Chapter VII: Albion’s Return (1)

I need not trouble the reader with a minute detail of the circumstances of Albion’s voyage, but shall pass on to what happened after he arrived in England.

It was a fair evening in September 1815 when he reached Strathelleraye.

Without waiting to enter the halls of his fathers he proceeded immediately to Oakwood House. As he approached it he almost sickened when for an instant the thought that she might be no more passed across his mind, but summoning hope to his aid and resting on her golden anchor he passed up the lawn and gained the glass doors of the drawing-room.

As he drew near a sweet symphony of harp music swelled on his ear. His heart bounded within him at the sound. He knew that no fingers but hers could create those melodious tones with which now blended the harmony of a sweet and sad but well-known voice. He lifted the vine branch that shaded the door and beheld Marina, more beautiful he thought than ever, seated at her harp sweeping with her slender fingers the quivering chords.

Without being observed by her, as she had her face turned from him, he entered, and sitting down leaned his head on his hand and, closing his eyes, listened with feelings of overwhelming transport to the following words:—

Long my anxious ear hath listened
For the step that ne’er returned;
And my tearful eye hath glistened,
And my heart hath daily burned,
But now I rest.

Nature’s self seemed clothed in mourning;
Even the star-like woodland flower,
With its leaflets fair, adorning
The pathway to the forest-bower,
Drooped its head.

From the cavern of the mountain,
From the groves that crown the hill,
From the stream, and from the fountain,
Sounds prophetic murmured still,
Betokening grief.

Boding winds came fitful, sighing,
Through the tall and leafy trees;
Birds of omen, wildly crying,
Sent their calls upon the breeze
Wailing round me.

At each sound I paled and trembled,
At each step I raised my head,
Hearkening if it his resembled,
Or if news that he was dead
Were come from far.

All my days were days of weeping;
Thoughts of grim despair were stirred;
Time on leaden feet seemed creeping;
Long heart-sickness, hope deferred
Cankered my heart.

Here the music and singing suddenly ceased.

Albion raised his head. All was darkness except where the silver moonbeams showed a desolate and ruined apartment instead of the elegant parlour that a few minutes before had gladdened his sight.

No trace of Marina was visible, no harp or other instrument of harmony, and the cold lunar light streamed through a void space instead of the glass door. He sprang up and called aloud: ‘Marina! Marina!’ But only an echo as of empty rooms answered. Almost distracted he rushed into the open air. A child was standing alone at the garden gate, who advanced towards him and said: ‘I will lead you to Marina Angus; she has removed from that house to another.’

Albion followed the child till they came to a long row of tall dark trees leading to a churchyard, which they entered, and the child vanished, leaving Albion beside a white marble tombstone on which was chiselled:—

MARINA ANGUS
She died
18th of June 1815
at
12 o’clock
midnight.

When Albion had read this he felt a pang of horrible anguish wring his heart and convulse his whole frame. With a loud groan he fell across the tomb and lay there senseless a long time, till at length he was waked from the death-like trance to behold the spirit of Marina, which stood beside him for a moment, and then murmuring, ‘Albion, I am happy, for I am at peace,’ disappeared!

For a few days he lingered round her tomb, and then quitted Strathelleraye, where he was never again heard of.

The reason of Marina’s death I shall briefly relate. Four years after Albion’s departure tidings came to the village that he was dead. The news broke Marina’s faithful heart. The day after, she was no more.

C. B.,
_October 12th_, 1830.

THE RIVALS

THE RIVALS

A SHORT DRAMA WRITTEN BY
CHARLOTTE BRONTË
AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN YEARS.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

LORD ARTHUR.

_The Rivals:_
MARIAN.
LADY ZENOBIA ELLRINGTON.

These characters will be easily recognised under their assumed names in the story entitled ‘Albion and Marina,’ pp. 75-94.

THE RIVALS

SCENE—_A thick forest, under the trees of which_ LADY ZENOBIA ELLRINGTON _is reposing, dressed in her usual attire of a crimson-velvet robe and black plumes. She speaks_:

’Tis eve: how that rich sunlight streameth through
The unwoven arches of this sylvan roof!
How their long, lustrous lines of light illume,
With trembling radiance, all the agèd boles
Of elms majestic as the lofty columns
That proudly rear their tall forms to the dome
Of old cathedral or imperial palace!
Yea, they are grander than the mightiest shafts
That e’er by hand of man were fashioned forth
Their holy, solemn temples to uphold;
And sweeter far than the harmonious peals
Of choral thunder, that in music roll
Through vaulted isles, are the low forest sounds
Murmuring around: of wind and stirrèd leaf,
And warbled song of nightingale or lark
Whose swelling cadences and dying falls
And whelming gushes of rich melody
Attune to meditation, all serene,
The weary spirit; and draw forth still thoughts
Of happy scenes half veilèd by the mists
Of bygone times. Yea, that calm influence
Hath soothed the billowy troubles of my heart
Till scarce one sad thought rises, though I sit
Beneath these trees, utterly desolate.
But no, not utterly, for still one friend
I fain would hope remains to brighten yet
My mournful journey through this vale of tears;
And, while he shines, all other, lesser lights
May wane and fade unnoticed from the sky.
But more than friend, e’en he can never be:
[_Heaves a deep sigh._
That thought is sorrowful, but yet I’ll hope.
What is my rival? Nought but a weak girl,
Ungifted with the state and majesty
That mark superior minds. Her eyes gleam not
Like windows to a soul of loftiness;
She hath not raven locks that lightly wave
Over a brow whose calm placidity
Might emulate the white and polished marble.
[_A white dove flutters by._
Ha! what art thou, fair creature? It hath vanished
Down that long vista of low-drooping trees.
How gracefully its pinions waved! Methinks
It was the spirit of this solitude.
List! I hear footsteps; and the rustling leaves
Proclaim the approach of some corporeal being.
[_A young girl advances up the vista, dressed in
green, with a garland of flowers wreathed
in the curls of her hazel hair. She comes
towards_ LADY ZENOBIA, _and says_:

GIRL.
Lady, methinks I erst have seen thy face.
Art thou not that Zenobia, she whose name
Renown hath come e’en to this fair retreat?

