Chapter XXII: Section XV (2)

“I do, sir,” answered Judith from aloft. And now the whole ship was visible, gracefully moving over the waters, and proudly and beautifully she bore herself. The father and daughter watched her progress from the first speck they could discern in the bay, until she cast anchor in the harbor, Mrs. Stimpson having indulgently delayed tea for them, to which they now sat down; it being so dark they could see no longer. After tea, Judith sat down to her work, and endeavored to be tranquil. “It was wholly uncertain,” she said to her father, “whether this were Captain Fayerweather’s vessel or not;” and she really tried to persuade both him and herself, that she thought in all probability it was not. Her ears, however, would perversely listen to every noise from without, which her imagination mischievously converted into the voices of the busy crew from the vessel, plainly distinguishing a well-known one among them, though far out in the harbor. Captain Stimpson was sure it was the vessel, and that they should see George that evening; and so thought Mrs. Stimpson. Their daughter very undutifully said, “It was not at all probable, even if he had come—and she felt almost sure he had not—that he would be willing to leave his mother so soon, even if she would let him.”

The evening wore on, and the little group were undisturbed. Judith could not repress a gentle sigh at thinking how rightly she had judged. Her father at length started up, and said, “He’d make certain whether the chap had come or not;” and accordingly put on his galoches, and was going for his cloak—(his daughter usually brought it for him, but she did not do it just then)—when footsteps were heard on the terrace. Judith disappeared from the room. There was a loud knock at the door, and Captain Stimpson went to it. On his opening it, Mrs. Stimpson heard his hearty and vociferous, “How are you, my lad?” and hastened to give her welcome with voice, hand, and tears, to the tall, stout man whom her husband ushered in. Her joyful greeting was received in silence, and with no answering marks of recognition.

“This cannot be Captain Fayerweather,” she said, turning to her husband.

“Captain Fayerweather? No, madam, my name is Brown,” said the stranger, gravely. He seated himself, as invited, and there was a pause which neither Captain nor Mrs. Stimpson felt able immediately to break. At length the stranger said, “I am mate of the Dolphin, Captain Richard Seaward, master; and he desired me to tell you, he would himself have brought the intelligence I am to give you, but he is sick, and was obliged to take to his bed as soon as he came ashore.” Mr. Brown stopped and cleared his voice.

He resumed. “You took me for Captain Fayerweather; what I have to say is concerning him. Captain Fayerweather took passage from London in the Dolphin; and he told Captain Seaward that he had just arrived from the Cape of Good Hope, where he had found letters from home, which rendered it necessary that he should return with all possible dispatch; and that finding a vessel at the Cape ready to sail for London, he had left his own, which had a consort, to the charge of the second officer and an experienced crew, to proceed into the Pacific, and had taken passage in the one to London, hoping there to find some opportunity of going to America. We set sail from London on the third of November—”

Captain Stimpson interrupted him. “On the third of November, did you say—and with Captain Fayerweather on board? That can’t be true, sir—he was here on the fifth.”

The stranger answered gravely, “Sir, the business Captain Seaward sent me upon, is any thing but trifling. The Dolphin certainly sailed from London the third of November, and with Captain Fayerweather on board; all the crew will testify to this. But did I understand you rightly to say, he was here on the fifth? How—at what time? Who saw him—did you? There must have been some mistake.”

Captain Stimpson, much surprised, replied, “I did not see him myself, but his cousin, Squire Wendell, did. He met him in the street between three and four in the afternoon. There could have been no mistake, for he told the squire something of great importance to his family, that nobody but himself could have known. The vessel we supposed he came in, put in at Beverly; she staid only long enough to deliver some dispatches for government, and sailed directly for Quebec, intending to return here in a month. We supposed fully that your vessel was the one, and we were expecting Captain Fayerweather when you came.”

While the captain spoke, Mr. Brown showed marks of astonishment and agitation. He was silent a few moments, though his lips moved, and he appeared to be making some calculations. At length he spoke, in a voice apparently from the depths of his chest, slowly and distinctly, but turning pale as he proceeded. “On the fifth of November, two days sail from London, about eight o’clock in the evening, which, allowing for difference of longitude, corresponds to between three and four here, in a raging storm, Captain Fayerweather fell from the mast-head into the sea, and was lost!”

Judith’s shriek was heard from the inner-room, but before her parents could reach it, she had fallen senseless on the floor. Her father took her in his arms, while her mother bathed her temples. On reviving, she held up her clasped hands imploringly to her mother, and asked if she had heard aright, and if her ears had not deceived her. Poor Mrs. Stimpson was incapable of answering her, excepting by tears; and her father could only clasp her more closely. “Oh! he’s gone then;—let me go, too;” and she struggled to free herself. “But where! where shall I go?—what shall I do? Why did you bring me to?—it would have been better for me to have died. I do not wish to live! Why did you not let me die? I will die!—I will not live!”

Her father now blubbered outright. “And would you leave your poor old sir, and your ma’am, that have their lives bound up in you, and that would die, too, without you? Have you no love left for them?”

“I do love you both,” she cried; “but now—oh, George! I wish I was in the depths of the sea with you.”

“Hush! sinful child,” sternly said her grandfather, who had left his chair and now stood before her, his trembling, withered hand held up in reproof; “receive this dispensation of the Lord as a massy; he has taken from you your idol, that was a robbing him of your heart; turn to him on your bended knees, and implore His pardon for your sin.”

