damning proof. My child! my child! away with the unworthy weakness; it shall not so debase thee!”
“Weak! debased! who dares to say these words to me—to me? Am I not still Elvira?” she sprang to her feet, standing erect in all her majesty, but with cheeks of marble whiteness, gleaming out from that night-black hair, as if their rich current had rushed back to her heart. “What is it they said—that he was guilty?—false! ’tis false! yet if ’tis not—misled—misguided—father, is there no pardon?—there must—there SHALL be. What is his doom? speak! there is no weakness now!”
“Death, or the galleys!—what else befits the ingrate traitors?” in a deep concentrated voice the answer came. “Ha! Holy Virgin! my child! my child!” She had tottered—fallen—and lay without voice or motion at his feet.
Luigi Vincenzio denied none of the charges brought against him, save that of the intended murder of the principal Spaniards in Italy. Such baseness he strenuously denied; they had decoyed him into the conspiracy, working on all his peculiar feelings of love of land and of his exiled king, who was not alone regally, but personally dear to him. The conspiracy appeared to him but a noble effort of some few bold hearts to throw off the hated yoke of the foreigner; and therefore he had joined it, and even now, in danger of death, of worse than death—the galleys, he persisted in the glory, the virtue of his cause. It was rumoured that Gonzalvo, in his still continued desire to conciliate the Neapolitan nobles, had offered to Vincenzio, not alone pardon but riches, and connection by marriage with one of the most powerful and noble families of Castile, though its name never transpired, if he would take a solemn oath to be true to the interests of Ferdinand of Arragon, and never seek Naples again, save in pursuance of that monarch’s interests; and these offers, more than usually magnanimous even for Gonzalvo, were, to the utter bewilderment of all, refused.
Scarcely a week after Vincenzio’s arrest, the unusually strict retirement of the Lady Elvira was disturbed by an earnest petition for a private interview, on the part of a Neapolitan boy, who, the attendant said, had been so urgent, and appeared so exhausted, that he could not refuse him entrance. He would not tell his business to any save the Lady Elvira. Permission was given, and he was conducted to her presence, clothed in a coarse folding cloak of Neapolitan cloth, with the red picturesque cap of the country slouched upon his brow. He stood at the threshold of the apartment, his arms folded in his mantle, his head bent on his breast, as if either physical or mental strength had for the moment utterly failed him. “Retire,” was the first word that met his ear; and he perceived the Lady Elvira addressed her attendants, who still lingered. “Retire, all of you. The boy asked a private audience, and I have promised it. Treachery! danger!—I fear them not!—begone!” and they obeyed. One searching glance the boy cast around, and ere the lady could address him, he had darted across the room, and flung himself at her feet, clasping her knees with the convulsive grasp of agony, struggling for words, but so ineffectually that nought but quivering anguish convulsed those parched lips, nought but agonized sobs found vent. Mantle and cap had both fallen in the quickness of the movement, and though the inner dress was still the boy’s, that exquisite face, that swelling bosom told a different tale.
“Ha! who art thou? What wouldst thou?—speak, silly trembler,” and even at the moment that an indescribable thrill passed through the heart of Gonzalvo’s daughter, she struggled to speak playfully. “In sooth, thou art too lovely to wander forth alone, save in this strange guise; speak—what is thy boon?”
“A life! a life they say is forfeited! Lady, kind, generous lady, oh, have mercy! I thought I had words to plead his cause, to beseech, implore, adjure thee, but I have none—none! Mercy, oh, have mercy!”
“Mercy! I am no sovereign to give life or death, poor child! How may I serve thee, and whom is it thou wouldst save?”
“Art thou not Elvira?—art thou not Gonzalvo’s daughter?—and will he not pardon at thy word? Oh, seek him! Tell him Constance, princess of Naples, is in his power! yields herself his prisoner, to be dealt with as he lists, let him but spare Luigi—Luigi, my own noble love! Give him but pardon, life, liberty! Lady, lady! plead for him! let them hold me prisoner in his stead. Wherefore lookest thou thus? Mercy, oh, have mercy—save him!”
“Whom saidst thou, girl? Whom wouldst thou save?—speak, I command thee!” exclaimed Elvira, in a voice so changed, so unnatural, that Constance shuddered, vainly endeavouring to shrink from the heavy hand that grasped her shoulders, the eyes that flashed upon her, as if fire had dwelt within their depths. “As thou hopest for mercy, speak!”
“Save! whom but my own, my plighted lord! Is there one in the wide world to love me now as Luigi—Luigi Vincenzio, he who hath honoured Constance with his troth? Oh, save—”
“Love! thou DAREST not tell me that he loves thee!—false—false—he does not love thee!” She sprang up, cheek, lip, brow, flushing for a single instant crimson, then fading into a white so ghastly, it seemed as if life itself must have passed, save for the mighty passion which held it chained.
“Thee! one like thee, poor foolish child! art thou one to bid Luigi Vincenzio love, to hold his heart enchained? Yet thou art lovely, good God of Heaven, how exquisitely lovely! Poor child, poor child, I have appalled thee!—does he so love thee?” She had sunk back on the cushion, her hands convulsively pressed together, as to conceal their trembling, but the wild light of those eyes, now still movelessly fixed on Constance, who had risen from that posture of entreaty, as if the deep emotion of another had stilled her into composure.