LADY ELLRINGTON.
Aye, maiden, thou hast rightly guessed. But how
Didst recognise me?

GIRL.
In Verreopolis
I saw thee walking in those gardens fair
That like a rich, embroidered belt surround
That mighty city; and one bade me look
At her whose genius had illumined bright
Her age, and country, with undying splendour.
The majesty of thy imperial form,
The fire and sweetness of thy radiant eye,
Alike conspired to impress thine image
Upon my memory; and thus it is
That now I know thee as thou sittest there
Queen-like, beneath the over-shadowing boughs
Of that huge oak-tree, monarch of this wood.

LADY ELLRINGTON [_smiling graciously_].
Who art thou, maiden?

GIRL.
Marian is my name.

LADY ELLRINGTON [_starting up: aside_].
Ha! my rival! [_Sternly_] What dost thou here
alone?

MARIAN [_aside_].
How her tone changed! [_Aloud_] My favourite
cushat-dove,
Whose plumes are whiter than new-fallen snow,
Hath wandered, heedless, from my vigilant care.
I saw it gleaming through these dusky trees,
Fair as a star, while soft it glided by:
So have I come to find and lure it back.

LADY ELLRINGTON.
Are all thy affections centred in a bird?
For thus thou speakest, as though nought were worthy
Of thought or care saving a silly dove!

MARIAN.
Nay, lady, I’ve a father, and mayhap
Others whom gratitude or tenderest ties,
If such there be, bind my heart closer to.

LADY ELLRINGTON.
But birds and flowers and such trifles vain
Seem most to attract thy love, if I may form
A judgment from thy locks elaborate curled
And wreathed around with woven garlandry,
And from thy whining speech, all redolent
With tone of most affected sentiment.
[_She seizes MARIAN, and exclaims with
a violent gesture:_
Wretch, I could kill thee!

MARIAN.
Why, what have I done?
How have I wronged thee? Surely thou ’rt distraught!

LADY ELLRINGTON.
How hast thou wronged me? Where didst weave
the net
Whose cunning meshes have entangled round
The mightiest heart that e’er in mortal breast
Did beat responsive unto human feeling?

MARIAN.
The net? What net? I wove no net; she’s frantic!

LADY ELLRINGTON.
Dull, simple creature! Canst not understand?

MARIAN.
Truly, I cannot. ’Tis to me a problem,
An unsolved riddle, an enigma dark.

LADY ELLRINGTON.
I’ll tell thee, then. But, hark! What voice is that?

VOICE [_from the forest_].
Marian, where art thou? I have found a rose
Fair as thyself. Come hither, and I’ll place it
With the blue violets on thine ivory brow.

MARIAN.
He calls me; I must go; restrain me not.

LADY ELLRINGTON.
Nay! I will hold thee firmly as grim death.
Thou need’st not struggle, for my grasp is strong.
Thou shalt not go: Lord Arthur shall come here,
And I will gain the rose despite of thee!
Now for my hour of triumph: here he comes.
[LORD ARTHUR _advances from among the trees,
exclaiming on seeing_ LADY ELLRINGTON.

LORD ARTHUR.
Zenobia! How com’st thou here? What ails thee?
Thy cheek is flushed as with a fever glow;
Thine eyes flash strangest radiance; and thy frame
Trembles like to the wind-stirred aspen-tree!

LADY ELLRINGTON.
Give me the rose, Lord Arthur, for methinks
I merit it more than my girlish rival;
I pray thee now grant my request, and place
That rose upon my forehead, not on hers;
Then will I serve thee all my after-days
As thy poor handmaid, as thy humblest slave,
Happy to kiss the dust beneath thy tread,
To kneel submissive in thy lordly presence.
Oh! turn thine eyes from her and look on me
As I kneel here imploring at thy feet,
Supremely blest if but a single glance
Could tell me that thou art not wholly deaf
To my petition, earnestly preferred.

LORD ARTHUR.
Lady, thou’rt surely mad! Depart, and hush
These importunate cries. They are not worthy
Of the great name which thou hast fairly earned.

LADY ELLRINGTON.
Give me that rose, and I to thee will cleave
Till death. Hear me, and give it me, Lord Arthur!

LORD ARTHUR [_after a few minutes’ deliberation_].
Here, take the flower, and keep it for my sake.
[MARIAN _utters a suppressed scream, and sinks
to the ground_.

LADY ELLRINGTON [_assisting her to rise_].
Now I have triumphed! But I’ll not exult;
Yet know, henceforth, I’m thy superior.
Farewell, my lord; I thank thee for thy preference!
[_She plunges into the wood and disappears._

LORD ARTHUR.
Fear nothing, Marian, for a fading flower
Is not symbolical of constancy.
But take this sign; [_Gives her his diamond ring_]
enduring adamant
Betokens well affection that will live
Long as life animates my faithful heart.
Now let us go; for, see, the deepening shades
Of twilight darken our lone forest-path;
And, lo! thy dove comes gliding through the murk,
Fair wanderer, back to its loved mistress’ care!
Luna will light us on our journey home:
For, see, her lamp shines radiant in the sky,
And her bright beams will pierce the thickest boughs.
[_Exeunt, and curtain falls._

From an unpublished manuscript by Charlotte Brontë, entitled ‘Visits in Verreopolis,’ vol. i., completed December 11th, 1880.