As she heard him, she appeared by a strong effort only, to suppress a scream. “Oh! spare me now, grandfather,” she cried; and she threw herself on the floor, where she lay with her arm over her face, whilst sobs convulsed her whole frame.

“You are too hard upon her, grandsir,” cried her mother, with some asperity, and smarting for her child; “you forget she is young flesh and blood; but you are such a saint, and you live so much for another world, that you make no allowance for a poor young creature’s feelings in this, when her heart is almost torn out of her body.”

“Child,” said the old man, trembling, “you ere cutting on me with a sharp knife! I, a saint! oh, you don’t know nothing of the wickedness of this old heart; that it was my own sinfulness I was a rebuking, when I was so harsh with this dear child; for I confess it—and it is with shame and confusion—that I have thought more of her being among the grand of the airth, of her riding in her chariot, dressed in vain attire of silks and satins, and adorned with pairls and jewels of fine goold, than of the welfare of her immortal soul. And I verily believe,” he continued, the tears which had long been strangers on his usually placid face, now running down his furrowed cheek, and his whole countenance working with distress, “I verily believe for my sin, this has fallen upon us all; and oh! that this old white head had it all to bear.”

Mrs. Stimpson was entirely subdued by this humble confession of her father-in-law, whom she had always regarded as so near perfection, and so much above all human weakness, that her affection for him had been chilled by a feeling partaking of awe. “Oh, grandsir!” she said, “how cruel I’ve been to you; but I never knew how tender-hearted you were before.”

“No, child, you have always been good to me,” returned the old man; “and better than I desarve; but let us pray that this affliction may be sanctified to us all, and wean us from the perishing things of this airth—myself above all, who can’t have much longer to stay; and this dear child, that she may feel it as a goolden thread a drawing on her easy like to heaven.” He then knelt down, his son and daughter-in-law by his side, and offered up an humble and fervent prayer over Judith, who was lying before them.

Meanwhile the paroxysms of her grief appeared to abate by degrees, and during her grandfather’s prayer her lips moved as if accompanying him; her sobs became less frequent, and at length were heard no longer; her slow and regular breathing showing that she had fallen into a profound sleep. Her father brought a pillow and tenderly placed it beneath her head. She slept heavily for more than an hour, when, it being long after midnight, her parents, fearing she would take cold, removed her into their own bed—this room being their sleeping apartment in the winter season. As she moaned on being disturbed, her mother soothed and caressed her; and then placing herself by the side of her child, she folded her in her arms, and lulled her to sleep, as if again an infant, while her father placed himself in the easy-chair, and watched until sleep overpowered him.

The next morning, as the anxious parents were bending over their darling, she opened her eyes, and a beautiful smile spread itself over her features. “Oh! I have seen him to-night,” she said, “and he was among the blessed; he told me to live for your sake and his mother’s, and he would watch over me until we met in heaven.” When thoroughly awakened from her dream, she looked fondly on her father and mother, and clasping the hands of both, said, “Oh! how wicked and ungrateful I was to you last night! Can you forgive me? and henceforth I will only live to please you, and will have no wish but yours.”

“You, dear child, you never did any thing but please us; you never had any other wish but ours,” both answered with streaming eyes.

Judith then arose and dressed herself; her trembling limbs and pale countenance sufficiently betraying the shock her frame had received. She went out of the room and busied herself even more than was her wont in domestic details, and throughout the day endeavored by redoubled attention and affection to her grandfather, to make amends to him for her impatience the night before.

The fine weather of the preceding day had been succeeded in the night by a driving snow-storm, which had increased to such violence by morning, as to prevent any communication with the Fayerweather family during the day. Toward evening the wind shifted to the south, bringing a rain which lasted till the next day, melting the great quantity of snow which had fallen, and rendering the streets impassable. Judith’s sense of duty, aided by active and unremitting occupation, had so far enabled her to struggle against any further indulgence of her grief. Her parents were surprised at the composure she maintained, while she sat down this afternoon, as was frequently her wont, on a low stool by her grandfather’s side. She had a large basket by her, filled with new cloth of different kinds, which her mother and she had cut out, and had already begun to make into various articles, in preparation for her own housekeeping. She selected a damask table-cloth from the basket, and turning the hem, began to sew. After taking a few stitches, her wonted smile flitted over her countenance and raised her drooping eyelids; her dimples began to play, and her voice broke forth, like the first robin of the spring, in a lively little Scotch song.

The sound of her own voice in singing restored her to her recollection—she threw down her work and exclaimed with a scream, “What am I doing?” then laid her head sobbing on her grandfather’s knee. “Oh, grandfather! I cannot help it,” she cried.

“Don’t try to help it, dear,” said her mother, her own eyes streaming; “you have put force enough upon yourself.”

The old man placed his withered hands fondly upon her head, and said—

“Yes, weep, my child, for you may; but not without hope; He that wept at the tomb of Lazarus sees you, and in his own good time will turn your weeping into joy.”

