Chapter V (9)

To Mrs. Lethvyn and Margaret, Lucy’s departure was indeed desolation; and as Nevil tried to soothe and comfort by the anticipation of her happiness—oh! what a storm of contending feelings crushed his very heart. He heard her mother bewail that love had not sprung up between her Lucy and himself; that two beings, each so fitted to form the happiness of the other, fate had so divided; and, though his very spirit trembled, he smiled, and with gentle monition, soothed the momentary irritability by a reference to that wiser, kinder Providence, from whom all things, even the darkest, have their source in love.

From a return ship, which had met the Syren about two hundred miles from her destined port, the anxious friends of Lucy received intelligence of her safety thus far; and Nevil nerved his heart and frame to receive, without any visible emotion, the intelligence expected in her next—her arrival and her marriage.

The time seemed unusually long before the Indian mail came in; and when he saw by the papers that it had, and the postman passed the vicarage, evidently on his way to the widow’s cottage, Nevil felt as if all physical power had departed from him. How long he thus sat he knew not;—the papers on which he had been writing notes for his next sermon were before him, and his mother fancied he was still busied with them. A hurried step aroused him, and Margaret Lethvyn rushed into the parlour, every feature betraying agitation.

“Oh! Mr. Herbert, come—pray come with me to poor mamma. Lucy, our own dear, injured Lucy! That wretch—that villain Mordaunt! Oh! that I were but a man, that I could but seek revenge!”

“Margaret!” exclaimed Nevil, springing from his seat, and convulsively grasping her arm, his face livid as death, while that of the young, high-spirited Margaret glowed like crimson; “revenge! for what? on whom?—what of—of—speak, for God’s sake!”

“He has deceived, has dealt falsely and foully with her—our own Lucy; who left friends, home—all, all for him; and loved him with such love! Oh! Mr. Herbert, do not chide me for the sinful feelings, but I must hate him—must pray for vengeance on him. He has deceived her. Even when he sent for her, he was MARRIED—MARRIED to another!”

Nevil Herbert sunk back on his seat with a groan so deep, a shudder so convulsive, that his mother and Margaret flew to his side in terror. It was long ere he could rouse himself; his forebodings all were realized; the blow had fallen; and for Lucy—who may tell the agony of Nevil’s heart, when he thought of its effect on her?

It was but too true. Incapable of any strong or enduring emotion, still seeking and loving worldly aggrandizement above all other consideration, Mordaunt Lyndsey had not been a year in India before he felt his engagement with Lucy as a heavy chain, which he longed to cast aside. He found himself courted and followed; and could he but have stifled the voice of conscience, would have married before the termination of eighteen months. A nature heartless as his own could neither appreciate nor understand the depth of Lucy’s. He purposely became colder and colder in his letters, but the warmth and trust of her own heart prevented her perceiving it. He magnified the miseries, the dangers of an Indian life, particularly to a female so thoroughly English as Lucy; but all was in vain;—every post brought him letters full of love and confidence, as at first. His feeble affections had been transferred to a wealthy heiress, caught by the diamonds which had sparkled in her ball costume. Dazzled into forgetfulness of all the past, conscience became drowned in the mad excitement and hilarity with which he pursued his advantage, and not till he was irretrievably engaged, did he remember he was the betrothed of another.

In one part of her statement Margaret was wrong. Mordaunt was not actually married when he last wrote to Lucy. In vain even his heartless nature struggled to write those words which could separate her from him for ever. For the first time the full extent of her love seemed to rush upon him, and he started up, and cursed his evil stars for making him such a wretch. For a moment, the idea of dissolving his present engagement entered his mind; but ere he reached the door, a vision of gold and gems, of untold wealth, came upon him, and the demon triumphed. His better angel fled; and he wrote to Lucy, as we have seen, believing, with pertinacious self-delusion, that his meaning would be so evident that she would break off the engagement herself—she _must_ read that he was changed. At least she would write again ere she decided on leaving England, and then it would be easy for him to prevent it; and confiding in this, not a month after his letter had been despatched, the heiress became Mordaunt Lyndsey’s wife.

Our tale is well-nigh done, for to breathe one word of Lucy’s feelings would be profanation. In vain her aunt and uncle conjured her to remain with them in India, and prove how little Mordaunt’s baseness had affected her, by a speedy marriage with another, above him alike in birth, wealth, and station; for such unions in India were easily accomplished. By some, perhaps, the proposal would have been seized with avidity, and a broken heart effectually concealed beneath an outward show of prosperity and pride. With Lucy this could not be. The storm had burst, the halo was dissipated; its beauty and its sunshine, its purity and truth, vanished like falling stars in the dark abyss of fathomless space; and the gentle spirit, folded in the glowing halo, lay shrined ’neath the shock. Her yearnings were now for home, for a mother’s tenderness, a sister’s caressing love, a brother’s supporting friendship, which would lead her failing heart up to the only fount of peace. And, after a long and weary interval—a voyage, whose many dangers, delays, and all but shipwreck, were, it seemed, as unfelt as unnoticed—those yearnings were at length fulfilled.