THE FAIRY GIFT

UNDER the title of ‘The Four Wishes’ this story was first printed by Mr. Clement Shorter in April 1918, in an edition limited to twenty copies for private circulation only.

It was published, with three illustrations, in the _Strand Magazine_, December 1918, pp. 461-466.

The title of ‘The Fairy Gift’ was given to the story by Charlotte Brontë.

C. W. H.

THE FAIRY GIFT

ONE cold evening in December 17—, while I was yet but a day labourer, though not even at that time wholly without some aspirations after fame and some intimations of future greatness, I was sitting alone by my cottage fire engaged in ambitious reveries of _l’avenir_, and amusing myself with wild and extravagant imaginations. A thousand evanescent wishes flitted through my mind, one of which was scarcely formed when another succeeded it; then a third, equally transitory, and so on.

While I was thus employed with building castles in the air my frail edifices were suddenly dissipated by an emphatic ‘Hem!’ I started, and raised my head. Nothing was visible, and, after a few minutes, supposing it to be only fancy, I resumed my occupation of weaving the web of waking visions. Again the ‘Hem!’ was heard; again I looked up, when lo! sitting in the opposite chair I beheld the diminutive figure of a man dressed all in green. With a pretty considerable fluster I demanded his business, and how he had contrived to enter the house without my knowledge.

‘I am a fairy,’ he replied, in a shrill voice; ‘but fear nothing; my intentions are not mischievous. On the contrary, I intend to gift you with the power of obtaining four wishes, provided that you wish them at different times; and if you should happen to find the fruition of my theme not equal to your anticipations, still you are at liberty to cast it aside, which you must do before another wish is granted.’

When he had concluded this information he gave me a ring, telling me that by the potency of the spell with which it was invested my desires would prove immediately successful.

I expressed my gratitude for this gift in the warmest terms, and then inquired how I should dispose of the ring when I had four times arrived at the possession of that which I might wish.

‘Come with it at midnight to the little valley in the uplands, a mile hence,’ said he, ‘and there you will be rid of it when it becomes useless.’

With these words he vanished from my sight. I stood for some minutes incredulous of the reality of that which I had witnessed, until at last I was convinced by the green-coloured ring set in gold that sparkled in my hand.

By some strange influence I had been preserved from any feeling of fear during my conversation with the fairy, but now I began to feel certain doubts and misgivings as to the propriety of having any dealings with supernatural beings. These, however, I soon quelled, and began forthwith to consider what should be the nature of my first wish. After some deliberation I found the desire for beauty was uppermost in my mind, and therefore formed a wish that next morning when I arose I should find myself possessed of surpassing loveliness.

That night my dreams were filled with anticipations of future grandeur, but the gay visions which my sleeping fancy called into being were dispelled by the first sounds of morning.

I awoke lightsome and refreshed, and springing out of bed glanced half-doubtingly into the small looking-glass which decorated the wall of my apartment, to ascertain if any change for the better had been wrought in me since the preceding night.

Never shall I forget the thrill of delighted surprise which passed through me when I beheld my altered appearance. There I stood, tall, slender, and graceful as a young poplar tree, all my limbs moulded in the most perfect and elegant symmetry, my complexion of the purest red and white, my eyes blue and brilliant, swimming in liquid radiance under the narrow dark arches of two exquisitely-formed eyebrows, my mouth of winning sweetness, and, lastly, my hair clustering in rich black curls over a forehead smooth as ivory.

In short, I have never yet heard or read of any beauty that could at all equal the splendour of comeliness with which I was at that moment invested.

I stood for a long time gazing at myself in a trance of admiration while happiness such as I had never known before overflowed my heart. That day happened to be Sunday, and accordingly I put on my best clothes and proceeded forthwith towards the church. The service had just commenced when I arrived, and as I walked up the aisle to my pew I felt that the eyes of the whole assembly were upon me, and that proud consciousness gave an elasticity to my gait which added stateliness and majesty to my other innumerable graces. Among those who viewed me most attentively was Lady Beatrice Ducie. This personage was the widow of Lord Ducie, owner of the chief part of the village where I resided and nearly all the surrounding land for many miles, who, when he died, left her the whole of his immense estates. She was without children and perfectly at liberty to marry whomsoever she might chance to fix her heart on, and therefore, though her ladyship had passed the meridian of life, was besides fat and ugly, and into the bargain had the reputation of being a witch, I cherished hopes that she might take a liking for me, seeing I was so very handsome; and by making me her spouse raise me at once from indigence to the highest pitch of luxury and affluence.

These were my ambitious meditations as I slowly retraced my steps homeward.

In the afternoon I again attended church, and again Lady Ducie favoured me with many smiles and glances expressive of her admiration. At length my approaching good fortune was placed beyond a doubt, for while I was standing in the porch after service was over she happened to pass, and inclining her head towards me, said: ‘Come to my house to-morrow at four o’clock.’? I only answered by a low bow and then hastened back to my cottage.

On Monday afternoon I dressed myself in my best, and putting a Christmas rose in the buttonhole of my coat, hastened to the appointed rendezvous.

When I entered the avenue of Ducie Castle a footman in rich livery stopped me and requested me to follow him. I complied, and we proceeded down a long walk to a bower of evergreens, where sat her ladyship in a pensive posture. Her stout, lusty figure was arrayed in a robe of purest white muslin, elegantly embroidered. On her head she wore an elaborately curled wig, among which borrowed tresses was twined a wreath of artificial flowers, and her brawny shoulders were enveloped in a costly Indian shawl. At my approach she arose and saluted me. I returned the compliment, and when we were seated, and the footman had withdrawn, business summarily commenced by her tendering me the possession of her hand and heart, both which offers, of course, I willingly accepted.

