 | CHAPTER IV. The brothers : |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
Is human love the growth of human will?
To her he might be gentleness—the stern
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern;
And when they love, your smilers guess not how
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow.”
Lara.
The flight was over—the struggle was at an
end—the haven was gained; but with present
safety there came an almost intolerable dread of
future evil. A thousand doubts and fears, unthought
of amid the stormy occurrences of the last
few hours, crowded, like busy fiends, upon my
brain. I said that I was happy; and so in truth
I was,—exquisitely, supremely happy! Never,
in the whole course of my life, have I experienced
sensations so thrilling, and so nearly approaching
to the delirium of joy, as were those with which I
learned that there was hardly a possibility of recapture
to be apprehended; and that, after a brief
repose, my lovely charge would be so completely
such should be required, not only free from risk,
but easy of accomplishment. While the brother
who officiated as chirurgeon in the convent which
had afforded us shelter was yet speaking to me,
a full sense of my condition flashed, for the first
time, upon my mind. All had before been dreamy,
indistinct, and obscure; all was now definite and
terrible in its distinctness. That moment of lightning-thought
was to my spirit what the sulphureous
glare of the tempest is to the midnight
ocean,—revealing, to the unconscious mariner,
terrors of which he had not even dreamed, till
they were dragged from darkness into horrible
reality by that brief illumination. I saw at once
the pinnacle on which I was tottering, and the
abyss that yawned below; but the light which
showed the perils that environed me, showed no
path by which to escape them. So suddenly did
this consciousness of my embarrassment gleam
upon my senses, and so overpowering were the
feelings to which that consciousness gave birth,
that I broke off abruptly in my reply to the worthy
Benedictine, with symptoms of confusion so evident,
that they must have excited suspicion, had
they not, luckily for me, been attributed to the
effects of over-exertion alike of mind and body. I
and then again I felt that every drop of blood in
my veins was rushing in torrents to my brow; my
eye was vacant, and my tongue faltered; my
mind was utterly unstrung. To the entreaties of
the good friar, that I would suffer myself to be
conducted to a cell wherein I might take a few
hours of refreshment after the fatigues and perils
I had undergone, I returned at first a brief refusal.
“Nay,” said the kind-hearted old man, “but you
are to blame, my son, for suffering the things of
this world to hold so tyrannous a dominion over
your spirit. To an active mind like yours, I well
know that inactivity is the worst of evils! Yet,
bethink you, further speed, how much soever you
may deem it necessary, is impossible. Your good
horse can do no further service till rest shall have
repaired his faculties; you, too, my son, are not
yourself. Your spirit, like a bow too tightly
strung, has lost its elasticity. Listen, then, to the
voice of reason: an hour or two of quiet will have
restored you to yourself; your charger is in the
hands of our lay-brothers, and shall be cared for.
Let me, I pray you, lead you to a chamber.”
Urged so warmly, and at the same time so reasonably,
I could not refuse; and, after a moment's
consideration, I was averse no longer. I was in
my mind,—for had its energies been called for,
they would have answered, as it were, to a trumpet's
note,—but to collect my thoughts—to deliberate
on what I had done already—and, yet
more difficult, on what I was about to do hereafter.
In a few moments I was ushered into a
little turret-chamber, narrow indeed, and somewhat
scanty in its furniture, but neat and cheerful
in its aspect. Used apparently for the accommodation
of visiters, its window, unobscured by the
accustomed convent-grates, looked over the rich
meadows stretching away, with many a clump of
shadowy trees and many an orchard intervening,
to the wide river, which had lately seemed so
terrible an obstacle; though now, in truth, it was
the only barrier that saved us from our foes. A
bright log, glowing and sputtering on the hearth,
diffused a warmth rendered doubly grateful by
the rigour of the season and by the state of
my benumbed and dripping limbs; the pallet-bed
was decked with linen of unblemished whiteness,
and the board was spread with dainties, and with
a flask of burgundy, whose bouquet alone was sufficient
to prove that the brothers of St. Benedictaux-Layes
were not likely to impair the reputation
of monastic institutions, the world through,
to summon me whenever the lady should be restored
sufficiently to endure the excitement of my
presence, the monk, declining my invitation to
pledge me in the vintage of his convent, departed,
and left me to my meditations. And, in good sooth,
they were sufficiently gloomy; nor, when I had
disposed my doublet and upper garments before
the cheerful hearth, and tasted a single goblet of
the old Auxerre, could I find any pleasure, or even
consolation, in the aspect of affairs.