The unusual sound of wheels was at this moment heard, and the Fayerweather chariot drove up to the terrace. Dr. Holly and Mrs. Wendell alighted, but Judith feeling herself unable to meet them, retreated from the room before they were ushered in. Mrs. Wendell was so much overcome, that for a few moments she was unable to speak, and it fell to Dr. Holly to tell their errand. He made very particular inquiries in regard to Judith’s health, and how she had sustained the shock of the late afflictive intelligence, and then proceeded to mention that Madam Fayerweather was in a very alarming state, having neither changed her position, eaten or slept, since the evening before the last, and that he had accompanied Mrs. Wendell to see if Miss Judith could feel herself equal to returning with them, in the hope that the sight of her might have a favorable effect on madam, in whom if a change could not speedily be induced, he felt himself called upon to say, the worst might be apprehended.

Mrs. Stimpson immediately replied—“She would answer for her daughter, that she would feel it a solace to her own feelings to see Madam Fayerweather, even if she could not be instrumental in restoring her.”

Mrs. Wendell then said—“The sight of Judith would, if any thing could.”

Mrs. Stimpson left the room, and in a few minutes returned with her daughter. At sight of Mrs. Wendell, who fondly kissed her, Judith’s tears burst forth, but she made no hesitation in accompanying her home. As the chariot drove through the street the contrast of her present feelings with those with which she had passed it two days before, struck her forcibly, but she resolutely turned her thoughts from herself to the stricken one whom she was going to see. When they arrived at the house, John came out and assisted them to alight; he pressed Judith’s hand but could not speak. Dr. Holly was desirous to try his experiment without delay; they therefore proceeded immediately to the apartment of his patient.

On seeing Madam Fayerweather Judith’s strength suddenly failed her and she came near falling; but recollecting how much might depend on her retaining in some degree her self-possession, she made a strong effort over herself, and went forward to the easy-chair, where sat the bereaved mother. The latter was, in truth, not an object to be looked upon without emotion, even by a stranger.

So rigid and motionless was her countenance, that it appeared as if changed into stone; her eyes were fixed; and her hair which, before this last blow, had retained all its gloss and beauty, was turned to an ashen hue, giving a strange and unearthly appearance to her pallid features.

“Sister,” said Madam Brinley, who sat by her, “here’s your dear child, Judith—will you not look at her and speak to her?”

Judith, from a sudden impulse, threw herself on her knees before the bereaved mother, clasped both her hands in her own and bathed them with her tears, but endeavored in vain to speak. Sobs were heard from all present. Madam raised her head, and as she did so, her eyes falling upon Judith, immediately showed a sense of her presence; their fixed and glassy look was changed to one of intelligence, the muscles around her mouth then moved, and she appeared as if endeavoring to articulate. At length she spoke, but in a voice hollow and strange—“We’ve had sad tidings, my child!”

Her whole countenance now appeared working; the frozen fountain of her grief was at length softened, and burst forth in a torrent of tears and sobs and groans.

In the state of exhaustion succeeding this outbreak, she was prevailed upon to take some food which Judith brought her; after which she fell asleep and was carried to her bed, from which she did not rise for several weeks. She had suffered a severe paralytic shock, which affected her limbs and speech for many months, though she finally recovered. Judith, in the meanwhile, divided her time between this, her second mother, and her own family.

* * * * *

What were the sensations of Mr. Wendell on hearing the appalling tidings, that at the moment in which his senses had figured to him George Fayerweather face to face, and whose voice he still felt burnt as it were into his brain—at that very moment, thousands of miles distant, the spirit of his young friend was in the act of departing in a death so fearful! Had such an incident been related to Mr. Wendell, from a source however authentic, he would either have totally disbelieved it, or have considered it an instance of singular coincidence of an illusion, occasioned by bodily indisposition, occurring at the same moment with the death of another at a great distance. But the feeling which even now raised the hair on his head, which curdled his blood and blanched his cheek anew at the bare recollection of that meeting, as it recalled sensations which his mind was too intent upon its important subject to heed at the time, gave the lie to his reason whenever he attempted so to argue.

Mr. Wendell, however, never spoke upon the subject himself, and by the family it was avoided altogether; each one feeling it of too awful and sacred a nature to admit, not only of discussion, but even of allusion to it in conversation. But as might be supposed, so remarkable an occurrence occasioned no little sensation throughout the town and its neighborhood. It was noted down, with its date, in many a private memorandum as the extraordinary event of the year in which it happened, with remarks upon it, either devout or philosophical, or both, according to the different characters of the minds which severally dictated them.

When all danger for the life of Madam Fayerweather was over, and Judith ceased to have in her an immediate object of care and anxiety, her own health, no longer sustained by extraordinary stimulus to exertion, at length gave tokens of the injury it had itself received. She fell into a state of languor and debility, which threatened to end in consumption, had not her strength of mind, aided by a deep sense of religion, enabled her to exert all her energies to struggle against the foe and finally to subdue it—her own melancholy. Her religious duties, those which she owed to her parents and those to society, she had always faithfully discharged, and now finding them insufficient to engross her mind and prevent it from preying upon itself, she had recourse to the cultivation of her taste and the higher powers of her fine intellect. In this she was assisted by John, already an elegant scholar, and she became a highly accomplished woman, as well as the most beautiful in the province.

Time passed on, and in its course saw Mr. Wendell presiding on the bench as chief-justice, his place as head of the bar filled by John Fayerweather.

It is not surprising that years of devotion from the latter, combined with all the affection of his mother for her departed son, now resting on Judith, should at length have prevailed upon her to be united to them by stronger ties; after having refused many offers, and among the first, one from Mr. Lindsey, who had returned to America as soon as the intelligence of George’s death reached him.