Again was Lucy Lethvyn an inmate of her mother’s lowly roof; but oh! how unspeakably changed, yet still so exquisitely, so radiantly lovely, that the eye turned again and again upon her, first in delight, and then with such a strange quivering of the lip and eyelid, betraying that tears were nigh. The smile—oh! what a history gleamed from it, of a woman’s heart broken, yet even from its every shivered fragment reflecting the quickness and confidence—aye, and deep heavenly love, which had descended on it from above. Not a bitter word, not an unkind reflection, not a selfish murmur ever escaped those lips. Those who loved and tended her alone occupied her thoughts and deeds. There were times, indeed, when a paroxysm of mental agony came upon her, bowing her fragile frame even to the dust; but of these intervals no earthly eye was witness. They were only marked by a rapid increase of exhaustion, and all the fatal evidences of decline and death; and so months passed. And Nevil, may we write of him, as day by day he watched over the fading form of one so long, so secretly, so unchangeably beloved. Alas! for him, even as for Lucy, silence is the most eloquent. We do not give such feelings words.

Autumn had come with a mildness and beauty unusual and most soothing. Lucy’s couch had been drawn to the window at her own request, and her eyes wandered over the landscape with a pleased and quiet smile. Nevil Herbert was alone beside her; he had been reading from that blessed book which had given comfort and strength to both, but had paused, seeing her inclined to speak.

“Yes!” she exclaimed, the fervour of her spirit flushing her cheek with sudden crimson, “yes! His words and works alike proclaim Him Love! Oh, Nevil! God has heard my prayer. He has spared me till I could realize the beauty and goodness, and the glory of this world. There was a time when, outward and inward—all was dark. Not a ray illumined the sluggish depths of misery and despair. Beauty had vanished with truth. I prayed for death; and once, as I stood alone upon the deck, the dread temptation was upon me to end misery and life together. It was but one plunge, one little moment’s resolution, and all would be over. All! Oh, what a flash of bewildering and awful light burst upon my mental darkness, sent as an angel of mercy to my soul! I had loved a mortal, and not God! The world was beautiful with human love—not with His, from whom it sprang;—and the light of human love was quenched, to teach me other things: and then it was I prayed, in the deep agony of remorse, my God would spare me, even in suffering, till even this world were lovely to my heart once more; till I could feel His love more deep, more precious, than the love of man. And he has done this, Nevil, dearest Nevil. A few, a very few hours, and I shall be with Him whose all is joy, and loveliness, and love, for ever and ever.”

There was no answer, and Lucy turned with difficulty towards him. His face was buried in his hands, and his whole frame shaken as with convulsion.

“Nevil,” she said, softly, “dearest Nevil, you are in sorrow, and I can do nothing to relieve it; I—to whom you have been such a true consoling friend. I have long feared you had some secret grief; not in the selfishness of my joy, but since—since I have returned. Oh, that I could be to you what you have been to me!”

It was too much for Nevil. In the passionate emotion of that moment, he flung himself on his knees beside the couch, poured forth the torrent of that overwhelming love—how it had lingered with him through years of hopelessness and misery; and he besought her, in agony, to say that she would live—live to bless him yet; and, as he spoke, the pious, the strong-hearted Nevil Herbert wept, till, as an infant, his very soul seemed powerless within him.

“And you have loved me thus!—you, the good, the noble, the exalted! Oh! I thought human love was all an idle dream—a vain delusion; but it is not—it is not. Even this may be beautiful and true,” murmured Lucy, raising herself with difficulty till her head rested on the bosom of Nevil. “Do not—do not weep, Nevil! Our Father will bring peace and love. And, oh! if the pure and ransomed spirits may hover beside those still lingering on this earth, be it mine the blessed task of bringing you the comfort I would give you now. I was never worthy of such love—and from you, dearest Nevil!—how much less worthy now, that even, were life granted, I could give but a broken heart, whose all of life and energy had been devoted to another. You must not weep for me, Nevil! You must not let my memory blight your path of holiness and good. Think of all you have been to me, have done for me; and—and if that will comfort you, oh! believe all—all of love this aching heart may yet give to earth, Nevil, dearest Nevil! is your own!”

She raised that sweet face, which had become suddenly pale and dim, as if a shadow had stolen over it. Nevil clasped her convulsively to his heart, and struggled vainly to speak; his white and quivering lips pressed hers with a long, lingering kiss, and she shrunk not from them. It was his first and last; for sleep stole upon her, and bowed her head more heavily, more caressingly upon his bosom. And Nevil stilled his heart’s full beating, and hushed his very breath, lest that calm slumber should be broken. He yearned to look once more in those lovely eyes, to drink in once, but once again, the gushing music of that thrilling voice; but vain those mortal yearnings. Human love, the purest, mightiest, has no power to chain the heaven-born spirit from its soaring flight. She never woke again!

* * * * *

And Mordaunt Lyndsey—was there no vengeance, no retribution for him? Did justice indeed so slumber? Long years rolled on ere aught could be distinguished to mark his prosperous path from that of his fellows; but some twenty years after our “Autumn Walk” in the lovely vales of Westmoreland, we learned that the hand of Heaven had dashed his lot with poison. A blooming family had sprung up around him; but each more or less touched by the malady of their mother. He had wedded madness!

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_The Spirit’s Entreaty._

FOUNDED ON A HEBREW APOLOGUE.

THERE was a pause in the courts of heaven. Seven times had the voice of the Eternal resounded through the vast realms of space, and from the very centre of chaotic darkness a world of beauty had sprung forth. Thousands of angelic spirits floated round and round the new-born globe, tending the innumerable sources of loveliness and life, which had burst at once into perfected being at the all-creating word. With every new creation, an increased effulgence flashed over the angelic hosts; and richer tones of mighty harmony proclaimed the power, and the glory, and the mercy of their God.