Three weeks after, we were married in the parish church by special licence, amidst the rejoicings of her numerous tenantry, to whom a sumptuous entertainment was that day given.

I now entered upon a new scene of life. Every object which met my eyes spoke of opulence and grandeur. Every meal of which I partook seemed to me a luxurious feast. As I wandered through the vast halls and magnificent apartments of my new residence I felt my heart dilating with gratified pride at the thought that they were my own.

Towards the obsequious domestics that thronged around me I behaved with the utmost respect and deference, being impelled thereto by a feeling of awe inspired by their superior breeding and splendid appearance.

I was now constantly encompassed by visitors from among those who moved in the highest circles of society. My time was passed in the enjoyment of all sorts of pleasures; balls, concerts, and dinners were given almost every day at the castle in honour of our wedding. My evenings were spent in hearing music, or seeing dancing and gormandising; my days in excursions over the country, either on horseback or in a carriage.

Yet, notwithstanding all this, I was not happy. The rooms were so numerous that I was often lost in my own house, and sometimes got into awkward predicaments in attempting to find some particular apartment. Our high-bred guests despised me for my clownish manners and deportment. I was forced to bear patiently the most humiliating jokes and sneers from noble lips. My own servants insulted me with impunity; and, finally, my wife’s temper showed itself every day more and more in the most hideous light. She became terribly jealous, and would hardly suffer me to go out of her sight a moment. In short, before the end of three months I sincerely wished myself separated from her and reduced again to the situation of a plain and coarse but honest and contented ploughboy.

This separation was occasioned by the following incident sooner than I expected. At a party which we gave one evening there chanced to be present a young lady named Cecilia Standon. She possessed no mean share of beauty, and had besides the most graceful demeanour I ever saw. Her manner was kind, gentle, and obliging, without any of that haughty superciliousness which so annoyed me in others of my fashionable acquaintances. If I made a foolish observation or transgressed against the rules of politeness she did not give vent to her contempt in a laugh or suppressed titter, but informed me in a whisper what I ought to have done, and instructed me how to do it.

When she was gone I remarked to my wife what a kind and excellent lady Miss Cecilia Standon was. ‘Yes,’ exclaimed she, reddening, ‘every one can please you but me. Don’t think to elude my vigilance, I saw you talking and laughing with her, you low-born creature whom I raised from obscurity to splendour. And yet not one spark of gratitude do you feel towards me. But I will have my revenge.’ So saying she left me to meditate alone on what that revenge might be.

The same night, as I lay in bed restless, I heard suddenly a noise of footsteps outside the chamber door. Compelled by irresistible curiosity, I rose and opened it without making any sound. My surprise was great on beholding the figure of my wife stealing along on tiptoe with her back towards me, and a lighted candle in her hand. Anxious to know what could be her motive for walking about the house at this time of night I followed softly, taking care to time my steps so as to coincide with hers.

After proceeding along many passages and galleries which I had never before seen, we descended a very long staircase that led us underneath the coal and wine cellars to a damp, subterraneous vault. Here she stopped and deposited the candle on the ground. I shrank instinctively, for the purpose of concealment, behind a massive stone pillar which upheld the arched roof on one side.

The rumours which I had often heard of her being a witch passed with painful distinctness across my mind, and I trembled violently. Presently she knelt with folded hands and began to mutter some indistinguishable words in a strange tone. Flames now darted out of the earth, and huge smouldering clouds of smoke rolled over the slimy walls, concealing their hideousness from the eye.

At length the dead silence that had hitherto reigned unbroken was dissipated by a tremendous cry which shook the house to its centre, and I saw six black, indefinable figures gliding through the darkness bearing a funeral bier on which lay arranged, as I had seen her the previous evening, the form of Cecilia Standon. Her dark eyes were closed, and their long lashes lay motionless on a cheek pale as marble. She was quite stiff and dead.

At this appalling sight I could restrain myself no longer, and uttering a loud shriek I sprang from behind the pillar. My wife saw me. She started from her kneeling position, and rushed furiously towards where I stood, exclaiming in tones rendered tremulous by excessive fury: ‘Wretch, wretch, what demon has lured thee hither to thy fate?’ With these words she seized me by the throat and attempted to strangle me.

I screamed and struggled in vain. Life was ebbing apace when suddenly she loosened her grasp, tottered, and fell dead.

When I was sufficiently recovered from the effects of her infernal grip to look around I saw by the light of the candle a little man in a green coat striding over her and flourishing a bloody dagger in the air. In his sharp, wild physiognomy I immediately recognised the fairy who six months ago had given me the ring.

That was the occasion of my present situation. He had stabbed my wife through the heart, and thus afforded me opportune relief at the moment when I so much needed it.

After tendering him my most ardent thanks for his kindness I ventured to ask what we should do with the dead body.

‘Leave that to me,’ he replied. ‘But now as the day is dawning, and I must soon be gone, do you wish to return to your former rank of a happy, honest labourer, being deprived of the beauty which has been the source of so much trouble to you, or will you remain as you are? Decide quickly, for my time is limited.’

I replied unhesitatingly, ‘Let me return to my former rank,’ and no sooner were the words out of my mouth than I found myself standing alone at the porch of my humble cottage, plain and coarse as ever, without any remains of the extreme comeliness with which I had been so lately invested.