In Judith’s becoming the wife of John, there was no infidelity in either to the memory of his brother; it was cherished by both during life, and by each in the heart of the other.

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[6] Nahant beach, the roar of which is distinctly heard in Salem on a still evening.

* * * * *

THE BABES OF EXILE.

BY EFFIE FITZGERALD.

“To roam o’er heaving waters bright,
By heaven’s own moonbeam’s made
To find our own a path of light,
Where all beside is shade.”

Fond babes of exile we here claim thine eye,
To cheer thy sadness in this exile drear;
We raise the veil of memory with a sigh,
And seek our welcome in a silent tear.

We fain would come with sunlight on our wings,
For our sweet embassy is one of love;
We hurl no stone from out our baby-slings,
Save that commission come, too, from above.

Souls sunk in ice-holes, or in gilded shine,
May call us wild, fantastic, if they will;
We know our birth-place was another clime—
We come a different mission to fulfill.

We dare the smoke-wreath on the crater’s verge;
We look, undaunted, on the lava-flame;
From the tornado’s whirl we safe emerge;
To thee we come, in gentle childhood’s name!

Enough of tempest—earthquake—has been thine;
Enough of grief has dimmed thy sky-ward eye;
We come to pour the fragrant oil and wine;
We come to bless, and be blest, ere we die.

Die? No! We take from thee an angel-wing;
We fly—we mount—away from earth we soar;
Keep thy gaze upward from the mountain-spring,
Wrapt in white mist-robes we move on before.

Or if despair thy strong-heart will assail,
Beneath the oaks, in the old wind-flower grove,
We light to kiss thy shadow, lone and pale.
And bid thee turn thy drooping eye above.

This our pure mission—babes of memory!
Give us thy blessing ere these lives depart;
These shadowy forms, all consecrate to thee—
That faintly breathe the incense of the heart.

We heed no danger in a path like this:
A Faith that with the Good was ne’er at war;
We know Earth’s sorrows pilot Heaven’s bliss—
Keep, then, thy gaze upon the cloud and star.

* * * * *

* * * * *

BEAUTY’S RETREAT.

A LEGEND OF GRANADA.

[WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.]

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT.

It was the evening of a sultry summer’s day, while the sun was yet hanging suspended, as it were, in a wreath of lustrous, gauzy vapor scarce a hand’s-breadth above the horizon. The skies were perfectly cloudless; and, but for that rich, golden haze which floated in the west about the sloping day-star, there was not a speck of mist to be seen over the whole expanse of the firmament, which, glowing, as it was, with the warm light of that soft southern region, resembled more a vault of exquisitely shadowed gems than the unfathomable depths of ether. All to the westward, the horizon was deluged with a flood of golden glory, too soft to be called intense, yet so vivid that the eye could scarcely brook it; melting as it streamed upward toward the zenith, by imperceptible degrees, into the radiance of the living sapphire; and thence deepening, through the azure tints of the Lapis Lazuli, into the darkest cærulean blue to the eastward, against which rose distinct, glittering with the last reflected sunbeams, the distant summits of the Cordoran mountains. Above these, soaring slowly upward, and momently gathering fresh brilliancy as the sun faded in the west, the full, round moon had already risen, with the evening-star at her side, a diamond spark beside an orient pearl.

Nor was the earth below less gracious than the heaven above it; for the scene, over which that cloudless sun was setting so serenely, was no other than the lovely vegas of Granada, watered with its sparkling rivulets, tributaries to the broad and fair Xenil; waving with its almost tropical luxuriance of foliage, odorous with the sweets of ten thousand gardens—verily the paradise of earth surrounding, as with a girdle of immortal beauty, the loveliest of earthly cities, crowned by the wonder of wonders, the glorious Alhambra. So much has been already written in many tongues, both in prose and verse, of the glories of this inimitable spot—still inimitable, even under the indolent and careless culture of the Spaniard, yet how unlike to what it was under its Moorish masters—above all so eloquently has it been described by the graceful pen of Irving, that all the details of its scenery, nay! of its architecture and internal decorations, are, it may be presumed, as familiar to the mind of the reader, as many places which he has actually seen with his own eyes. To dwell longer, therefore, on the features of that sweet, mountain-girdled plain on which the sunbeams lingered, as though they loved it, would be superfluous at least, if not impertinent. Not so, to depict one who gazed across that plain under that lovely sunset, soft herself as the genial clime, serenely bright as the calm eventide—the Lady Ayesha, a princess of the unmixed race, a visitor from the distant walls of Mequiñez to the kindred royalty, which in the person of the unfortunate but as yet unconquered Boabdil, still sat sublime on the fairy towers of the Alhambra.

She sat alone in a small octagonal apartment in the very summit of one of the loftiest of the palace turrets, overlooking and commanding a view so extensive, that the eye swam dazzled or ere it reached the hills, which bounded it on every side. Walled, vaulted, floored with pure snow-white marble, all wrought and pierced with that exquisite arabesque tracery, which made the cold, hard stone resemble the finest and most delicate lace-work; lighted on each of its eight sides by a tall window, headed by the peculiar horse-shoe arch of Moorish architecture, and surrounded a little lower down the turret by a balcony, filled as a hanging garden with every loved and lovely plant and flower, no happier retreat could be devised for Southern beauty; none half so beautiful, half so luxurious, is dreamed of in her most voluptuous musings by the most famed fair one of our utilitarian days and country.