I had fallen, as I was fully conscious, over head
and ears in love with an errant damsel, whom I
had found, like a Bevis or an Ascapart, in a
forest,—and of whose name, history, and lineage
I was profoundly ignorant. This, in itself sufficiently
embarrassing, would not have been perhaps
wholly untinged with the ridiculous, had
there not been sundry most grave realities mixed
up with the romance, which rendered it no laughing
matter. First and foremost, I was myself
no loving character—little used to the society of
ladies,—for the fierce civil wars which had convulsed
my own country from my boyhood upward,
and, still more than actual warfare, the
party-hatred, the heart-burnings, and political suspicions
of the times, had greatly circumscribed all
of pure, poetical, all-engrossing passion. And if
the caprice of the moment, or the fashion of the
day, had at times induced me to play the part of
inamorato, I had never found the cruelty of any
fair one to be severely oppressive, or the continuance
of any passion to endure much longer than
to the next change of the modes.
Such, however, I too surely felt, was not the
case now. I was fairly caught—passionately in
love with an unknown girl, to whom, indeed, I
had rendered such services as might be deemed a
furtherance of my suit; but who, for aught I knew
to the contrary, might have been the mistress or
the wife of either cavalier whom I had seen perish
fighting, as I judged, for the possession of—perhaps
a second Helen. It was in vain that I repelled
such thoughts. For the moment, indeed,
they were overmastered and fled; but they fled
only to return, bringing with them too deeper and
far more weighty considerations; though to my
excited feelings they then seemed as things of
little moment, compared to the one engrossing subject
of my thoughts. I was yet many leagues distant
from the detachment I had been despatched
to command. Even were it at hand, I had a
hundred urgent duties to perform—wild feats of
was the cutting my way with three or four regiments
of cavalry through a wide and hostile district,
forcing the lines of the Frondeurs, and
bringing in my command to join the Duke of
Orleans and the Prince of Condé, who were
then beleaguering the generals of the parliament
within the walls of the capital. I had already,
in one important point, violated the spirit, if not
the letter, of my instructions, in displaying the
mandate of the cardinal before arriving at my
destination. Nor was this all; I had, it was evident,
caused much disturbance in the country by
my late adventure; for, from my turret-window,
as I paced and repaced the floor, in the agitation
of my thoughts, I could perceive the country people
gathering around the banks which had been
the theatre of my fearful exploit, wondering, as it
would seem, and speculating on the motives which
could have prompted any man, not frantic, to so
desperate a measure. This excitement, even if it
should not lead to my capture or forcible detention
at present, must, of necessity, prove highly
unfavourable to my intention of conducting a
heavy division of horse with any secrecy by the
same route; and would, in all probability, if not
defeat, at least delay the execution of this project,
and give rise to a progress won by hard fighting,
succession of rapid and forced marches. All this
to a man of the cardinal's rigid and stern severity
would be matter of high offence, and might, perhaps,
be deemed worthy of a procession to the
Place de Grêve. This reflection, while it added
nothing to my comfort, was to be utterly cast
aside for the present; highly as I might regard,
in other circumstances, military obligations and
the approbation of a superior, in a case like the
present, where honour and humanity pointed the
one path, while discipline called to the other, I
felt that I could not pause; no, not for an instant.