“Love me! yes, as none but Luigi can love; daughter of a ruined, a persecuted house, with little to make me worthy of such love, yet doth he love me, as I in truth were all in all to him, as he is all to me—love me! Oh! did they bid me die, or wander forth an exile, an outcast, like all of my race, yet queens might envy Constance for Luigi Vincenzio’s love!”
“And thou wouldst save him?”
“Aye, with my life—with all that they may deem precious, Constance of Naples is no common prize; ’tis said, Ferdinand would give a jewel from his coronet for all of Frederic’s unhappy offspring placed within his power; I am here; bid Gonzalvo send me a state prisoner, as he so nobly did my brother. Ha! lady, noble lady, forgive the word; ’tis not for the captive, the suppliant, to arraign the captor and the judge. Grief makes the speech unwary—heed it not, heed it not; take my life, my liberty for his!”
“Constance of Naples, thou mayst save both! Gonzalvo wars not with women!” The princess threw herself at her feet, with a wild cry of gratitude: the strangeness of that voice, the rigid expression of that face, she heeded not, knew not, she only dreamed of hope.
“Aye, but I have not said how, girl; pardon, life, liberty, all have been offered to him for whom thou pleadest, on the sole condition of swearing allegiance to Ferdinand, fealty to Spain.”
“And he hath refused,” she interrupted; “oh! give me entrance to him—I will plead, kneel, move not from his feet till he hath done this; he will submit for me, he will hear me, live for Constance—let me but plead.”
“Peace! there is more; he must be naturalized in Spain, WED one of her noblest daughters, aye, one that LOVES him; let him do this, and he shall have life, riches, honour, all that can make life glad. Ha! dost thou fail! bid him do this, and he shall live.”
“Yes, even this!” was the reply, after one single moment’s pause; and the quivering lip, the ashy cheek, the trembling frame, alone betrayed that young heart’s agony. “Let Luigi Vincenzio be free, be happy—for if she whom he must wed in truth thus love him, the dream of his youth will fade beneath the glory of his manhood, and he shall, he must be blessed—if such things be, what recks it that Constance droops alone? I shall have saved him, have given him back to life, to his fellows, to honour, to glory, and my death will be happy, oh! so happy! Lady, I will do this.”
“Death! who spoke of death for thee? bid Luigi thus accept his life, and thine is secured, is free.”
“Free! speakest thou of love, yet dreamest thou life could exist apart from him—peace, peace—let me but save him, let him but live, give me but admission to his presence, let me but speak with him. Lady, lady, wherefore tarry? I will do this, take me but to him.”
“Thou wilt SWEAR!” That low terrible whisper was a more fearful index of passionate agony in the speaker than even that which crushed her who stood in such meek, mournful, yet heroic suffering before her; one only feeling prompted Constance, but in Elvira it was the fierce contest of the evil and the good; one whelming passion straggling for dominion over all that had been so fair, so bright, so beautiful before.
“Swear to sacrifice my all of selfish bliss for him? aye, without one moment’s pause! Oh! lady, thou knowest not love, if thou deemest it needs oath to hallow that which I have said. If thou doubtest me, bid one thou mayst trust, be witness of my truth; but oh! keep me no longer from him; let me save his life!”
Without a word or notice in reply, the Lady Elvira sat a moment in deep thought, then rose, and signed to the princess to follow her.
The prison of Luigi Vincenzio had been changed from the dark loathsome dungeon, in which he had first been cast, to a low-roofed, rambling apartment, in that wing of the citadel of Barletta which generally served as a barrack for infantry. An iron grating, however running in the centre from roof to floor, cut the chamber in two, one portion generally serving as a guardroom, when any important prisoner demanded unusual care. This annoyance had been spared Vincenzio; although the evening following the interview above described about ten soldiers were then assembled, occupying the farthest corner of the chamber, grouped in a circle, enjoying their pipes and cups, seasoned by many a jest, which effectually turned their attention alike from their own officer and their prisoner. The former, closely muffled in a military cloak, and cap, with a heavy plume of black feathers, stood leaning against the stone pillar to which the grating was affixed by thick iron rings, parted only by that open railing from the prisoner, and consequently enabled not alone to hear all that passed between him and the lovely being whom he was holding convulsively to his breast, but to mark every change in the countenance of each.
What had already passed between those loving ones it is needless to record; nor the deep suffocating emotion which had for several minutes utterly deprived Vincenzio of voice, when his Constance so strangely, so unexpectedly sprang into his arms. What cared he now that his guards were present; that she was not permitted to see him alone, save to smile at Gonzalvo’s idle fear that she could bring him means to escape? He felt nothing but her presence, drinking in for the first few moments the sweet faint accents of her beloved voice, as if nothing of ill or misery could touch him more. But soon, oh! how much too soon, the sweet dream fled, and but one truth remained—that he was doomed to death, to close his eyes on that beloved one, and for ever! A shudder had convulsed his frame, a deep groan had been wrung from him by that thought, and Constance had heard and guessed its import. She knew not at first what she said, but one thought, one feeling, one stern necessity was distinct upon her mind; all else was confused and painful, as if a dark cloud had folded up her brain, leaving nought clear but the letters of fire in which that one stern necessity was written.