Notwithstanding the extreme height of the tower, which rose full a hundred feet above the inferior buildings of the royal residence, it yet possessed its fountain, fed from a reservoir in the roof, itself supplied by the aid of machinery from the sources of those silver rivulets of the Xenil and Darro, which might be seen glittering in the level plain almost a thousand feet below; and the constant merry plash of its sparkling waters, as they leaped and fell in a shower of diamonds into their alabaster basin, together with the waving of the broad, fan-like palm-leaves in light coming air around the open casements, and the rich clusters of clematis, passion-flower and jessamine which hung their blossoms around every traceried column, rendered it difficult to conceive that so great a distance intervened between that bower of beauty and the solid earth, with all the choicest charms of which it was environed and invested.

Half-seated, half-reclining on a broad, low step of marble, which ran all around the apartment, covered with rich cushions and foot-cloths of brocade, such as would now be cheaply purchased at its weight in gold, with her shoulders supported by the low parapet of the window immediately behind her, gazed the Lady Ayesha over the glimmering landscape, all as she untwined with the rosy, henna-tinted tips of her small, slender fingers the thick plaits of her luxuriant raven hair. For in truth, and for once, the epithet _raven_ was not misapplied to those soft, silky, glistening masses, which were not of the cold and hueless black, but of that nameless and indescribable hue which is never seen but in the hair of women of Moorish or Irish blood—and in the latter probably as originated of the former—black indeed, but black warmed and glowing with a rich metallic purplish lustre, unlike any thing on earth but the changeful hues that dance on the dark plumage of several of the feathered tribes. But though her long, languid eyes of that perfect almond form, so much prized by the beauty-loving Moors, fringed with lashes so long and dark as to require no aid of that Arabian dye to set off the liquid lustre which they curtained, were riveted with a serene and steady fixedness on a remote spot in the plain, it was by no means evident that they took note of that on which they lingered; nor did she even appear conscious of her occupation, as wave after wave of her soft tresses fell disentwined into her lap. For there was too much of tranquillity, approaching even to abstraction, in the fixedness of her eye, in the statue-like immobility of her perfectly regular features, and in the whole pose of her figure, to accord with any thoughts so frivolous as those of the mere decoration of the person, how beautiful soever it might be.

As one gazed on her—had there been any there to gaze—it was impossible not to perceive that, within that fair form and under those impassive features, there was—what with Oriental women is not at all times the case—a sentient and intellectual soul, and that soul at this time engrossed in some deep and powerful strain of meditative thought.

And oh! how beautiful she was. The perfect oval of her regular face, the straight, Grecian outline of her chisseled features, the dark clearness of her pure, transparent complexion, through which, though ordinarily colorless, every transient motion of the blood mantled in crimson, the slender, yet exquisitely rounded figure, the soft curves of her plump and shapely arms, were all as nearly perfect as mortality can approach to perfection.

The dress, moreover, which she wore—as far removed as possible, by the way, from the ungraceful and hideous monstrosity which a set of crazy notoriety-mongers have been striving to introduce among us as the costume of Oriental ladies—set off her foreign-looking charms by its own foreign eccentricity, no less than by the barbaric splendor of its materials.

A low, flat Fezzan cap of rich crimson velvet, superbly embroidered in gold and pearls, was set lightly, a little on one side, upon her luxuriant black tresses, and from it depended a long tassel, exquisitely wrought of grains of native gold and seed-pearls, down to her left shoulder, contrasting in strong relief the glossy darkness of the hair, by the brilliancy of its white and gold. Immense pendants of pearl hung from the roseate tips of each small ear, and a string of the same inestimable gems, not one of them inferior in size to a large currant, formed four distinct necklaces upon her chest, beside a fifth and longer coil, which hung down almost to her waist. A _jellick_, as it was called, or, as we should term it now, a chemisette of the finest Indian muslin, wrought as its name indicates at Mosul on the Tigris, embroidered with threads of gold, alone covered her glowing bosom; but above it she wore an open, sleeveless Dymar of gorgeous green brocade, with hanging filigree buttons of gold; and shrouding all her lower limbs, to the very tips of the small, slippered feet, as she lay half-crouched on her divan, an under robe or tunic of blush-colored Persian silk with broad, perpendicular stripes of dead gold, the sleeves of which, close to the elbow, fell thence downward, open like those of the modern gown worn by bachelors of arts. No appearance of trowsers, no marked cutting line, nothing tight or definite or rigid, nothing harsh, stiff or masculine was to be discovered on the nearest scrutiny. A superb Cashmere shawl was wound about her waist at the junction of the under robe and chemisette, and its loose ends blended admirably with the floating draperies and harmonized with the wavy ease which was the principal characteristic of the dress, the attitude, the pose, the woman.

To complete the picture, a Moorish Bernoose, or mantle of scarlet woolen, almost as fine as gauze, with borders of golden lace, lay heaped behind her; and nestled in its folds, a filigree jewel-case with boxes and bottles of perfumes and cosmetics, and half-open drawers of glittering gems and ornaments befitting her high rank; while on the parapet, beside her head, stood a huge vase of superb porcelain filled with the dark, glossy leaves and snow-white blossoms of the gold-eyed lotus, the perfume of which would have been too strong for endurance but for the free circulation of the balmy air on every side, and the cool freshness of the dashing water, which mingled with its overpowering fragrance and dissipated its intensity.