Deep in the unfathomable abyss of formless space hung the new-formed world, suspended from its parent heaven by chains of diamond light, visible only to the pure spirits, who on them ascended and descended, in performance of their newly-assigned employments.

Myriads of celestial beings stood in dazzling files without the veil, which in unapproachable and indescribable splendour concealed the throne of the Creator; whence issued that Eternal voice which spake, and creation was! None, not even the highest and the purest, the most etherealized amidst those spiritual ranks, could gaze on the ineffable glory piercing through the effulgent veil; nor dared approach it, without covering his face with his glittering pinions, and falling low in prostrate adoration. In their several ranks they stood, the glorious archangels to whom the ways, clearly as the works of the Eternal, were revealed. Hierarchs, who had penetrated deeper and deeper the mysteries of infinity, and by longed-tried obedience, and faithfulness, and love had won the glorious privilege of commune with the Ineffable Majesty of the Supreme. Even to the young seraph, commencing his heavenly career, satisfied to labour and to love, till he should pass through the intermediate ranks, and rising higher and higher in angelic intellect, and the beatified nature of his tasks at length attain the archangelic goal.

Seven times had gone forth the Omnific Word, and seven times had the Eternal pronounced it good; and each time of that approving Word, had the resplendent pinions of the hosts of heaven fluttered in irrepressible rejoicing, till space itself seemed lost in one vast flood of glistening and iris-coloured light, and music, soft, spiritual, and thrilling, marked every movement of the radiant wings, and filled up each pause of song.

And then, midst the deep stillness which succeeded, again spake the Eternal voice: “Let us make man!” and the mandate with the velocity of light rushed through the angelic-peopled courts; and every spirit of every rank, and every host, caught up the Omnific Word, and, in the full song of adoration, testified their joy. But suddenly a hush sunk on the rejoicing myriads; for, darting at the same instant from their respective ranks nearest the Eternal’s throne, three glorious spirits met together before the resplendent veil, and prostrated themselves in supplication.

They were of the highest order of the archangels, each intrusted with an attribute of his Creator to uphold its glory and its beauty amidst the celestial and spiritual worlds. And one spake, and his wings of sapphire, his dazzling brow, his radiant eye, before whose single look the mists of error passed; his crystal spear, before whose slightest touch, falsehood fled trembling and self-abhorred; alike proclaimed the gift of which he was the guardian. The Spirit of TRUTH implored—

“Father, create him not—life will be overshadowed by deceit!” and the spirit bowed his effulgent brow upon his wings in grief.

And then the second spirit spake,—akin to Truth, but sterner. His glorious brow was shaded by a glittering helm, and his right hand grasped an unsheathed sword; a raiment, resembling an hauberk of golden light, clothed his graceful limbs, and the rich full voice, in its entreaty, breathed his name.

“Father and Lord, create him not! He will destroy yon beautiful world by his unrighteousness; and I, unto whom thou hast entrusted thine attribute of JUSTICE, will seem to him, in his darkened light, as the avenger. Father, create him not!”

And then spake the third archangel,—his pure white pinions fluttered tremulously around him, and the exquisite beauty of his youthful face seemed disturbed by the intense ardour of his supplication; a wreath of amaranths bound back his flowing hair from a brow of such transcendent loveliness, that one look upon it filled the soul with balm; he held a bough of emerald, resembling the olive-leaf, but radiant with a liquid lustre unknown to the plants of earth.

“Create him not, oh, Father!” implored the spirit, and the brightness of his meekly expressive orbs was dimmed; “create him not! he will chase me from the earth. Peace will be but a name amidst the awful scenes of internal and external war, with which man’s passions will devastate yon beautiful world. Father, create him not!”

The spirit ceased; and, hushed to a solemn stillness, the listening myriads waited the answering Word. The effulgence piercing through the veil, appeared slightly shadowed, as if the Almighty presence had withdrawn his immediate glory, and the entreaty of his favoured angels would be granted. But far, far, in the unfathomable distance, a resplendent star seemed floating towards the veil, and faint yet thrilling melody proclaimed the rapid advance of angel wings. On, on—and the semblance of a star gave place to the form of a beatified spirit, whose dazzling loveliness irradiated space itself, and heightened the glory all around; and every rank he passed hailed him, even in that awful hour, with an irrepressible burst of song, and drew closer and closer round; and watched him with such love as only angels feel; and he smiled on them, but paused not in his rapid course, and the smile kindled hope anew, and confidence and joy banished the momentary shade.

It was the Spirit of LOVE; the best beloved of the Eternal; the guardian essence of the whole angelic hosts; angels and archangels, heirarchs and seraphs, alike acknowledged him, and bowed before his sway, as the representative of the Supreme. And on he floated in his indescribable beauty, and every court of heaven sent forth increased effulgence as he passed. He neared the veil, and bowed down before it, and then he spake, and his low soft tone penetrated the farthest limit of that immeasurable space.

“Create him, oh, Father!” he prayed; “create him to love, and be beloved! What if he err? what if he sin? Thou wilt pardon him; for thy love is greater than his sin!”

A burst of bewildering glory flashed through the veil upon him, as he knelt, and darted its dazzling rays through the thousand ranks of heaven at the same moment. It was the assenting sign of the Eternal; and again the Omnific Word went forth: “Let us make man!” and millions and millions of voices swelled the glad chorus, that another and yet mightier creation should bear witness to the loving mercy of their God. And TRUTH, and JUSTICE, and PEACE joined in the thrilling strain, for the Spirit of LOVE had touched them with his quivering breath, and they felt his words were true. Man might still err, but created in love, the immortal spirit breathed into the shell of clay; the angelic hosts gave vent to the full song of rejoicing; for the Spirit of LOVE hovered over the new-born world, as over theirs, endowed by the measureless compassion of the Eternal to purify and pardon.