Inwardly I swore that, be the shame or the peril
what it might, before I stirred a foot on my mission
I would place Isabel in perfect safety; learn,
if it might be so, the state of her affections;
plight her a soldier's troth; perform the duties
that lay before me; and return to cast my trophies
and redeem my pledges at her feet. An
hour or two had already elapsed in these meditations,
and I began to wax impatient at the delay
of the friar. My blood was in a perfect fever; I
sat down,—I rose, but to seat myself again; I
kicked the blazing log in nervous excitement, till
the toe of my ponderous jack-boot was wellnigh
red hot; I hurled myself on the low pallet; I
strode the floor with still increasing vehemence.
glimpse of a female figure standing at a corresponding
opening in a second turret, which projected,
like that wherein I stood, beyond the level
of the wall. My first impulse was to turn away; as
I imagined, from the position, and from a something
monastical in the shape of her garments, which
had caught my attention even in that momentary
glance, that the figure I had seen was one of the
sisters of the establishment,—for I had already
learned that there was a female institution with its
abbess annexed to and adjoining the Benedictine
monastery. My second was to turn and gaze
again,—for reflection instantly suggested that none
of the sisterhood could be thus free from restraint,
and in a part of the building evidently under the
control of the other sex. I checked my impetuous
strides, returned gently to the lattice,—it was
Isabel! Her forehead was bound by the simple
yet not ungraceful head-gear of a Benedictine
nun, but with a single long tress of fair hair that
had escaped from its unwonted confinement, wantoning
down her long and swan-like neck; which
was but partially obscured by the veil and flowing
garments in which she was enveloped, until such
time as her own dress could be dried and purified
from the stains of clay and human gore contracted
were directed towards the window from which I
had just turned away, and there was something like
an expression of impatience in those soft and beautiful
orbs that had evidently followed my departing
figure. A deep carnation glow rushed over her
brow and cheeks as my eye met hers; nay, her
neck, and the brief glimpse of a snowy bosom that
was afforded by the envious veil, were flushed
with the same delicate hue: she dropped her eyes
to the ground, and her long, long lashes were pencilled
in beautiful relief against the bright complexion
of her lovely features. Slowly she raised
them again to mine; and, as if she had conquered
the momentary confusion that had overpowered
her, smiled sweetly, and, waving her hand, moved
gracefully from the embrasure. My heart, that had
throbbed so wildly while she was before me in all the
radiance of loveliness and feminine delicacy, stood
still. It was as though a cloud had fallen on my
mental vision; all had been bright and sun-like,—
all was now obscure; still, as I sank slowly into
my seat, my thoughts were not so wild, nor my
hopes so desperate, as they had been before my
passing glance at her, whose slightest wish would
have been a command more weighty than the
proudest monarch's mandate. I felt that she had
then loved? “Away!” I muttered to myself—
“away! It is not possible!” But it would not
away! Fixed, fixed as the earth's centre that
question sat upon my heart. A step sounded
through the corridor; I leaped to my feet—
paused not to note the features of him whom I
addressed—for what to me were persons in that
hour of strange anxiety?—requested him to lead
me to the lady Isabel; and, ere I knew my purpose,
found myself alone in the parlour of the convent—alone,—but
with one other!
With a smile of ineffable sweetness, yet faint
withal and melancholy, she arose to greet me—
she had been weeping; and the smile, like that of
an April sun, gleamed through fast-falling tear-drops.
Her hand extended in all the lovely confidence
of young, enthusiastic, fearless purity—she
sprang towards me. “How,” she said, in tones
that melted into my very soul like spiritual music,
“oh! how can I thank you sufficiently, my noble,
—noble rescuer!”
The light touch of her fingers shot, as it were,
a stream of lava through my frame. I had not
power to close my hand on that which she so
frankly offered. With embarrassed mien and faltering
accents, I murmured something—I know not
of my services. Words—empty words—the meaning
of which I could hardly be said to comprehend,
even while I uttered them. None can know—
none dream—save those of stern and passionless
natures, and they but rarely—with what fierce
and flame-like dominion love seizes—subdues—
and becomes the very essence of a soul like mine.
Stamp characters upon the soft and sunny sands,
and the first tide effaces them; engrave them in
the cold and unimpressive flint, and they endure
for ever! She looked into my eyes, as I replied,
with a singular and almost painful expression of
disappointment; and, as she spoke again, her
words came forth hurriedly, and with a feverish
impetuosity wildly different from the sweet calmness
of her former tones.