“And dost thou indeed, in very deed, so love me, Luigi? Oh! then thou will grant my boon; thou wilt not let thy Constance plead to thee in vain,” said she, after many, many minutes had rolled by, unheeded in that sad commune, and she lifted up her pale and mournful face, as the white rose that, beat by some heavy storm, droops its lovely head to earth, ere one leaf had lost its freshness.
“Boon—in vain. Constance, mine own sweet love, is there aught thou canst ask Luigi will deny?”
“Ah! thou knowest not the weight of what I crave; nor will I speak it on thy simple word. Thou must pledge it me, my love; aye, by solemn oath—by hallowed vow—I claim it on thy love, thy fealty, and how mayst thou refuse me?”
Playfully he besought her to speak it first, and then, dreaming not her object, unconscious even that the offered conditions were known to her, he knelt at her feet, and placing his hands between both hers, which felt strangely and fearfully cold, he solemnly swore to do her bidding, whatever it might be. The words were said, and Constance sank upon his bosom.
“Saved! saved! oh, I have saved thee, Luigi; thou wilt live—be free—thou shalt not die!”
He started to his feet; the whole truth bursting on his mind, and yet, if so, why did she so cling to him, as if he were spared to her? no, no, it could not be. “Live! Constance, my blessed one, what canst thou mean? my life is forfeited!”
“No, no, no!” she reiterated, “it is granted thee, and on conditions easy to accept. Luigi! thou hast sworn to grant my boon—to do my bidding; and I bid thee live! live, to be happy, glorious, as I know thou wilt be! Speak not; hear me. Frederic is no longer a king; Naples no longer a kingdom; she is parcelled out to others; she hath no sons—no name—one hour acknowledging the rights of France, the next bowed to the arms of Spain. To one or other of these mighty potentates she must belong. My poor, poor father can never claim her more. Luigi, my own Luigi, banish the vain hope of her freedom—her future influence. Were Frederic here, thou knowest he would say to thee, as he did to all when he departed, ‘My children, ’tis vain to struggle; make peace with whom ye will; Frederic absolves you of your allegiance. No oath of fealty restrains you.’ Hast thou forgotten this? no, no; then wherefore shouldst thou pause; many have bowed to Louis, why not to Ferdinand?—Luigi, my own Luigi, thou shalt live!”
“Constance,” he answered, and he drew her closer to his bosom, while his own frame shook, “Constance, were this the sole condition, for thy sake, beloved, I had not paused—even thus I would have lived; for this poor, unhappy country, I feel, will never rise again; such oath reflects no shame upon her sons. Constance, was this all they told thee?”
“Luigi, no; there is another,—we must part—for ever! Yet—yet, I bid thee live.” Slowly every word fell; but so distinctly, so expressively, that despite that low gasping tone, he heard them all, and not he alone.
“Ha! thou knowest this. Part, Constance! and thou bidst me live! I choose death instead. I will not lose thee; I will not wed another.”
“Thou wilt—thou shalt! Luigi, Luigi, ’twill be but a brief, a brief pang, followed by years of bliss. Oh! do not think this moment’s agony will never, never pass away. The hero’s glory,—the warrior’s fame,—the statesman’s pride—all, all, shall be thine own. Ambition, with her hundred paths to immortality, shall lure thee to forgetfulness, and then to peace; and she—she, who will be thy bride,—oh, if she love thee as they say she does, even she at length will woo thee into joy. Luigi, my own, my own, why dost thou turn from me? Speak, oh, speak; tell me thou wilt live!” She sunk on her knees before him, as if that action should continue the entreaty for which voice for the moment had utterly failed.
“Constance, Constance! Dost thou urge me? Thou—wilt thou give me to another? Is it thou who bidst me thus be happy? No, no, thou knowest not how much I love thee!”
“Do I not love thee, Luigi?—Oh! it is only thus that I can save thee,—only thus they will grant thy life,—and what care I for my happiness? Luigi, if thou diest, how mayst thou love me,—guard me as thou wouldst? Oh, live, live!-in my lonely convent cell let me think of thee as I know thou wilt be,—honoured, loved—aye, and in time so blessed! Let the bright thought be mine,—that I, even I, poor simple Constance, have saved thee. Luigi, deny me not this, turn not away. Thou canst not refuse me,—thou DAREST not—thou art SWORN!”
The countenance of Vincenzio became more and more terribly agitated,—he struggled to break from her hold; but the grasp of agony was upon his cloak, and either held him with a giant strength, or his every limb had lost its power, and chained him there. He sought to speak; but only unintelligible murmurs came, and again that voice of impassioned appeal came upon his heart, crushing it almost to madness. It bade him live; she might need his friendship, though denied his love, when time permitted such intercourse innocently to both. That tall form bowed, as stricken by a mighty wind: a moment, and he had caught her to his bosom, had murmured some inarticulate words, and a burst of passionate weeping convulsed his frame. Ere the paroxysm passed, he was alone; soldiers, officers, Constance, all were gone.