Such was the Leila Ayesha, the daughter of the Sultan of Mequiñez, the great Muley Abderahman, the best and bravest of his race; who in this, almost the last extremity of his kinsman, Boabdil of Granada, had sent an embassy with compliments and splendid gifts, accompanying and conveying his fair child, the best loved of all his children, on her visit to the heroic mother of the last Moorish king of Granada.

By many, however, of those who might be supposed the best informed on state affairs, both of those at Mequiñez and those at Granada, it was whispered that, under the cover of a mere complimentary embassy and friendly visit something of deep policy, and that of the highest import to both sovereigns, was intended. Indeed it was the general opinion that the object of the Sultan of Morocco in thus sending his fair daughter—in whom it was well-known that wise and enlightened prince placed far more confidence than is usually extended to the sex among the Moors—was to bring about, should it be pleasing to the beautiful Ayesha, a union between the two royal houses, in which case he would himself come to the aid of Granada with such a force of Moslem, backed by such hordes of the wild Berbers as Ali Ibn Tarih himself never led to conquest—such, in a word, as should soon compel the proud and encroaching Ferdinand to look to the safety of his own throne and the integrity of his own dominions, rather than to the invading of the dominions of his neighbors.

Be this as it may, it was all a new world to the Leila Ayesha, for the Moors of Spain during their many centuries of occupation, aggrandisement and decline, had adopted many ideas, many customs from their Christian neighbors, at one time their foes, at another in long intervals of truce, their neighbors and almost their friends.

Nor had the Spaniards failed in the same degree to profit by the vicinity of the intellectual, polished and industrious Moors, until the bigotry of these and the fanaticism of those had given way to more rational and intelligent principles, and the two nations met, whether in war or peace, on a common ground of mutual self-respect and decorum.

Thus the Moors had not only laid aside long since their fanatical war-cry of “The Koran or the Sword!” but had adopted many of the usages of chivalry, no longer holding the Christians as dogs, and slaughtering them without quarter given or taken, but setting them at honorable ransom, and even treating them while prisoners on parole as guests on terms of equality, entertaining them at their boards, and holding sacred to them all the rights of hospitality.

In no respect, however, had a wider change occurred in the habits of the nation than in the treatment of their women, who, although not certainly admitted to the full liberty of Christian ladies, were by no means immured, as in their native land, in the precincts of the Harem, “to blush unseen, and waste their sweetness on the desert air,” but were permitted, still under the guardianship of duennas, and with their trains of Indian eunuchs, and further protected by their veils from the contamination of unholy glances, to be present at festivals, at tournaments, nay! even at banquets, when none but the members of the family or guests of high consideration were expected to be present.

It is not, by the way, a little singular that almost in exact proportion as the Moors enlarged the liberty of their women, by the example of the Spaniards, did the Spaniards contract that of their own bright-eyed ladies, by the example of the Moors; and for many years the rigor of the Spanish duenna was scarcely inferior to that of the Raid of a Moorish harem, or the ladies under charge of the one much more obvious to the gaze of the profane, than the beautiful slaves of the latter.

Did not, therefore, the beautiful Leila Ayesha rejoice and exult in the comparative freedom which she enjoyed among the liberal Moors of Spain, which as fitted to enjoy as the favorite child of a wise father, enlightened far beyond the prejudices of his nation or his time? In his own younger days he had been a traveler, had visited Venice and even Madrid, in both of which cities he had been a sojourner in the character of ambassador, and had thus, like the wily Ulysses, “seen the cities of many nations and learned their understandings.” Their languages he spoke fluently: he even read their works, and, although a sincere and faithful Mussulman, he had learned to prize many of the customs, to appreciate the principles, and in some instances to adopt in his heart at least the practices of the Christians.

Too wise openly to offend the prejudices of his people—and nothing would have done so, more decidedly or more dangerously than any infringement of the sanctity of the harem—he had not dared, absolute as he was, to grant to his daughter that full liberty founded upon the fullness of trust which he had learned to admire in Venice. Still he had done all that he could do without offending prejudices or awakening angry opposition. He had made Ayesha, from her earliest years, the companion of his leisure hours; he had educated her in all that he himself knew, he had consulted her as a friend, he had confided in her as a human soul, not treated her as the mere pet and plaything of an hour.

And now as she grew up from an engaging child to a fair marriageable maiden, accomplished, intellectual, thoughtful, not an irresponsible being, but a responsible human creature, with the beauty, the impulsive nature, the passionate heart of the Moorish girl, but with the reason, the intellect, the soul of the Spanish lady—Muley Abderrahman, who was waxing into years, began to doubt whether he had done wisely in training up the child of Mequiñez, the offspring of the desert, to the arts, the accomplishments, the hopes, and the aspirations of the free Venetian _dama_—began to look around him anxiously to see where he might bestow the hand of her whom he had learned to cherish and esteem even above his people or his power. He saw none, on that side of the Mediterranean, with whom she could be other than a slave—the first and mistress of the slaves, indeed, but still one of them—a beautiful toy to be prized for beauty, while that beauty should yet endure; if faded, to be cast aside into the sad solitude of neglect for a newer plaything, perhaps to be imprisoned—as a discrowned and discontented queen, and therefore dangerous—in some distant and dim seraglio on the verge of the great burning desert.