“You are offended; you regret that you have
saved me; you deem me cold, ungrateful, heartless!
You have rescued me from misery,—
deeper, a thousand times deeper than death!
From agony—pollution—heart-break—shame;—
from all that is most loathsome! most appalling!
All this you have done, and you reject my thanks
—you spurn my gratitude! Oh! no, no, no!
Miserable I am,—most miserable—wellnigh mad
with misery; but not—not thankless!”
“Dearest lady!” I interrupted her the instant
her vehemence permitted; “dearest lady, think
not so hardly of one whose greatest bliss would be
the thought that he had served you; and, more
than all, think not so humbly of yourself as to deem
that aught of human mould could look on the emotion,
or listen to the thanks, of such as you, without
deeming himself the most supremely blest of men!
My object in this intrusion is to learn whether in
aught my feeble efforts can avail you; to implore
you to command me; to trust in me,—to use me!
And if there be naught in which I can assist you,
to pray that you will favour me with your name;
that I may store it in my heart of hearts—that
I may look back to it from the storms of sin and
strife, as to a bright and blessed guardian—that I
may write, amid the record of my wild and wilful
deeds, one act of virtue—which may balance all the
evil—in the service I have done to you. Thrice
happy, if, when afar, I may not be forgotten—if
sometimes,” and here I believe the firmness I had
assumed deserted me, and my voice was hoarse
and husky, “if sometimes you will permit the name
of Harry Mornington to mingle with your prayers!
Tell me, then, ere we part—”
“Part!” she said, “part!”—in one of those
clear low whispers which pierce the ear more
do you too forsake me? Have you but saved
me that I may be dragged again—oh God!”—A
shudder of almost convulsive violence ran through
her frame at the recurrence of what seemed some
half-maddening thought: but ere I could have
counted ten, she had o'ermastered it; she wiped
away a single tear with that long sunny ringlet,
and moved yet closer to my side; cold, indeed,
and colourless, but firm and unmoved as the
sculptured marble.
“You know me not,” she said slowly, and
weighing her words, as it were, with desperate
calmness—“you know me not; nor do I wish you
should: but I know this—that you have rescued
me from horrors of which I dare not even think.
Leave not, then, I beseech you, leave not your
work unfinished! As you are a man—a gentleman—a
soldier—by the soul of the mother who
bore you—of the father who taught you to be
brave, and generous, and good,—I do conjure you.
Swear that you will grant to me one last request
—swear it—before we part for ever!”
“There needs not, sweet lady,” I replied, in
tones not untinctured by her own vehemence,
“there needs not an oath to bind me to your service.
Speak, and were life, liberty, honour itself
at stake, to the very letter you should be obeyed.”
“Draw then your sword, and strike me to the
heart! Better to die by the hand of a friend than
to live deserted and dishonoured!”
“Now, by the living light of heaven,” I cried,
moved beyond all self-control, “I am no slave to
Mazarin, that I should tear my heart-strings to
fulfil his bidding. Here will I tarry. He can but
take my life, and that is worthless! Lady—I
leave you not—while head can plan, heart feel, or
hand perform. While you have friends to be
righted, or foes to be put down, hence will I depart
living never! Command me; I am your
soldier; yours to the death,—yours only!”
“I accept your pledge!—most willingly, most
gratefully do I accept your proffered aid. I am
an orphan,” she continued, speaking more calmly,
and as if reassured by my promise of protection,
“a hapless, helpless orphan. If the gifts of fortune
have been lavished upon me, they have been lavished
but to render me more wretched. Death and
misery have dogged my footsteps from my very
cradle. Those who should have been my dearest
friends have been my direst foes. All whom I
have loved have perished; all whom I have
trusted have betrayed, have persecuted, and—had
it not been for you—would have destroyed me!
On your protection do I cast myself; to your
But wherefore tarry here, if duty calls you elsewhere?