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_Idalie._

THE STORY OF A PICTURE.

NO place is more calculated to call forth all the vagaries of the imagination than an old half-ruined castle, surrounded by wood and mount, hoar from many centuries, and lying in such deep seclusion, as to be unseen by the mere casual traveller. On such a spot, completely circled by a branch of the Cevennes, in the ancient district of Auvergne, it was once my hap to light. Trees of such gigantic growth, that they appeared bending beneath the weight of ages, frowning rocks, and overgrown brushwood formed so close a fortification, that the building might have been passed and repassed within a mile of its vicinity undiscovered.

It was a gothic chateau of the olden time, just sufficiently ruinous to give it the interest of age, yet containing costly tapestried chambers, panelled halls, long rambling galleries, secret rooms, and those deep dark dungeons, where many a brave man has languished and died unknown, save by his ruthless captor, all still in sufficient preservation to fill the mind with visions of the past as with the breathing realities of the present. There was a small chapel in the building, which had once been evidently richly adorned, but whose shrines and hangings were now all crumbling to decay. It was a melancholy visionary place, yet infused with a charm impossible to be resisted, and day after day my wanderings turned to the chateau; contented at first with rambling over chamber, hall, and gallery, imagination feasting on the thoughts of what had been the life, the stir, the pageantry, where all was now the solitude of silence and neglect. There were still some pictures hanging from the walls, but seemingly so resigned to the cobweb and the dust, that I had heeded them little, till one day the sun gleaming upon an antique frame, unobserved before, attracted me to the picture it enshrined, and in a moment heart, mind, and fancy were irresistibly enchained.

To attempt description of that face, to say why it haunted me for days and nights, as something almost unearthly, would be a hopeless task; yet turn from it as I would, or seek amusement in other objects, still it rose before me, pale, shadowy, yet so lovely, baffling every effort to dismiss it from my mind. Stars and braids of diamonds seemed still literally to glisten in the long jetty tresses, falling as a veil around her. Hands small, thin, and delicately white were crossed upon her bosom; the large dark eyes were raised, and the pale lips parted as in prayer; she seemed standing near an ancient altar; but every other object in the picture time had rendered wholly indistinct.

That I could obtain any information from the half-blind, wholly deaf guardian of the chateau was little probable; but the old man, to my astonishment, volunteered the tradition of the portrait, even before I had sufficiently rallied from its effect to look into its past. This tale, when separated from the garrulous annotations of his age and office, was simple and brief enough, yet to resist its spell was impossible. The beings of whom I heard seemed to breathe and move around me, the old castle to resume the state and order which had characterised it nearly three centuries ago, the very woods to lose their wild appearance, and blending in beautiful keeping with mount and rock, and richly-cultured lands, seemed to teem with the innumerable retainers of the proud nobles to whom they had once belonged. Under the influence of such dreamy visions the following papers were hastily written. Pretensions to a connected romance they have none; they tell but the story of a picture, which I would fain bring before the mind’s eye of the reader, even as its remembrance still so vividly lingers on my own.

I.

It was the third day of the brilliant show, yet was there no relaxation of chivalric ardour, nor semblance that lords and gentles were wearied with martial sports, or that the galaxy of beauty which the ornamented galleries presented had in aught diminished of loveliness and grace. Never had the fair sun of Paris looked down on a scene of more spirit-stirring interest, never had the blue arch of heaven re-echoed more martial sounds than on the day which witnessed the last tournament of France. The lists extending through the most central parts of Paris, flanked on one side by the terrific towers of the Bastile, were adorned by pavilions and tents of every variety of colouring and material. Heavy brocades, velvets, and silks, adorned with the devices of their owners, betrayed the names and bearings of well-nigh all the nobility of France. Over one, whose silver covering glittered so resplendently in the July sun that the aching eye turned from its lustre, hung the heavy folds of France’s banner, the _fleur de lis_, which, combined with the splendid accoutrements of esquires and pages lingering around, proved that majesty itself was amongst the combatants. The light breeze sporting with the many standards, at times gave their devices to view, at others, laid them idly by their staves. Streamers and pennons in gay relief stood forth against the clear blue sky; while the brilliant armour, the glittering spears, and stainless blades so multiplied the dazzling rays, there seemed a hundred suns.

France and Scotland, Spain and Savoy, in the honour of which last these jousts were given, were all marshalled in the lists, for none chose to remain mere spectators of games in which their chivalric spirits so heartily sympathised. The princes of the lordly house of Guise vying, in richness of apparel and number of retinue, with royalty itself. Montmorenci, Coligny, Andelot, Condé, Nemours—names bearing with them such undying memories, their mention is sufficient—all were this day present; for the blood-red standard of intolerance and persecution as yet remained unfurled. The very sounds that stirred the air added to the excitement of the scene. There were the proud neighings, the hurried snort of eager chargers impatient for the onset; the pealing shouts of welcome as each knight was recognised, marching at the head of well-trained bands to his pavilion; the answering cheers of the men-at-arms; the trampling of many steeds; the frequent clash of steel, as the knights passed and repassed in the lists ere they formed into bands; now and then the loud voice of the herald, or the shrill prolonged blast of the trumpet, and ever and anon a thrilling burst of martial music, lingering awhile in its own rude tones, then subsiding gently into the softer song of minstrelsy and love, more fitted to the ears of beauty than the wilder notes of war.