I cast a glance at the tall towers of Ducie Castle which appeared in the distance faintly illuminated by the light reflected from rosy clouds hovering over the eastern horizon, and then, stooping as I passed beneath the lowly lintel, once more crossed the threshold of my parental hut.

A day or two after, while I was sitting at breakfast; a neighbour entered and, after inquiring how I did, etc., asked me where I had been for the last half year. Seeing it necessary to dissemble, I answered that I had been on a visit to a relation who lived at a great distance. This satisfied him, and I then inquired if anything had happened in the village since my departure.

‘Yes,’ said he, ‘a little while after you were gone Lady Ducie married the handsomest young man that was ever seen, but nobody knew where he came from, and most people thought he was a fairy; and now about four days ago Lady Ducie, her husband, and Lord Standon’s eldest daughter all vanished in the same night and have never been heard of since, though the strictest search has been made after them. Yesterday her ladyship’s brother came and took possession of the estate, and he is trying to hush up the matter as much as he can.’

This intelligence gave me no small degree of satisfaction, as I was now certain that none of the villagers had any suspicion of my dealings with the fairy.

But to proceed. I had yet liberty to make three more wishes; and, after much consideration, being convinced of the vanity of desiring such a transitory thing as my first, I fixed upon ‘superior talent’ as the aim of my second wish; and no sooner had I done so than I felt an expansion, as it were, of soul within me.

Everything appeared to my mental vision in a new light. High thoughts elevated my mind, and abstruse meditations racked my brain continually. But you shall presently hear the upshot of this sudden éclaircissement.

One day I was sent to a neighbouring market town, by one Mr. Tenderden, a gentleman of some consequence in our village, for the purpose of buying several articles in glass and china.

When I had made my purchases I directed them to be packed up in straw, and then with the basket on my back trudged off homeward. But ere I was half-way night overtook me. There was no moon, and the darkness was also much increased by a small mizzling rain. Cold and drenched to the skin, I arrived at The Rising Sun, a little wayside inn, which lay in my route.

On opening the door my eyes were agreeably saluted by the light of a bright warm fire, round which sat about half a dozen of my acquaintance.

After calling for a drop of something to warm me, and carefully depositing the basket of glass on the ground, I seated myself amongst them. They were engaged in a discussion as to whether a monarchical or republican form of government was the best. The chief champion of the republican side was Bob Sylvester, a blacksmith by trade, and of the largest loquacity of any man I ever saw. He was proud of his argumentative talents, but by dint of my fairy gift I soon silenced him, amid cheers from both sides of the house.

Bob was a man of hot temper, and not calculated for lying down quietly under a defeat. He therefore rose and challenged me to single combat. I accepted, and a regular battle ensued. After some hard hits he closed in furiously, and-dealt me a tremendous left-handed blow. I staggered, reeled, and fell insensible. The last thing I remember was a horrible crash as if the house was tumbling in about my ears.

When I recovered my senses I was laid in bed in my own house, all cut, bruised, and bloody. I was soon given to understand that the basket of glass was broken, and Mr. Tenderden, being a miserly, hard-hearted man, made me stand to the loss, which was upwards of five pounds.

When I was able to walk about again I determined to get rid of my ring forthwith in the manner the fairy had pointed out, seeing that it brought me nothing but ill-luck.

It was a fine clear night in October when I reached the little valley in the uplands before mentioned. There was a gentle frost, and the stars were twinkling with the lustre of diamonds in a sky of deep and cloudless azure. A chill breeze whistled dreamily in the gusty passes of the hills that surrounded the vale, but I wrapped my cloak around me and standing in a sheltered nook boldly awaited the event.

After about half an hour of dead silence I heard a sound as of many voices weeping and lamenting at a distance. This continued for some time until it was interrupted by another voice, seemingly close at hand. I started at the contiguity of the sound, and looked on every side, but nothing was visible. Still the strain kept rising and drawing nearer. At length the following words, sung in a melancholy though harmonious tone, became distinctly audible:—

Hearken, O Mortal! to the wail
Which round the wandering night-winds fling,
Soft-sighing ’neath the moonbeams pale,
How low! how old! its murmuring!

No other voice, no other tone,
Disturbs the silence deep;
All, saving that prophetic moan,
Are hushed in quiet sleep.

The moon and each small lustrous star,
That journey through the boundless sky,
Seem, as their radiance from afar
Falls on the still earth silently,

To weep the fresh descending dew
That decks with gems the world:
Sweet teardrops of the glorious blue
Above us wide unfurled.

But, hark! again the sighing wail
Upon the rising breeze doth swell.
Oh! hasten from this haunted vale,
Mournful as a funeral knell!

For here, when gloomy midnight reigns,
The fairies form their ring,
And, unto wild unearthly strains,
In measured cadence sing.

No human eye their sports may see,
No human tongue their deeds reveal;
The sweetness of their melody
The ear of man may never feel.

But now the elfin horn resounds,
No longer mayst thou stay;
Near and more near the music sounds,
Then, Mortal, haste away!

Here I certainly heard the music of a very sweet and mellow horn. At that instant the ring which I held in my hand melted and became like a drop of dew, which trickled down my fingers and falling on the dead leaves spread around, vanished.

Having now no further business I immediately quitted the valley and returned home…

Being very tired and sleepy I retired to bed. As I have no doubt my reader is by this time in much the same state, I bid him good-bye.

CHARLOTTE BRONTË,
_December 18th_, 1830.

From _Visits in Verreopolis_, vol. II. chap. ii., by the Honourable Charles Albert Florian, Lord Wellesley, aged ten years. Published by Sergeant Bud. The tale is related by, and is a passage from the early life of, Captain Bud, the father of the fictitious publisher.—C. W. H.