Fly from these hateful scenes; to the
world's end will I follow you, confidently believing
that he who once has saved will never
harm an orphan's sole possession,—her yet unblemished
honour!”
At a single glance I read her character. I
saw she was no common woman, to flaunt in the
sunshine of prosperity, and shrink, like the withered
flower, in the time of trouble. On the instant
I resolved to open to her my whole soul. I
am not one to crouch before a lady's feet,—to
play the sighing, sentimental lover. Gently I led
her to a seat; I told her of my exile from my native
land; of my present duties; of my all-engrossing
passion; of my hopes, my doubts, my
fears, and my embarrassment. Rapidly I spoke,
and fluently. Mastering the passion that was
boiling in my blood, I made no wild protestations,
poured forth no boyish rhapsodies; but calmly
and deliberately, as though I were speaking of
another, I showed her the nakedness of my heart;
I told her how lightly I had thought of love; how I
had striven against its first approaches; how deeply
convinced I was of the truth, the singleness, the
fervour of my unselfish, ignorant affection. Several
to interrupt me; but as often, seeing my
determination to speak to an end, she had desisted.
I understood her purpose; but I saw, by the deep
blush that crimsoned her countenance, by the
quick heaving of her bosom, and the suffusion of
her downcast eye, that if my suit should be rejected,
her heart would have no share in the rejection.
In conclusion, I entreated her to suffer
me to procure for her a temporary abode in our
present place of refuge, where she might dwell, as
it were in sanctuary, till I could fulfil my present
mission, return at the head of my troops, and conduct
her openly, and in the face of man and
Heaven, to St. Germains, where I again conjured
her to become my bride.
When I had fully concluded, she raised her clear
blue eye confidently to meet my gaze; there was
no tremulousness, no flutter, no affectation of distress
or sentiment,—all was purity and unsuspecting
innocence.
“You know not what you ask,” she said, deeply
moved, but completely conquering her emotion;
“you know not what you ask,—nor of whom.
Noble, generous-hearted man, think you that I could
brook, that I could stoop, even for mine own sake,
to practise on devotion such as yours? Never—
mystery, around me; and think you that I would
cast a shadow, even for an instant, on the name
and fortunes of my preserver? There is a cloud
of misery, and guilt, and madness upon our fated
house; and I, the wretched, guiltless sacrifice,
shall I drag down another glorious victim to the
abyss from which he fain would rescue me? Let
me but follow you—your slave—your sister—
what you will—let me but follow you, till I can
find some quiet grave wherein to lay my aching
head. I cannot—dare not tell you all; but of this
be certain,—ere you could reach your place of
destination, they would drag me from these walls,
as they have dragged me from many a more sure
asylum!”
“Ha!” I replied, “is it so? Then is there but
one course left; I fear not—doubt not—seek not
to know your mystery; say but that you love me,
—that you will be mine—and I can save you.
Thus, and thus only! Become my bride this night.
Start not—this night, I say. The prior hath the
power to protect you, give to me but the right
to compel, if needs be, his protection. Speak but
the word, one hour will make you mine, the next
shall find me in the saddle; and ere a third sun
set a thousand trusty swords shall guard my
still can die for you!”
Twenty times, as I pleaded my cause with all
the earnest vehemence of a resolved and honest
heart, did the shadows sink darkly down upon her
speaking brow; and as often did they vanish thence
in gleams of transient hope. Twenty times did her
lips unclose as if to speak; and as often did her
words die on her tongue in low and faltering murmurs.
I arose slowly to my feet as I concluded,
and stretched my open arms towards her, as to
the arbitress of my doom.
With a quick cry, she rushed into my embrace,
wound her arms convulsively about my neck—
“Harry!” she murmured, “you have prevailed;
you take me to your heart in doubt, in darkness,
and in mystery; but never, never shall you rue
this day. Many a fairer, many a nobler bride
might you have won; but never one more fond,
more faithful, nor—thanks be to thee, adored
Harry, to thee and ONE besides—more pure than
Isabel de Coucy.”
| CHAPTER IV. The brothers : | |