And beauty was indeed assembled in the many galleries erected round the lists. Even had there been no Catherine de Medicis, whose character was not yet fully known, and who now, as the queen consort, claimed and received universal homage; no fair and gentle Elizabeth, the youthful bride of Spain, whose child-like form and diminutive though most expressive features accorded little with the heavy gorgeousness of her jewelled robes; no retiring yet much-loved Margaret, the sister of Henri and bride of Savoy; no Anne of Este, whose regal beauty and majestic mien would have done honour to a diadem—had there been none of these, there was yet one in the royal group who, though girlhood had barely reached its prime, fascinated the gaze of every eye and fixed the homage of every heart. The diamond coronet of _fleur de lis_ entwining the sterner thistle, that lightly wreathed her noble brow, betrayed her rank; and the simple mention of Mary of Scotland, the queen dauphine, is all-sufficient to bring before the reader a fair, bright vision of loveliness and grace, that imagination only can portray. She sate the centre of a fair bevy of young girls, indiscriminately of France and Scotland, all bearing on the smooth brow, the smiling lip, the unpaled cheek true tokens of those fresh unsullied feelings found only in early youth.

The trumpets breathed forth a prolonged flourish, echoed on every side by the silver clarion and rolling drum, and Henri himself entered the lists. Clothed in the richest armour, mounted on a beautiful Arabian, and still wearing across his breast the black and white scarf in homage to Diana, the chivalric monarch challenged one by one the bravest warriors and the first nobles of his kingdom. Excited by the presence of his distinguished guests, he appeared this day urged on by an ardour and impetuosity which, while it endeared him to his subjects, caused many a female heart to tremble.

“Has thy knight turned truant, Idalie, or is he so wearied from the exertions of the last two days he has no strength or will for more?” asked the queen dauphine of one beside her, whose large dark eye and soul-speaking beauty betrayed a birth more southern than Scotia’s colder shores.

“He enters not the lists, royal madam,” she answered, in a lowered voice, “for, he fears the challenge of the king—fears not defeat, but conquest. The king has skill as yet unrivalled, courage none dare question; but the practice of a soldier brings these things to greater perfection than monarchs ever may obtain. Our gracious sovereign challenges the bravest knights to-day, and therefore does the count avoid the lists.”

“Perhaps he does well. But see how gallantly thy father bears himself; disease hath worked him but little, or rusted his sword within its scabbard. I would trust myself to the men of Montemar, Idalie, with better faith than to many of those more courtly-seeming bands. And who is yon gallant, bearing thy colours? Is the young esquire of thy father a rival to the goodly count?”

“Not so, gracious lady. Louis de Montemar and I are cousins in kindred, friends in affection, and playfellows from infancy. I broidered him the scarf he wears as token of my love, when he doffed the page’s garb and donned the squire’s. When he hath won his spur, perchance my scarf will be of little value.”

“Thinkest thou so? Methought the lowly homage that he tendered spoke humbler greeting than that of a brother. But there is some stir below; the trumpets sound the king again as challenger.”

A long flourish of trumpets again riveted the attention of the spectators, and the heralds in set phrase, challenged, on the part of their liege lord and gracious sovereign Henri of France, Gabriel de Lorges, Comte de Montgomeri, to run three courses with the lance or spear, and do battle with the same. Thrice was the count challenged according to form, but there was no answer.

A deadly pallor spread over the flushed cheek of Idalie de Montemar, and, clinging to the dauphine’s seat, she exclaimed, “Lady, dearest lady, oh, do not let this be! in mercy speak to her grace the queen, implore her to avert this combat!”

“Thou silly trembler, what evil can accrue? Nay, an thou lookest thus, I must do thy bidding,” and Mary hastily approached the seat of Catherine de Medicis, whom, however, she found already agitated and alarmed, and in the very act of despatching an esquire to implore the king to leave the lists. Somewhat infected with the terror she witnessed, yet unable to define it, the dauphine returned to her seat, seeking to reassure the trembling Idalie, and watch with her the effect of the queen’s solicitation.

At the moment of the esquire’s joining the knightly ring, the Comte de Montgomeri, unarmed and bareheaded, had flung himself at the king’s feet, imploring him in earnest accents to withdraw his challenge, and not expose him to the misery and danger of meeting his sovereign even in a friendly joust. It was no common fear, no casual emotion impressed on the striking countenance of Montgomeri; he was not one to bend his knee in entreaty, even to his sovereign, for a mere trivial cause. The princes and nobles round were themselves struck by his earnestness, knowing too well his great valour and extraordinary skill in every martial deed to doubt them now. The king alone remained unmoved.

“Tush, man!” he said, joyously; “what more harm will your good lance do our sacred person, than those whose blows yet tingle on our flesh? we have run many a gallant course to-day, and how shall we be the worse for a tilt with thee? Marry, thou art over bold, sir knight, we will not do thy courage such dishonour as to tax it now; yet, by our Lady, such presumption needs a check. Come, rouse thee from this folly, and don thine armour, as thou wouldst were our foes in Paris; my chaplet is not perfect till it hath a leaf from thee.”

“It may not be, my liege. I do beseech your grace to pardon me, and seek some opponent more worthy of this honour.”