It was noon; the brilliant sun of Italy poured its golden flood through the high pointed casements of a small private chapel, in the citadel of Barletta, which had been set apart for the sole use of Gonzalvo de Cordova, his family, and personal attendants. It was lavishly decorated, seeming in all points well suited to the establishment of the great captain. Heavy brocades, worked in gold and silver, hung from the walls, shading many a shrine, of the same precious metals, where saints, Virgin, and Saviour were all blazing in gems. A cloth of gold covered the altar, which stood just beneath a gorgeously-painted window, that when lighted up, as now, with the sun of noon, flung down the most brilliant colouring on floor and wall. This day a rich carpet of superb Genoa velvet covered the mosaic pavement at the foot of the altar, and decorated cushions seemed to denote that some unusual ceremony was then to be performed; while the number of sumptuously-attired nobles, Spanish, French, and Neapolitan, already assembled, and the private chaplain of Gonzalvo, missal in hand, behind the altar, with his priestly attendants, proclaimed the hour at hand. The great captain himself was present, magnificently attired, leaning on his jewel-hilted sword, wrapt it seemed, by the fixed repose of his countenance, in deep meditation, which none present chose to interrupt.
The interest increased tenfold when, attended, or rather guarded—few could tell which—Luigi Vincenzio, attired with some care, but deadly pale, bearing an expression of fearful internal agony on his countenance, slowly advanced up the choir to the altar. The gaze of Gonzalvo moved not from him; serious it was, yet scarcely stern, and the tone was calm in which he said, “We have heard, Signor Vincenzio, you accept the conditions proposed!—have we heard aright?” Luigi simply bowed his head in answer, imagining the oath of fealty to Ferdinand, and denial of Frederic, would next be administered; but it came not, silence reigned again uninterrupted as before. Then came sounds along the corridor; the folding-doors at the base of the chapel were flung wide open, and the Lady Elvira, more than usually majestic in mien and carriage, entered, followed by several attendants; her resplendent beauty was heightened by an expression of countenance none could define, save that it affected the most indifferent spectator then present with a species of awe, of veneration, that could have bowed every knee in unfeigned homage. Stars of diamonds glittered in her raven hair, and sparkled down the bodice and front of her dark velvet robe. The first glance of all rested immovably, seemingly fascinated, on her; the next turned on the slight figure she led forward; but every curious effort to discover the stranger’s identity was rendered vain by the thick shrouding veil which completely enveloped her; permitting nothing but the tiny foot and exquisitely-turned ankle to be visible.
A strong shudder had convulsed the form of Vincenzio; he tried to step forward, to speak, but all power appeared to forsake him, till a voice, sweet, clear, and silvery, uttered the simple words “I will,” the customary rejoinder to the priest’s demand, “wilt thou accept this man as thy wedded lord,” and its attendant vows to “love, honour, and obey.” The voice thrilled through him, awakening him to consciousness, he knew not how or why; and he saw he was kneeling before the altar, beside that veiled and shrouded form by whom Gonzalvo and his daughter were both standing, as if from their hands he received her. Gradually everything became distinct; La Palice was at his side, his hand upon his shoulder, as if rousing him from that deadening stupor. He recognised his friends amidst the noble group standing around. Had the marriage vow been administered to him? If so, he must have replied, or the ceremony could not have continued, but he knew not he had spoken; and what had in fact aroused him?—a voice!—whose voice?—to whom was he irrevocably joined? Not that one whom his fevered fancy had so wildly pictured, for she stood there looking on the ceremony, as calm and motionless as the most indifferent spectator.
It was over. Vincenzio and his nameless bride rose from their knees, and then it was the hands of Gonzalvo removed the veil and led her forward, that the eyes of all might rest with admiration on the loveliness displayed. A cry of astonishment burst simultaneously from the French prisoners and Neapolitans around, and the latter rushed forward and prostrated themselves before her, clasping her robe, her feet, ’mid sobs and tears calling on heaven to bless the daughter of their king, the being whom from her cradle they had well-nigh worshipped—the Princess Constance! but one alone stood speechless; one alone had no power to go forward, for all seemed to him a dream, whose bewildering light and bliss would be for ever lost in darkness. But as those eyes turned on him, that radiant glance sought his, there was one sob, one choking cry, and Luigi had bounded forward, had clasped her to his heart. And then he would have flung himself at Gonzalvo’s feet, to pour out the burdening load of gratitude that almost crushed him with its magnitude, but Gonzalvo, grasping his hand in the friendly pressure of sympathy, forbade all speech till he had been heard.