LOVE AND JEALOUSY

NO title was given by Charlotte Brontë to this story, which was probably intended as a sequel to the short drama printed on pp. 95-104.

The original manuscript has been divided into two parts, one sheet of four pages having been removed and certain words erased (see footnotes on pages 126 and 129), apparently in an attempt to make it appear as two separate and complete manuscripts. The missing words have been obtained from a transcript made before the manuscript was mutilated.

C. W. H.

LOVE AND JEALOUSY

IN the autumn of the year 1831, being weary of study, and the melancholy solitude of the vast streets and mighty commercial marts of our great Babel, and being fatigued with the ever-resounding thunder of the sea, with the din of a thousand self-moving engines, with the dissonant cries of all nations, kindreds, and tongues, congregated together in the gigantic emporium of commerce, of arts, of God-like wisdom, of boundless learning, and of superhuman knowledge; being dazzled with continually beholding the glory, the power, the riches, dominion, and radiant beauty of the city which sitteth like a queen upon the waters; in one word, being tired of Verdopolis and all its magnificence, I determined on a trip into the country.

Accordingly, the day after this resolution was formed, I rose with the sun, collected a few essential articles of dress, etc., packed them neatly in a light knapsack, arranged my apartment, partook of a wholesome repast, and then, after locking the door and delivering the key to my landlady, I set out with a light heart and joyous step.

After three days of continued travel I arrived on the banks of a wide and profound river winding through a vast valley embosomed in hills whose robe of rich and flowery verdure was broken only by the long shadow of groves, and here and there by clustering herds and flocks lying, white as snow, in the green hollows between the mountains. It was the evening of a calm summer day when I reached this enchanting spot. The only sounds now audible were the songs of shepherds, swelling and dying at intervals, and the murmur of gliding waves. I neither knew nor cared where I was. My bodily faculties of eye and ear were absorbed in the contemplation of this delightful scene, and, wandering unheedingly along, I left the guidance of the river and entered a wood, invited by the warbling of a hundred forest minstrels. Soon I perceived the narrow, tangled woodpath to widen, and gradually it assumed the appearance of a green shady alley. Occasionally bowers of roses and myrtles appeared by the pathside, with soft banks of moss for the weary to repose on. Notwithstanding these indications of individual property, curiosity and the allurements of music and cool shade led me forwards. At length I entered a glade in the wood, in the midst of which was a small but exquisitely beautiful marble edifice of pure and dazzling whiteness. On the broad steps of the portico two figures were reclining, at sight of whom I instantly stepped behind a low, wide-spreading fig-tree, where I could hear and see all that passed without fear of detection. One was a youth of lofty stature and remarkably graceful demeanour, attired in a rich purple vest and mantle, with closely fitting white pantaloons of white woven silk, displaying to advantage the magnificent proportions of his form. A richly adorned belt was girt tightly round his waist from which depended a scimitar whose golden hilt, and scabbard of the finest Damascus steel, glittered with gems of inestimable value. His steel-barred cap, crested with tall, snowy plumes, lay beside him, its absence revealing more clearly the rich curls of dark, glossy hair clustering round a countenance distinguished by the noble beauty of its features, but still more by the radiant fire of genius and intellect visible in the intense brightness of his large, dark, and lustrous eyes.

The other form was that of a very young and slender girl, whose complexion was delicately, almost transparently, fair. Her cheeks were tinted with a rich, soft crimson, her features moulded in the utmost perfection of loveliness; while the clear light of her brilliant hazel eyes, and the soft waving of her auburn ringlets, gave additional charms to what seemed already infinitely too beautiful for this earth. Her dress was a white robe of the finest texture the Indian loom can produce. The only ornaments she wore were a long chain which encircled her neck twice and hung lower than her waist, composed of alternate beads of the finest emeralds and gold; and a slight gold ring on the third finger of her left hand, which, together with a small crescent of pearls glistening on her forehead (which is always worn by the noble matrons of Verdopolis), betokened that she had entered the path of wedded life. With a sweet vivacity in her look and manner the young bride was addressing her lord thus when I first came in sight of the peerless pair:

‘No, no, my lord; if I sing the song you shall choose it. Now, once more, what shall I sing? The moon is risen, and, if your decision is not prompt, I will not sing at all!’

[126] To this he answered: ‘Well, if I am threatened with the entire loss of the pleasure if I defer my choice, I will have that sweet song which I overheard you singing the evening before I left Scotland.’ [3]

3 The last four words in this sentence have been erased from the MS.—C. W. H.

With a smiling blush she took a little ivory lyre, and, in a voice of the most touching melody, sang the following stanzas:—

He is gone, and all grandeur has fled from the mountain;
All beauty departed from stream and from fountain;
A dark veil is hung
O’er the bright sky of gladness,
And, where birds sweetly sung,
There’s a murmur of sadness;
The wind sings with a warning tone
Through many a shadowy tree;
I hear, in every passing moan,
The voice of destiny.

Then, O Lord of the Waters! the Great and All-seeing!
Preserve in Thy mercy his safety and being;
May he trust in Thy might
When the dark storm is howling,
And the blackness of night
Over Heaven is scowling;
But may the sea flow glidingly
With gentle summer waves;
And silent may all tempests lie
Chained in Æolian caves!

Yet, though ere he returnest long years will have vanished,
Sweet hope from my bosom shall never be banished:
I will think of the time
When his step, lightly bounding,
Shall be heard on the rock
Where the cataract is sounding;
When the banner of his father’s host
Shall be unfurled on high,
To welcome back the pride and boast
Of England’s chivalry!