And was this a fate for the bright, the beloved, the beautiful, the sage Ayesha?

Thence was born the idea of the embassy to Boabdil. He knew the kings of Granada civilized and cultivated far before those of Tetuan or Tafilet, or even Mequiñez or Mecca—he knew that they had adopted, in many respects, the usages of the Christian cavaliers, and not least among these, their chivalrous courtesy and graceful respect for the fair sex—he knew them powerful and wealthy, and possessed of a land the fairest on the face of the earth, the glorious kingdom of Granada. At this time, although the war had commenced between Ferdinand and the Moorish princes, which was to terminate at no very distant day in the total overthrow of the Saracenic empire in Spain, it as yet lagged indecisively along, with no preponderance of this or the other force; nor could there be any doubt that a declaration on the part of the Sultan of Mequiñez, backed by the reinforcement of a Moorish and Berber, and an active naval warfare along the coasts of Spain, would not only secure Granada from any risk of dismemberment, but even wrest a permanent acknowledgment and durable peace from the Christian kings of the Spanish provinces.

Boabdil was at this time formally unwedded, although, like every other prince or magnate of his people, he had his wives, his concubines, his slaves innumerable. He was notoriously a leaner to the soft side of the heart, a fervent admirer of beauty, and was, moreover, a kind-hearted, gracious and accomplished prince. That he would be captivated by the charms of the incomparable Ayesha, even apart from the advantages which her union would bring to himself and to his people, could not be doubted; and should such an union be accomplished Muley Abderrahman felt well assured that he should have obtained for the darling of his heart all that he desired, freedom of life, a suitable partner, and security for her enjoyment of all her cherished tastes and respected privileges.

Still Muley Abderrahman, wiser than any Moslem father of that age, wiser than most Christian parents of any age, was not inclined to set down his own idea of what should be her good, with his absolute yea! as being her very good. He had, strange thing for a Moor! an idea that a woman has a soul—strange and unorthodox thing for a father! an idea that his daughter had a heart; and that it might not be such a bad thing after all for her ultimate happiness that her heart should be in some degree consulted.

She went, therefore, fancy free and untrammeled even by the knowledge of her father’s wishes, on a visit to her kinsfolk of Granada, entirely unsuspicious that any secret of state policy was connected with the visit to that land of romance and glory, of beauty and adventure, which was to her one long holyday. Of all her train, indeed, there was but one who was privy to the Sultan’s secret wishes old Hadj Abdallah Ibn Ali, the eldest of the sovereign’s councillors, like some, himself a traveler, and like himself, imbued with notions far more liberal than those of his time or country. To him it was entrusted, therefore, while seemingly inattentive to all that was passing, to observe strictly every shadow which might indicate whence the wind was about to blow—to take especial note of Boabdil’s conduct and wishes, and, above all, to omit no opportunity of discovering how the fair Ayesha might stand affected toward her royal cousin.

Gaily and happily had passed the days, the weeks, the months—it was still truce with the Spaniard, and days and nights were consumed in tilts, in tournaments, in hawking-parties on the beautiful green meadows of the Vega, beside the bright and brimful streams, adjuncts so necessary to that royal pastime, that it was known of old as the “Mystery of Rivers”—hunting-parties in the wild gorges of the Alpuxawa mountains, banquets at high noon, and festivals beneath the glimmering twilight, beneath the full-orbed moon, that life was, indeed, one long and joyous holyday. Boabdil was, in truth, of a man a right fair and goodly specimen—tall, finely formed, eminently handsome, graceful and affable in manners, kindly in heart and disposition, not untinctured with arts and letters, nor deficient in any essential which should become a gentle cavalier—as a monarch, when surrounded by his court, and seated in his place of state in the Hall of Lyons, of a truth he was a right royal king—as a warrior, in the tilt-yard his skill, his horsemanship, his management of all weapons, were the admiration of all beholders. In the field his gallantry and valor were incontestable. What, then, was wanting that Boabdil was not a perfect man, a real cavalier, a very king? Purpose, energy, will—will that must have its way, and cannot be denied, much less defeated.

A prince of a quiet realm, in tranquil times he had lived honored and happy, he had been gathered to his fathers among the tears of his people, he had lived in the memory of men as a good man, an admirable king, the father of his people.

Fallen upon evil times, thrust into an eminence for which he not only was, but felt himself to be unfit, unequally matched against such an enemy as Ferdinand, the one weak point outweighed all the fine qualities and noble virtues; and he lived, alas! to be that most miserable, most abject of all human things, a dethroned, exiled, despised king!

And did Ayesha, from beneath the screen of girlish levity, while seemingly steeped to the lips in the rapturous enjoyment of the liberty, the life of the present moment, did Ayesha see and foresee all this? At least, when Hadj Abdallah Ibn Ali wrote to his friend and patron the Sultan, and that but shortly after their arrival, that Boabdil was so evidently and obviously enamored of his mother’s lovely guest, that he would not only too eagerly court the alliance, backed as it was by advantages so kingly, but that he verily believed he would woo her to his throne, were she the merest peasant’s child. He wrote nothing of Ayesha!

Again he wrote that he could not doubt she had perceived her royal cousin’s love, and that her manner toward him was so frank, so free, so unrestrainedly joyous and confiding, that he was well assured that all went well, and that she returned the affection of Boabdil, and rejoiced in his love.