“It has been said,” he exclaimed, “that to the King of Naples and his ill-fated family Gonzalvo de Cordova is incapable of generosity, or even of humanity; because the stern mandate of his sovereign demanded the sacrifice of his own private sentiments of generosity and honour, and compelled the captivity of Frederic’s heir. My friends, I plead no excuse, no offence for this dark deed; but now that nought but Gonzalvo’s own heart may dictate, I bid ye absolve me of all undue severity, all unjust dishonour. The Princess Constance offered her liberty for that of the Signor Vincenzio; but, nobles of Naples, Gonzalvo scorned it. She is free, as is her husband. His ransom, five thousand marks, is discharged from my private coffers, and settled as a marriage dowry on his bride. Both, then, are free, unshackled by condition, free as the winds of heaven to travel where they list. We heard of a noble of France hostile to this union, and on account of his birth approved of by King Frederic; and therefore it is we have been thus secret, and would counsel Signor Vincenzio to accept the vessel lying at anchor, ready for his use, and convey his gentle bride to the court of her father without delay. We will take all blame; for the union, as ye have all witnessed, hath been without consent of the bridegroom. For thee, Signor Vincenzio, thy fault is unconditionally pardoned, a grace won for thee by the truth and glorious heroism of thy gentle bride. No thanks—to us they are not due; we had been terrible in wrath, resolute to demand the forfeit of rebellion, even to the last, save for one whose earnest pleadings we had no power to resist. In your love, your happiness, think on Gonzalvo’s daughter, for to her ye owe it all.”
It needed not the name: ere that rich voice ceased, Vincenzio and his bride were kneeling at the feet of the Lady Elvira; the former pouring forth with passionate eloquence his gratitude, his veneration; in words burning, thrilling, known only to Italy’s impassioned clime. She heard, and a faint quivering smile was on those lips; one hand she yielded to his respectful homage, and laid the other caressingly, fondly, on the beautiful head of Constance, whose face was lifted up to hers beaming in all the blissful confidence of love, of joy, of devotion, conscious that to her she owed all that made life dear.
“Bid Constance tell thee how much Elvira owes to her, Signor Vincenzio, and thou wilt learn I have yet more cause of gratitude than thou hast,” she said, and not one word quivered. “To thee she hast given a life; to me—what is far more valuable—Elvira to herself, unstained, unscathed; her soul of honour cloudless, true, when all methought had failed. Farewell! be happy, and may good angels guard ye both!”
She raised the Princess, and folded her to her heart. “There was an eye thou knewest not upon thee in his prison,” she whispered, ’ere she released her. “Constance, hadst thou failed, we had both been lost, for I had seen no stronger spirit than my own. Thou hast saved us both, and must be blessed.” She printed a long kiss on that beautiful brow, and placed her in her husband’s arms. A brief interval of congratulation, of joyful conference followed, and then all within that chapel was silent and deserted. Hours passed. The chieftain of Spain had returned from accompanying Vincenzio and his bride to their vessel, though he had tarried to watch them weigh anchor and disappear in the distance. He inquired for his daughter, sought her in all her haunts, and lastly, with a strange foreboding, re-entered the chapel. No voice, and at first no figure met his eye or ear; he rushed forwards, a beautiful form lay either lifeless or in a deep swoon at the altar’s foot, her rich and luxuriant hair falling heavily and darkly around her. It was the Lady Elvira.
The remainder of the Lady Elvira’s career is a matter of history: with it the romancer interfereth no further.
“You surely do not intend acting such a fool’s part, Dudley, as that our little world assigns you?” was the address of one friend to another, as they drew their chairs more cosily together, in the little sanctum to which they had retreated, after a tête-à-tête dinner.
“And what may that be, my good fellow?”
“Why, throw away yourself and your comfortable property on a person little likely to value either one or the other, and certainly worthy of neither—Clara Stanley.”
Granville Dudley coloured highly. “Oblige me, at least, by speaking of that young lady with respect,” he said; “however you and your companions may mistake my intentions concerning her.”
“Mistake, my good fellow; your face and tone are confirmation strong. I am sorry for it though, for I would rather see you happy than any man I know.”
“I believe you, Charles; but what is there so terribly opposed to my happiness in an union with Miss Stanley, granting for the moment that I desire it?” Charles Heyward sat silent, and stirred the fire. “Because she is not rich? nay, I believe, rather the contrary.”
“I did not think you worldly, Granville.”
“Thank you, for doing me but justice. I am perfectly indifferent as to wealth or poverty in a woman. But what is your objection then? She is not superlatively beautiful nor seemingly first-rate in accomplishment; but what then? She is pleasing, unaffected, full of feeling, very domestic, for I seldom meet her out.”
Again were the poker and the blazing coals at variance, and more noisily than before.
“My good friend, you have roused that fire and my curiosity to a most unbearable state of heat. Do speak out. What is the matter with Miss Stanley, that when I mention the words ‘feeling’ and ‘domestic,’ you look unbelieving as a heretic? Can you say ‘Nay’ to any one thing I have said?”
“Nay, to them all, Granville Dudley,” exclaimed Heyward, with vehemence. “It is because you need a most domestic woman for your happiness, I tell you do not marry Clara Stanley; she is a determined blue—light, dark, every imaginable shade—a poet, a philosopher, a preacher—writes for every periodical—lays down the law on all subjects of literature, from a fairy tale to a philosophical treatise or ministerial sermon. For heaven’s sake, have nothing to do with her. A literary woman is the very antipodes to domestic happiness. Fly, before your peace is seriously at stake.”