Yet tears will flow forth while of hope I am singing;
Still despair her dark shadow is over me flinging;
But, when he’s far away,
I will pluck the wild flower
On bank and on brae
At the still, moonlight hour;
And I will twine for him a wreath
Low in the fairy’s dell;
Methought I heard the night-wind breathe
That solemn word: ‘Farewell!’ [4]

4 The above poem appears to have been composed more than twelve months before the story in which it appears. In _The Red Cross Knight and Other Poems_, 1917 (a little book printed for private circulation only, in an edition limited to thirty copies), the poem was printed for Mr. T. J. Wise from a manuscript dated July 1831.—C. W. H.

When the lady had concluded her song I stepped from my place of concealment, and was instantly perceived by the noble youth (whom, of course, every reader will have recognised as the Marquis of Douro).

He gave me a courteous welcome, and invited me to proceed with him to his country palace, as it was now wearing late. I willingly accepted the invitation, and, in a short time, we arrived there.

It is a truly noble structure, built in the purest style of Grecian architecture, situated in the midst of a vast park, embosomed in richly wooded hills, perfumed with orange and citron groves, and watered by a branch of the Gambia, almost equal in sight to the parent stream.

The magnificence of the interior is equal to that of the outside. There is an air of regal state and splendour throughout all the lofty domed apartments which strikes the spectator with awe for the lord of so imposing a residence. The marquis has a particular pride in the knowledge that he is the owner of one of the most splendid, select, and extensive libraries now in the possession of any individual. His picture and statue galleries likewise contain many of the finest works, both of the ancient and modern masters, particularly the latter, of whom the marquis is a most generous and munificent patron. In his cabinet of curiosities I observed a beautiful casket of wrought gold. At my request he opened it and produced the contents, viz. a manuscript copy of that rare work, ‘The Autobiography of Captain Leaf.’ It was written on a roll of vellum, but much discoloured and rendered nearly illegible by time. To my eager inquiries respecting the manner in which he had obtained so inestimable a treasure, he replied, with a smile:

‘That question I must decline to answer. It is a secret with which I alone am acquainted.’

I likewise noticed a brace of pistols, most exquisitely wrought and highly finished. He told me they were the _chef-d’œuvre_ of Darrow, the best manufacturer of firearms in the universe. I counted one hundred gold and silver medals, which had been presented to this youthful but all-accomplished nobleman by different literary and scientific establishments. They were all contained in a truly splendid gold vase awarded to him last year by the Academy of Modern Athenians (as that learned body somewhat presumptuously chooses to style itself) as being the composer of the best epigram in Greek. Above this was suspended a silver bow and quiver, the first prize given by the Royal Society of Archers, together with a bit, bridle, spurs, and stirrups, all of fine gold, obtained from the Honourable Community of Equestrians. Near these lay several withered wreaths of myrtle, laurel, etc., etc., won by him as conqueror in the great African Biennial Games. On a rich stand of polished ebony were ranged twenty-three beautiful vases of marble, alabaster, etc., all richly carved in basso-relievo, remarkable for classic elegance of form, design, and execution. Some of these were filled with cameos, others with ancient coins, and others again bore branches of scarlet and white coral, pearls, gems of various sorts, fossils, etc. But what interested me more than all these trophies of victory and specimens of art and nature, costly, beautiful, and almost invaluable as they were, was a little figure of Apollo, about six inches in height, curiously carved in white agate, holding a lyre in his hand, and placed on a pedestal of the same valuable material, on which was the following inscription:—

In our day we beheld the god of Archery, Eloquence, and
Verse, shrined in an infinitely fairer form than that worn
by the ancient Apollo, and giving far more glorious proofs
of his divinity than the day-god ever vouchsafed to the
inhabitants of the old Pagan world. Zenobia Ellrington
implores Arthur Augustus Wellesley to accept this small
memorial, and consider it as a token that, though forsaken
and despised by him whose good opinion and friendship
she valued more than life, she yet bears no malice.

There was a secret contained in this inscription which I could not fathom. I had never before heard of any misunderstanding between his lordship and Lady Zenobia, nor did public appearances warrant a suspicion of its existence. Long after, however, the following circumstances came to my knowledge. The channel through which they reached me cannot be doubted, but I am not at liberty to mention names.

One evening about dusk, as the Marquis of Douro was returning from a shooting excursion into the country, he heard suddenly a rustling noise in a deep ditch on the roadside.[5] He was preparing his fowling-piece for a shot when the form of Lady Ellrington started up before him. Her head was bare, her tall person was enveloped in the tattered remnants of a dark velvet mantle. Her dishevelled hair hung in wild elf-locks over her face, neck, and shoulders, almost concealing her features, which were emaciated and pale as death. He stepped back a few paces, startled at the sudden and ghastly apparition. She threw herself on her knees before him, exclaiming in wild, maniacal accents:

‘My lord, tell me truly, sincerely, ingenuously, where you have been. I heard that you had left Verdopolis, and I followed you on foot five hundred miles. Then my strength failed me, and I lay down in this place, as I thought, to die. But it was doomed I should see you once more before I became an inhabitant of the grave. Answer me, my lord: Have you seen that wretch Marian Hume? Have you spoken to her? Viper! Viper! Oh, that I could sheathe this weapon in her heart!’