“I know of none,” replied the king, so frankly and feelingly, that the warrior’s head bent even to the ground; “and Montgomeri will obey his sovereign, if he will not oblige his friend. Sir Count, we COMMAND your acceptance of our challenge.”

Sadly and slowly the count rose from his knee, and was reluctantly withdrawing, when the king again spoke—

“We would not, good my lord, that you should prepare to accept our challenge even as a criminal for execution; therefore, mark you lords and gentles, and bear witness to our words—whatever ill or scathe may chance to us in our intended course, we hold and pronounce Gabriel de Lorges, Comte de Montgomeri, guiltless of all malice, absolving him from all intentional evil, even if he work us harm. How now, sir squire, what would our royal consort, that ye seek us thus rudely?”

The esquire bent his knee, and delivered his message.

The king laughed loud and lightly.

“By our Lady, this is good,” he said. “Heard ye ever the like of this, my lords? What spell doth our brave Montgomeri bear about him, that we may not meet him even as others in friendly combat? Back to your royal mistress, Conrad; commend us in all love and duty to her grace, and say we will break this lance unto her honour. Would she have our noble guests proclaim Montgomeri so brave and skilful that Henri dared not meet him even after his challenge had gone forth? Shame, shame, on such advisers!”

The esquire withdrew, and the king taking a new lance, and mounting a fresh charger, slowly proceeded round the lists, attended by pages and esquires, and managing his fiery steed so gracefully as to rivet on him many admiring glances. He paused beneath the queen’s gallery, doffing his deep-plumed helmet a moment in the respectful greeting of a faithful chevalier; then looking up, he smiled proudly and undauntedly. At that moment the trumpets proclaimed the entrance of the challenged, and the king hastily replacing his helmet, clasped it but slightly, and galloped to his post.

A loud shout of welcome greeted the appearance of Montgomeri, and as the spectators marked the pink and white scarf across his shoulder, and the opal clasp that secured the deep plumes of his helmet, all eyes involuntarily turned to see the fair being to whom those colours proclaimed him vowed; nor when they traced the bandeau of opals on the pale high brow of Idalie de Montemar, her flowing robes secured by a girdle of the same precious stones, and discovered it was to her service the knight was pledged, did they marvel that at length the cold, stern, unbending Gabriel de Lorges had bowed beneath the spell of love.

The lists were cleared, and deep silence reigned amidst the assembled thousands. The combatants, ere the signal sounded, slowly traversed the lists, meeting at both extremities, and greeting each other in all solemn and chivalric fashion. Montgomeri’s lance sank as he saluted the queen’s pavilion, but it was to Idalie his lowest homage was tendered. She sought to smile in answer; but her lip only quivered, for her eye, awakened by love, could trace his deep reluctance to accept the challenge.

The signal was given, and with a shock and sound as of thunder the knights met in the centre of the course. The lances of both shivered. A loud and ringing shout echoed far and wide, forming a deep bass to the military music bursting forth at the same moment; but then the sound changed, and so suddenly, that the shout of triumph seemed turned, by the very breeze which bore it along, to the cries of wailing and despair. The horses of both combatants were seen careering wildly, and with empty saddles, round the lists. Princes, nobles, and knights crowded so swiftly and in such numbers to the spot where the combatants had met, that the eager populace could trace nothing but that one warrior was down and seemingly senseless, the which no one could assert. Order and restraint gave place to the wildest tumult; the people, _en masse_, rushed indiscriminately into the lists, heedless of the efforts of the men-at-arms to keep them back, and scarcely restrained even by the rapid and agitated approach of the queen consort and the princesses towards the principal group. Words of terrific import were whispered one to another, till the whisper grew loud and rumour became certainty. The music ceased, save the solitary flourish of trumpets proclaiming the warlike sports concluded. As if by magic, the lists were cleared, the tents struck, and every trace of the tournament removed. But even then the popular ferment continued; there were men hurrying to and fro, little knots of persons assembling in the street, speaking in anxious whispers, or hastening in silence to their homes. Ever and anon the muffled tone of heavy bells came borne on the air, and then the dead silence, ever the shapeless herald of some dread calamity. Ere night all trace of the morning’s glittering splendour and animated life had disappeared, and Paris seemed changed into a very desert of solitude and gloom.

II.

Eleven days had passed since the sudden termination of the fatal tournament, and Henri of France still lay speechless and insensible as he had fallen in the lists, when, from the insecure fastening of his helmet, it had given way before the lance of Montgomeri, and caused him to receive the full force of the blow on his eyebrow, thence fatally injuring the brain. Still life was not extinct, and, though against all reason, hopes were still entertained by many for his eventual recovery. In one of the apartments of the Louvre, forming the suite of the queen dauphine, sat the unfortunate Comte de Montgomeri and his betrothed bride. Sometimes sanguine that Henri would, nay, must recover; at others plunged in the depth of despair—had been the alternate moods of the count during these eleven days. His friends conjured him to lose no time in retiring from France, at least for a time; and Idalie herself, though she shrunk from the idea of parting, with an indefinable feeling of foreboding dread, yet so trembled for his safety if he remained, as to add her solicitations to those of others. Still the count lingered. The very thought of his having been the ill-fated hand to give the death-blow to the monarch he revered, and the friend he loved, was too horrible to be realized. He could not believe that such would be; yet so dark was his despair, so agonizing his self-accusations, that even his interviews with Idalie had lost their soothing sweetness, and he did but deplore that her pure love had been given to one so darkly fated as himself.