Granville Dudley looked, and evidently felt disturbed. At first, startled and incredulous, he compelled his friend to reiterate his charge and its proofs. Nothing loath, Charles Heyward brought forward so many particulars, so many facts, concerning the lady in question, which, from his near relationship to the family with whom she lived, he had been enabled easily to collect, that Granville, unable to disapprove or even contradict one of them, sank back on his chair, almost with a groan.
“Why, my dear sober-minded, philosophic friend, you cannot surely have permitted your heart to escape your wise keeping so effectually in so short a space of time, that you cannot call it back again with a word? Cheer up, and be a man. Thank the fates that such a melancholy truth was discovered before it was too late. I have heard you forswear literary women so often that I could not stand calmly by, and see you run your head blindfold into such a noose; she is a nice girl enough, and if she were not so confoundedly clever, might be very bearable.”
“But how is it I never discovered that she is so clever? If it be displayed so broadly, how can she hide it so completely before strangers?”
“She does not display it, Granville. No one would imagine she was a whit cleverer than other people; she has no pretension, nor airs of superiority; but she writes, she writes, ‘there’s the rub,’ and she loves it too—which is worse still—and a public literary character cannot be a domestic wife; one who is ever pining for and receiving fame can never be content with the praise of one; and one who is always creating imaginary feelings can have none for realities. To speak more plainly, those who love a thousand times in idea can never love once in reality; and so I say, Clara Stanley cannot value you sufficiently ever to possess the rich honour of being chosen as your wife. Do not be angry with my bluntness, Granville; I only speak because I love you.”
Granville Dudley was not angry; perhaps it had been better for his happiness if he had been, as then he would not have been so easily convinced by the specious reasoning of his friend. The conversation lasted all that evening, and when Dudley retired to rest, it was with a firm determination to watch Clara Stanley a few weeks longer, and if it really were as Heyward stated, to dismiss her from his thoughts at once, and even quit England for a time, rather than permit a momentary fancy to make him miserable for life.
Now, though Charles Heyward had spoken in the language of the world, he was not by any means a worldly man; nor Granville Dudley, though he had listened and been convinced, unjust or capricious. Unfortunately for Miss Stanley’s happiness, Granville’s mother had been one of those shallow pretenders of literature which throw such odium upon all its female professors. From his earliest childhood Dudley had been accustomed to regard literature and authorship as synonymous with domestic discord, conjugal disputes, and a complete neglect of all duties, social or domestic. As he grew older, the excessive weakness of his mother’s character, her want of judgment and common sense, and—it appeared to his ardent disposition—even of common feelings, struck him more and more; her descriptions of conjugal and maternal love were voted by her set of admirers as perfect; but he could never remember that the practice was equal to the theory. Nay, it did reach his ears, though he banished the thought with horror, that his father’s early death might have been averted, had he received more judicious care and tender watchfulness from his literary wife.
Mrs. Dudley, however, died before her son’s strong affections had been entirely blunted through her apparent indifference; and he therefore only permitted himself to remember her faults as being the necessary consequence of literature and genius encouraged in a woman. He was neither old nor experienced enough, at the time of her death, to distinguish between real genius and true literary aspirings, and their shallow representatives, superficial knowledge and overbearing conceit.
As this was the case, it was not in the least surprising that he should be so easily convinced of the truth and plausibility of Heyward’s reasoning, or that Charles Heyward, aware of all which Dudley’s youth had endured from literature and authorship in a mother, should be so very eager to save him from their repetition in the closer relationship of wife.
But Clara Stanley was no mere pretender to genius; the wise and judicious training of affectionate parents had saved her from all the irregularities of temper, indecision of purpose, and inconstancy of pursuit which, because they have characterised some wayward ones, are regarded as peculiar to genius. Her earliest childhood had displayed more than common intellect, and its constant companions, keen sensibility and thoughtfulness; a vivid imagination, an intuitive perception of the beautiful, the holy, and the good; an extraordinary memory, and rapid comprehension of every variety of literature, alike prose and poetry, unfolded with her youth, combined with most persevering efforts after improvement in every study which could assist her natural gifts. It was impossible for her parents not to regard her with pride, but it was pride mingled with trembling; for they knew, though she did not, that even as she was set apart in the capability of mind from her fellows, so she was in the capability of suffering. Knowing this, their every wish, their every effort, was directed to providing her with a haven of refuge, where that ever-throbbing heart might find its only perfect rest. Taught to regard mental powers, however varied, as subordinate to her duties as a woman, and an English and religious woman, modesty, gentleness, and love marked every word and every action. Few there were, except her own immediate circle and friends, who knew the extent of her mental powers, or the real energy and strength of her character; but countless was the number of those that loved her.
It was not, however, till after her father’s death she saw and felt the necessity of making her talents a source of usefulness as well as of pleasure. She was then little more than seventeen, but under the fostering care of an influential literary friend, she was introduced to the periodicals of the day, her productions accepted, and more requested from the same hand.
Though a few years after Mr. Stanley’s death, however, their pecuniary affairs were so advantageously settled that Clara had no longer any necessity to make literature a profession. Their income was moderate, but it rendered them happily independent.