5 The first twelve words in this sentence have been erased from the MS.—C. W. H.

Here she stopped for want of breath, and, drawing a long, sharp, glittering knife from under her cloak, brandished it wildly in the air. The marquis looked at her steadily, and, without attempting to disarm her, answered with great composure:

‘You have asked me a strange question, Lady Zenobia; but, before I attempt to answer, you had better come with me to our encampment. I will order a tent to be prepared for you where you may pass the night in safety, and, to-morrow, when you are a little recruited by rest and refreshment, we will discuss this matter soberly.’[6]

6 It is the custom in Verdopolis, where perhaps forty or so noblemen, with their attendants, go to shoot or hunt wild beasts or birds in the desolate and uninhabited Mountains of the Moon, to form a sort of camp for their mutual protection and defence. These camps sometimes contain upwards of a hundred individuals.—_Note by Author_.

Her rage Was now exhausted by its own vehemence, and she replied with more calmness than she had hitherto evinced:

‘My lord, believe me, I am deputed by Heaven to warn you of a great danger into which you are about to fall. If you persist in your intention of uniting yourself to Marian Hume you will become a murderer and a suicide. I cannot explain myself more clearly; but ponder carefully on my words until I see you again.’

Then, bowing her forehead to the ground in an attitude of adoration, she kissed his feet, muttering at the same time some unintelligible words. At that moment a loud rushing, like the sound of a whirlpool, became audible, and Lady Zenobia was swept away by some invisible power before the marquis could extend his arms to arrest her progress, or frame an answer to her mysterious address. He paced slowly forward, lost in deep reflection on what he had heard and seen. The moon had risen over the black, barren mountains ere he reached the camp. He gazed for awhile on her pure, undimmed lustre, comparing it to the loveliness of one far away, and then, entering his tent, wrapped himself in his hunter’s cloak, and lay down to unquiet sleep.

Months rolled away, and the mystery remained unravelled. Lady Zenobia Ellrington appeared as usual in that dazzling circle of which she was ever a distinguished ornament. There was no trace of wandering fire in her eyes which might lead a careful observer to imagine that her mind was unsteady. Her voice was more subdued and her looks pale, and it was remarked by some that she avoided all (even the most commonplace) conversation with the marquis.

In the meantime the Duke of Wellington had consented to his son’s union with the beautiful, virtuous, and accomplished, but untitled, Marian Hume.

Vast and splendid preparations were making for the approaching bridal, when just at this critical juncture news arrived of the Great Rebellion headed by Alexander Rogue. The intelligence fell with the suddenness and violence of a thunderbolt. Unequivocal symptoms of dissatisfaction began to appear at the same time among the lower orders in Verdopolis. The workmen at the principal mills and furnaces struck for an advance of wages, and, the masters refusing to comply with their exorbitant demands, they all turned out simultaneously. Shortly after, Colonel Grenville, one of the great millowners, was shot. His assassins being quickly discovered and delivered up to justice were interrogated by torture, but they remained inflexible, not a single satisfactory answer being elicited from them. The police were now doubled. Bands of soldiers were stationed in the more suspicious parts of the city, and orders were issued that no citizen should walk abroad unarmed. In this state of affairs Parliament was summoned to consult on the best measures to be taken. On the first night of its sitting the house was crowded to excess. All the members attended, and above a thousand ladies of the first rank appeared in the gallery. A settled expression of gloom and anxiety was visible in every countenance. They sat for some time gazing at ache other in the silence of seeming despair. At length the Marquis of Douro rose and ascended the tribune. It was on this memorable night he pronounced that celebrated oration which will be delivered to posterity as a finished specimen of the sublimest eloquence. The souls of all who heard him were thrilled with conflicting emotions. Some of the ladies in the gallery fainted and were carried out. My limits will not permit me to transcribe the whole of this speech, and to attempt an abridgment would be profanation. I will, however, present the reader with the conclusion. It was as follows:—

I will call upon you, my countrymen, to rouse yourselves
to action. There is a latent flame of rebellion smouldering
in our city, which blood alone can quench: the hot blood
of ourselves and our enemies freely poured forth! We
daily see in our streets men whose brows were once open
as the day, but which are now wrinkled with dark dissatisfaction,
and the light of whose eyes, formerly free as
sunshine, is now dimmed by restless suspicion. Our upright
merchants are ever threatened with fears of assassination
from those dependants who, in time past, loved,
honoured, and reverenced them as fathers. Our peaceful
citizens cannot pass their thresholds in safety unless laden
with weapons of war, the continual dread of death haunting
their footsteps wherever they turn. And who has
produced this awful change? What agency of hell has
affected, what master-spirit of crime, what prince of sin,
what Beelzebub of black iniquity, has been at work in
this Kingdom? I will answer that fearful question:
ALEXANDER ROGUE! Arm for the battle, then, fellow-countrymen;
be not faint-hearted, but trust in the justice of
your cause as your banner of protection, and let your war-shout
in the onslaught ever be: ‘God defend the right!’

When the marquis had concluded this harangue, he left the house amidst long and loud thunders of applause, and proceeded to one of the shady groves planted on the banks of the Guadima. Here he walked for some time inhaling the fresh night-wind, which acquired additional coolness as it swept over the broad rapid river, and was just beginning to recover from the strong excitement into which his enthusiasm had thrown him when he felt his arm suddenly grasped from behind, and turning round beheld Lady Zenobia Ellrington standing beside him, with the same wild, unnatural expression of countenance which had before convulsed her features among the dark hills of Gibbel Kumri.

‘My lord,’ she muttered, in a low, energetic tone, ‘your eloquence, your noble genius has again driven me to desperation. I am no longer mistress of myself, and if you do not consent to be mine, and mine alone, I will kill myself where I stand.’

‘Lady Ellrington,’ said the marquis coldly, withdrawing his hand from her grasp, ‘this conduct is unworthy of your character. I must beg that you will cease to use the language of a madwoman, for I do assure you, my lady, these deep stratagems will have no effect upon me.’