It was after one of these bursts of misery that the Comte de Montemar, who had been engaged with papers at the further end of the apartment, approached and sought to comfort him by an appeal to those holier feelings, which Montgomeri possessed in a much higher degree than most of his countrymen.

“It is not well, my friend,” De Montemar said, “to poison thus the brief moments we may yet pass together. Remember, thou wert no willing agent of that higher power, by whose mandate alone it was that our monarch fell. All may seem dark, yet even out of darkness He brought forth light—out of a very chaos the most unwavering order; and does He not do so still? Abide by the advice of those who urge thee to quit France till order is restored, and our gracious sovereign’s last words remembered and acted upon. Italian blood is hot and eager to avenge; but fear not, we shall meet again in happier days, and, oh, embitter not thus the few moments still left my poor child!”

Softened and subdued more than he had been yet, Montgomeri folded his arm round the weeping Idalie, kissed the tears from her pale cheek, conjured her forgiveness, and promised to battle with the despondency that almost crushed him.

“And wilt thou indeed do this?” she rejoined, imploringly. “Oh, bless thee for such promise! Yet I fear thee, Montgomeri. And when apart from me, and these troubled thoughts regain ascendency, thou wilt rush on danger, on death, to escape them. Think, then, dearest, that it is not your own life alone which you risk; that one is bound up in it which cannot rest alone. Will the ivy blossom and smile when the oak has fallen? And as the oak is to the lowly yet clinging ivy, so art thou to me.”

Folding her still closer, Montgomeri in his turn sought to reassure and soothe, but with less success than usual. Every look and tone of Idalie betrayed that heavy weight which had increased with each day that brought the hour of parting nearer. Breathed to none, and battled with as it had been, still it seemed to hold every faculty chained, and at length caused her head to sink on the bosom of De Lorges with such a burst of irrepressible anguish as to excite his alarm, and tenderly he conjured her to reveal its cause.

“I know it is a weakness, a folly, Gabriel, unworthy of the woman whom thou lovest; but scorn it not, upbraid it not, bid it go from me! Is there not woe enough in parting, that before the hope of meeting ever rises a dim and shapeless darkness impossible to be defined, yet so folding round my future as to bury all of hope, of trust, of every feeling, save that _we shall not meet as we have parted_?”

“Is it change in me thou fearest, love? No. Then heed it not; ’tis but a baseless fancy, which will come when the frame is weakened by the anguish of the mind. Believe me—”

He was interrupted. The hangings over the door leading by a private passage to the dauphine’s own rooms were suddenly drawn aside, and, closely muffled, Mary of Scotland stood before them, with anxiety and haste visibly imprinted on her features.

“This is no time for ceremony, my lord, or we would apologize for our intrusion,” she said, turning towards the Count de Montemar; “our business is too weighty for an indifferent messenger. Count de Lorges,” she added, addressing him abruptly, and pausing not for Montemar’s courtly words, “tarry not another night in Paris; you have been unwise to loiter here so long. Pause for no thought, no marvel. Fly at once; put the broad seas between you and France, and there may be happiness in store for you yet. Dearest Idalie, for thy sake, even as for Montgomeri’s, I am here: do not look upon me thus.”

“_Now_ must we part—now? Your highness means not now!” exclaimed Idalie, as her cold hands convulsively closed round the count’s arm. “What has he done that he should fly?”

“Nothing to call the blush of shame to his cheek or thine, dear child. The words I have heard may mean nothing, may be but wrung from woman’s agony, for the grief of Catherine de Medicis is of no softening nature; yet ought Montgomeri to leave Paris without delay, for there may be some to act on broken words, even as on an imperial mandate. Detain him not, Idalie; we shall visit Scotland perchance ere long, and there no grief shall damp a bridal.”

“Stay but one moment more, royal lady,” entreated De Lorges, as the dauphine turned to go; “one word, for mercy. How fares the king? Is there no more hope? Does he still lay as he has done ever since that fatal stroke?”

Mary looked at him somewhat surprised, and very sorrowfully.

“No, Montgomeri, no!” she said, after a pause of much feeling; “the soul has escaped the shattered prison, and Henri is at rest.”

Montgomeri staggered back with a heavy, almost convulsive groan. He knew not till that moment how powerfully hope had sustained him. The shock was almost as fearful as if he had never thought of death; and yet the horrible conviction that he was a regicide had scarcely for one instant left his mind.

“Montemar, let not this be, for the sake of thy poor child, of both. Part them ere long,” whispered the queen (dauphine no more), as the count knelt before her in involuntary homage; “think not of us now. Would to God we were still Dauphine of France and not her queen. Montgomeri’s danger, I fear, is imminent; let him not linger, and may our Lady guard him still.”

She departed as she spoke; and Montemar, infected with her evident anxiety, hesitated not to obey.

“Rouse thee, Montgomeri,” he said, earnestly; “fly, for the sake of this poor, drooping flower; let not our Idalie weep for a darker doom than even this sad parting. Come to thy father’s heart awhile, my child. Have I no claim upon thy love?”

Gently he drew her from Montgomeri’s still detaining arm, almost relieved to find her insensible to any further suffering. His beseeching words to fly ere Idalie again awoke to consciousness, moved the count to action. Still he lingered to kiss again and again the pale cheek and lips of his beloved; then convulsively wringing the count’s hand, rushed from the room and from the palace at the very moment that voices shouted “Long live Francis the Second, God preserve the King!”

III.