“Now, now,” was Clara’s ardent exclamation, as she clasped her arms about her mother’s neck, “I may concentrate my energies to a better and holier purpose than the mere literature of the day; now I may indulge the dream of effecting good, more than the mere amusement of the hour; now I am no longer bound. Oh, who in this world is happier or more blessed than I am?”
And as long as she resided under her mother’s roof, in the pretty little village which had so long been her home, she was truly happy. Encouraged by the popularity which, through her literary friend, she learned that she had acquired; satisfied that he thought her capable of the work she had attempted, and blessed with a mother for whose sake alone Clara valued fame; for she knew how sweet to maternal affection were the praises of a child.
But this might not last. Before she was one-and-twenty Clara was an orphan, and long, long it was ere she could resume the employments she had so loved, or look forward to anything but loneliness and misery. Every thought, every task was associated with the departed, and could filial love have preserved the vital spark the mother had yet been spared; and had Granville Dudley known Clara in that sad time, he would have been compelled to abjure his belief in the incompatibility of literature with woman’s duties and affections.
But of such a trial both Granville and Heyward knew nothing; nor, when the latter said that she loved her profession, did he imagine the struggle it had been for her to resume it—how completely at first it had been the voice of duty, not of love. Fame had never been to her either incentive or further reward than the mere gratification of the moment, and as a source of pleasure to her mother; and how vain and hollow did fame seem now! But hers was not a spirit to be conquered by deep sorrow. She resumed her employments when health returned, with a bursting heart, indeed, but they brought reward. They drew her from herself for the time being, and energy in seeking to accomplish good gradually followed. The severity of her trial was, however, if possible, heightened by the great change in her mode of life. Her only near relation was an uncle, who lived and moved in one of those circles of high pretension and false merit with which the metropolis abounds. His wife, an ultra-fashionist, lived herself and educated her daughters for the world and its follies alone, inculcating the necessity of attracting and gaining husbands, but not of keeping them. Exterior accomplishment, superficial conversation, graceful carriage, and fashionable manners were all that were considered needful—and all of feeling or of sentiment rubbed off, as romance much too dreadful to be avowed.
To this family, at the request of her uncle, who actually made the exertion of fetching her himself, Clara removed eight months after her mother’s death. Yearning for affection, and knowing little of her relatives, Clara had given imagination vent, and hoped happiness might again be dawning for her. How greatly she was disappointed, our readers may judge by the sketch we have given. In their vocabulary, authorship and learning were synonymous with romance and folly; and worse still, as dooming their possessors, unavoidably, to a state of single blessedness, and therefore to be shunned as they would the plague itself. That Clara devoted to her literary pursuits but the same number of hours that one Miss Barclay did to music (that is its mechanical, not its mental part), another to oriental or mezzotinting, or another to the creation of wax-work, Berlin wool, etc., was not of the least consequence; their horror of blueism was such, that to prevent all supposition of their approval of Clara’s mode of life, they never lost an opportunity of bewailing her unfortunate propensity—and of so impressing all who visited at the house with the idea of her great learning and obtrusive wisdom, that the gentle, unpretending manners of the authoress could not weigh against it; and she found herself universally shunned as something too terrible to be defined.
“With all this, I write on, hope on,” she once wrote to an intimate friend; “struggling to feel that if indeed I accomplish good, I shall not live in vain; and my own personal loneliness and sorrow will be of little consequence. But, oh! how different it is to write merely for the good of others, to the same efforts, to the same goal, pursued under the influence of sympathy and affection! Because a woman has mind, she is supposed to have no heart, and has no occasion therefore for the sweet charities of life; when by her, if possible more than any other, they are imperatively needed. Others may find pleasure or satisfaction in foreign excitement; to her, home is all in all. If there be one to love her there—be it parent, husband, or friend—she needs no more; the yearnings of her heart are stilled, the mind provides her with unfading flowers, and her lot is as inexpressibly happy as without such domestic ties it is inexpressibly sad. Do not wish me, as you have sometimes done, dear Mary, to love, for it would be unreturned; simply, because it is the general belief that an authoress can have no time, no capability of any emotion save for the creations of her own mind.”
So wrote Clara; though, at the time, she knew not how soon her words would be verified. As soon as the term of mourning had expired, though little inclined for the exertion, she conquered her own shrinking repugnance to asserting and adopting her own rights; and, to the astonishment of Mr. and Mrs. Barclay, she accepted some of the invitations which courtesy had sent her. Though entered into merely as a duty, society gradually became a source of pleasure, in the discovery that all her aunt’s circle were not of the same frivolous kind; and then slowly, but surely, the pleasure deepened into intense enjoyment from the conversation and attentions of Granville Dudley, whom she met constantly, though he did not visit her uncle. Clara was so very unlike her cousins, whose endeavours to gain husbands were somewhat too broadly marked, that Dudley had been irresistibly attracted towards her; a fancy which every interview so strengthened, that he began very seriously to question his own heart as to whether he really was in love.