But Muley Abderrahman, shook his head and knit his brow, as he read the letter, and muttered through his thick moustache, “Ay! he is a good man—a good man is the Hadj Abdallah, and a wise one, but he knows nothing of a woman’s heart—how should he?”

When he sent the next dispatches to his old friend and counsellor, there was a brief private note attached. “Is the Leila Ayesha,” he asked, “never grave, never abstracted, never shy, and almost sad—does she never flee from the gayety of the festival, the tumult of the chase, into privacy and solitude—does she never fail to hear when addressed, to see when encountered—does she never weep nor sigh when alone—in a word, is she in nowise changed from what she was at Mequiñez?”

And the reply came, “Never. Wherefore should she? Is she not the apple of all eyes, the idol of all hearts? Her laugh is as the music of the soul, her eye-glance the sunbeam that enkindles every heart. She is the star of the Alhambra, the loadstone of the king’s soul. Wherefore should she weep or sigh? I have questioned her handmaids—never! Yes—the Leila Ayesha is changed. In Mequiñez, she was as a sunbeam thrown on still waters. Here in Granada, she is the sunbeam thrown on the dancing fountain, reflecting happy light on all around her. In Mequiñez, she was as a sweet song-bird, feeding her soul on her own harmonies in silence. Here in Granada she is as the sweet song-bird, enrapturing all within her sphere by the blithe outpourings of her joyous melodies. Yes—the Leila Ayesha is changed. My Lord Boabdil loves the Leila Ayesha; the Leila Ayesha knows it, and is glad.”

Then Muley Abderrahman shook his head, and pondered for a while, and muttered—

“She loves him not—She loves him not. The Hadj Abdallah is good and wise with the wisdom of men—but of the hearts of women, he knows nothing—how should he? for he never saw a woman.”

And the old king, far distant, saw more of what was passing in the fair girl’s heart than the wise councillor who was present—but he judged it best to tarry and abide the event—and he tarried, but not long.

Had he been present on that sultry summer’s evening, and looked upon his lovely child as she sat gazing out in such serenity of deep abstraction over the sunny Vega—over the fragrant orange groves and glowing vineyards, toward the glistening hill-tops of the Spaniards—his question would have answered itself, and at the first glance he would have seen that she loved.

The child had discovered that it had a heart—the creature had divined that it had an immortal soul—the child had become a woman—a very woman.

With all a woman’s smiles and tears,
And fearful hopes and hopeful fears,
And doubts and prayers for future years.

Leila Ayesha loved—but whom? At least not Boabdil! Happily, not Boabdil.

Even as she gazed, the orb of the gorgeous sun sank behind the distant hills, and at once—clear, shrill, and most melodious—up went the voice of the Muezzins, from every minaret throughout the gorgeous city, “To prayer, to prayer. There is no God but God, and Mahomet is his prophet. Faithful, to prayer, to prayer!”

And instant at the cry every sound ceased through the royal residence—every sound through the splendid city—every sound through the wide Vega. Every turbaned head was bowed in prayer, and a sabbath stillness seemed to consecrate the bridal of the earth and sky.

Ayesha rose from her divan, and while her lips murmured the words of devotion, and her fingers ran rapidly over the beads of her Comboloic or Moorish rosary, a strange, faltering flush ran over her fair brow. Her orisons ended, she caught some of the spray of the fountain in the palm of one of her fairy hands, and scattered it thrice over her long, dark tresses, on which it glistened in the soft moonbeams; for the moon now alone occupied the heavens, on the fragrant hills of the black hyacinth.

Again she resumed her attitude on the divan, but not her occupation; for the mood of her mind was altered, and for a while she hummed the burthen of an old, melancholy Moorish ballad—an old Moorish love-song, the words of which corresponded in no small degree to our own, “Oh! willow, willow”—since the proverb still holds good of burned Morocco or bright Spain, as of green, merry England—

“For aught that I did ever hear—
Did ever read in tale or history,
The course of true love never did run true.”

Ere long from the city gates far distant was heard the din of martial music—first, the deep clang of the kettle-drums and atabals alone, and the clear flourish of the silver trumpets which announced the presence of the king, and these only at intervals above or between the trampling of hoofs, the clash of armor, and the cheering of an excited multitude. Anon nearer and nearer came the sounds, with the clash of cymbals and the soft symphonies of lutes, and the clear, high notes of flutes and clarionets among the clangor of the trumpets, and the brazen rattling of the drums.

Nearer and nearer yet—and it is now at the Alhambra gates.

She started to her feet, and leaned far out of the embrasure commanding all the city, but her eye marked one object only, the royal train filing into the palace gates, from the royal sports on the Vega ended—and in that train, on but one person.

It was no turbaned head or caftaned form on which that ardent eye was fixed, now kindled into all a Moresca’s ecstacy of passion; it was on a tall Spanish crest and lofty plume. And, as if by a secret instinct, as her gaze was bent downward to the horse-shoe arch of the Alhambra gate, his glance soared upward to the airy turret’s top, and readily detected what would have escaped a less observant watcher, the dark eyes of his fair Ayesha gleaming through the palm-leaves and passion-flowers; their passionate fire half quenched by the tears of tenderness and hope.

His Ayesha—his—the Conde of Alarcos, proudest grandee of Spain—the favorite child of the Spaniard’s deadliest foe, the Sultan of Morocco.