Eighteen months had passed, and still was the Count de Montgomeri an exile from his country; and so virulent was Catherine against him, so determinately forgetful of Henri’s last words, absolving the count of all intentional evil, whatever might ensue, that even his best friends dared not wish him back. For Idalie, this interval was indeed heavy with anxiety and sorrow, and all the bitter sickness of hope deferred. No doubt of his affection ever entered her heart; she knew him fond and faithful as herself; but there seemed no end, no term to the long, long interval of absence. Her future was bounded by the hour of meeting, and a very void of interest, and hope, and pleasure seemed the space which stretched between. Yet, for her father’s sake, her ever unselfish nature struggled with the stagnating gloom. The court was loathsome to them both, for even the friendship of the young queen could not remove from Idalie the horror which Catherine de Medicis inspired. In the Chateau de Montemar, then, these eighteen months had mostly been passed, and Idalie compelled herself to seek and feel interest in the families of her father’s vassals, and in the many lessons of feudal government and policy which, as the heiress of all his large estates and of his proud, unsullied name, her father delighted to pour into her heart.

One other subject engrossed the Count de Montemar, and of which he spoke so often and so solemnly to his daughter, that his feelings on the subject became hers; it was the wide-spreading over France of the new religion, deemed by all orthodox Catholics as a heresy, which, if not checked, would entirely subvert and destroy their ancient faith, and in consequence bring incalculable mischief to the country, both temporally and spiritually. De Montemar was no bigot, looking only to violent measures for the extermination of this far-spreading evil; but it grieved and affected him in no common degree. He spent hours and hours with his confessor and his daughter in commune on this one engrossing subject; and from the sincere and earnest lessons of the priest, a true and zealous though humble follower of his own church, he became more and more convinced of the truth of the olden creed, and what he deemed the foul and awful apostasy of the new.

Yet no violence of party spirit mingled in these discussions, and therefore it was that Idalie felt the conviction of the truth and beauty of her long-cherished religion sink into her soul like balm. Saddened by her individual sorrow, shrinking in consequence from all the exciting amusements then reigning in France, her fathers favourite subject became equally a resource and comfort to her, thus unconsciously fitting her for the martyr part which she was only too soon called upon to play.

The Count de Montemar had been a soldier from his youth, and was still suffering from the serious wounds received in his last campaign. Within the last three months he had gradually become weaker and weaker, till at length Idalie watched beside the couch, from which she had been told that her beloved and loving parent would never rise again. She had heard it with an agony of sorrow, which it was long ere the kindly sympathy of the benevolent priest and of her cousin Louis could in any degree assuage. Motherless from early childhood, a more than common tie bound her to her father; and so deep was the darkness which those cruel tidings seemed to gather round her, that even love itself succumbed beneath it, and the strange, wild yearning rose, that she, too, might “flee away, and be at rest.”

Unable to endure any longer these sad thoughts, Idalie arose from the seat where she had kept vigil for many weary nights and days, and looked forth upon the night. The moon was at the full, and shed such clear and silvery light around, that even the rugged crags and stunted pines seemed softened into beauty. The vale beneath slumbered in shadow, save where, here and there, a solitary tree stood forth, seemingly bathed in liquid silver. Sweet odours from the flowers of the night lingered on the breeze, and the rippling gush of a streamlet, reflecting every star and ray upon its bosom, was the only sound that broke the silence. The holy calm of Nature touched a responding chord in the heart of the watcher, and even grief felt for the moment stilled. A few minutes afterwards the voice of the count recalled her to his side.

“Is it a fancy, or was Louis here but now, my child?” he asked, feebly. “Is he from the court? and did he not bring news? Wherefore came he?”

“Because he heard that I was in sorrow, my dear father; and he sought, as he ever does, to soothe, or at least to share it.”

“Bless him for his faithful love! He has in truth been to me a son, and will be to thee a brother, mine own love; but tell me, is it indeed truth, or have my thoughts again wandered, has my young sovereign gone before me to the grave?”

“Alas! my father, ’tis even so.”

An expression of deep sorrow escaped the lips of the dying man, and for several minutes he was silent. When again he spoke, his voice was firmer.

“Idalie, my child, I shall soon follow my royal master; and it is well, for the regency of Catherine de Medicis can bring with it but misery. Listen to me, beloved one! I leave thee sole heiress of our olden heritage, of a glorious name, which from age to age hath descended in a line so pure, so stainless, that the name of De Montemar hath become a very proverb for all honourable and knightly deeds. There have been times when daughters, not sons, succeeded; and yet did its lustre not diminish nor its power decrease. Thou knowest this, my child. I know not wherefore I recall it now.”

“Dost thou doubt me, father?” replied Idalie, sadly, and somewhat reproachfully. “Thinkest thou my heart is so engrossed with selfish sorrows that I feel no pride, no love for mine ancient race, that its glory and its power shall decrease with me?”

“No, no, my noble child. Forgive me, I have pained thee, yet I meant it not.” Pausing a moment, he continued hurriedly, “Idalie, our faith, our blessed faith is tottering, falling in this land. Each month, each week the heretics gain ground; nor will all the bloody acts of Catherine and the princes of Guise arrest their progress. Were health and life renewed, I would neither raise sword nor kindle brand for their destruction; but my whole soul trembles for my native land. Idalie, my child, I know thy heart beats true as mine to our ancient creed. I know thou wilt never turn aside thyself from the one true path; but oh, for thy dead father’s sake, let not a heretic be master of these fair lands, and tempt thy vassals to embrace his soul-destroying creed. Thou wilt not wed with heresy, my child?”