As Miss Stanley’s name was not generally known to the literary world, and the lady, at whose house Granville mostly met her, was herself scarcely aware that she was anything more than an amiable, sensible and strongly feeling girl, Granville Dudley knew nothing of her claims to literature and authorship till his conversation with Charles Heyward, near the close of the season, revealed them as we have said. The very next time they met, Dudley, half fearfully, half resolutely, led the subject to literature and literati, and drew from Clara’s own lips the avowal he dreaded. In the happy state of feeling which his presence always created, she at first imagined he thus spoke from interest and sympathy in all she did; and enthusiastic, as was her wont in conversation with those who she thought understood her, she said more on the subject, its enjoyment and resources, than she had ever done in London. Granville said nothing, in reply, which could have chilled her at the time. Yet, when the evening was over, Clara’s heart sunk within her; she knew not wherefore, save that a secret foreboding whispered within her that conversation had sealed her fate. Dudley would not trust his happiness with her.
At one other party she was to meet him, ere the season closed, and the veriest devotee to balls and soirées could not have longed for it more than poor Clara; who looked forward to it as the confirmer or dispenser of her fears. The morning of the day on which it was to take place, little Emily, the youngest of the family, was seized with a violent attack of fever, which increased as evening advanced. It so happened that all the Barclay family who were “out” were engaged that evening; Mr. and Mrs. Barclay, and their two elder daughters, at a card and musical soirée; the other two, and their brothers, under the chaperonage of Mrs. Smith, the gouvernante, at the ball to which Clara looked forward with so much eagerness. What was to be done? The child could not be left; and without Mrs. Smith, what was to become of her sisters? It was impossible for them to go alone, and equally impossible for mother, father, or either sister of the little sufferer, to give up a fashionable party for the dreadful doom of sitting by a sick bed.
Looks and hints of every variety were levelled at Clara; who, with her usual benevolence, had stationed herself close by her little cousin, ever ready to administer kindness or relief. At any other time, she would not have hesitated a moment; but with the restless craving to see Granville Dudley again, the giving up her only chance, for a time at least, was so exquisitely painful, she could not offer to remain. Mrs. Barclay, however, seeing hints of no avail, at length directly entreated that, as she was less fond of going out than any one else, she might be glad of the excuse, to give the time to her books and writing, and it would really be doing her (Mrs. Barclay) an especial favour if she would stay and nurse Emily. Clara’s high spirit, and strong sense of selfish indulgence, obtained such unusual dominion, that she had well-nigh proudly refused; but the little sufferer looked in her face so piteously, and entreated her so pleadingly to remain, that, ever awake to the impulse of affection, Miss Stanley consented.
The disappointment was a bitter one, though Clara’s strong sense of rectitude caused her to reproach herself for its keenness, as uncalled for. What did Granville Dudley care for her, that she should so think of him? but vain the question. Every backward glance on their intercourse convinced her that he had thought of her, had singled her out, to pay her those attentions, that gentle and winning deference, which, from a man of honour, such as the world designated him, could not be misconstrued. There was one comfort, however, in her not meeting him; if he knew what kept her at home, he would scarcely continue to believe that her only thoughts were of literature and authorship.
Little did she know that, before they departed on their several ways, it was settled in the Barclay parliament that nothing whatever was to be said of little Emily’s illness, lest people should fancy it contagious, and send them no more invitations, so closing their chances of matrimony for that season, before it was quite time.
“If Clara is asked for, my dears—which is not at all likely—you can say you know that she could not leave her writing, or correcting a proof, or some such literary business. I leave it to you, Matilda; you are sharp enough, particularly in framing excuses for a rival, whom I know you are glad to get out of your way. Folks say Granville Dudley had a literary mother; he is not likely to wish for a literary wife.”
The young lady answered with a knowing nod; and performed her mission so admirably, that after that evening Granville Dudley disappeared. Power she certainly had to separate him from Clara, but to attach him to herself was not quite so easy. The answer she had given to Granville’s inquiries after her cousin was so carelessly natural—that Clara, as an authoress, a literary character, had so many superior claims, that parties and everything else must be secondary, and this followed up by a high encomium on her great talent, she should say genius; but it was, she thought, almost a pity to be so gifted, as it incapacitated her from common sympathies and duties—that it confirmed Granville’s previous fears. And while it made him almost turn sick with disappointment and anguish, for it seemed only then he felt how completely she had become a part of himself, he vowed to tear himself from her influence ere it was too late, and the very next morning left London.
“You were right, Heyward. I suppose I shall be a happy man again some day or other, but not now; so do not try to philosophise me into being so.”
“But, my good fellow, perhaps after all we have been frightened at shadows; and, hang it! but I am sorry I said so much at first. That Emily Barclay has been very ill, and was so that eventful night, are facts; and, in my opinion, Clara stayed to nurse her, because the others were all too selfish.”
“A sentimental excuse to obtain time for dear, delightful, solitary musings, or some such thing. It is too late, Heyward; she is literary, and so she cannot be domestic. I will not think of her any more.”
This was not quite so easy to do as to say; but Granville Dudley was a man of the world, far too proud and resolute to bow, or seem to bow, beneath feeling, particularly when he believed himself on the point of loving one who was utterly incapacitated from giving him any heart in return. He went abroad, travelled during the remainder of the summer, joined the first Parisian circles in the autumn, and before the year closed was a married man.