University of Virginia Library

Helen, Isabel, Margaret.
Isabel.
This is the bridal eve, and yet thy lady—
Look how she sits on yonder couch, her head
Bent like a snowdrop, her white clasped hands
Listlessly hanging on her knee, as though
No pulse beat in them. All the livelong day
She hath not moved. Why Helen! Helen Clifford!
What, not a word to thy poor Isabel—
Thy cousin Isabel? not one kind word
When we shall part to-morrow?—not one word?
Can this be the dear maid whom once I knew
The merriest heart of merry Cumberland,
Carolling her blithe songs from morn to eve
As gaily as the gladsome birds that flew
Around her summer bower?

Margaret.
Didst thou ne'er see
A caged linnet?

Isabel.
Oh! how pale she is,
How changed, since o'er those northern hills she swept
On her white Barbary steed, swift as the wind
That waved her glossy tresses, crisp and curled
Like the vine's tendrils, o'er that dimpled cheek
Of roses, and those eyes of smiling light,
And that clear brow! All in her huntress green
She might have seemed the youngest fairest nymph
Of crescented Diana, such a glow
Of beauty was about her.

Margaret.
Hast thou ne'er
Seen a transplanted flower—seen how it droops
And fades and dies? Your southern gardens ill
Suit the wild heath-bell. She hath never known
Sorrow till now. Now, lady, she hath lost
Her home, her father.

Isabel.
Is not my home hers?
And my kind father?

Margaret.
Ay, but she must leave
Even this adopted home, and wed—

Isabel.
The pride
Of English chivalry! her long betrothed—
And oh, so worthy; bravest in the field,
Gayest at revel, kindest every where,
Is Lord Fitz-Alwyn.

Margaret.
Grant that it be so,
Unless she loved him—

Isabel.
She must love him.

Margaret.
Look!
The very casket, that last night he laid
At Helen's feet, still at her feet it lies,
Neglected, overthrown. The oaken floor
Is bright with jewelry, stringed amethysts,
Rubies and sapphires, linked with massy gold—

Helen.
Chains! chains! all chains!

Isabel.
Nay, sweetest coz, see here
This diadem of orient pearl—how well
Thy raven curls become it! how it sits
Amid the ringlets, with a queenly pride
A maiden modesty! Oh fling it not
Aside!

Helen.
Give me the wild wood coronal
Of living pearls, fresh from the fragrant thorn
And diamonded with dew! Dost thou remember,
Margaret, the garland of the Queen of May,
When poor—What's that?

Isabel.
'Tis but the distant sound
Of music at the banquet. They feast high.

Helen.
Hark! hark! This comes not from the hall. 'Tis here
Beneath the casement. Margaret, hark! a harp!
A northern harp!

Margaret.
Beshrew these narrow bars!
I cannot see the minstrel.

Helen.
Hush! he sings.


Song (without).
High o'er the baron's castle tall
Rich banners float, with heavy fall,
And light and song, in mingling tide,
Pour forth to hail the lovely bride.
Yet, lady, still the birchen tree
Waves o'er the cottage on the lea;
The babbling stream runs bright and fair,—
The love-star of the west shines there.

Isabel.
How breathlessly she listens! See, she flings
Backward her ringleted and glossy hair,
Lest a loose curl might intercept the sound
Of that sweet music. Margaret, hast thou heard
The strain before?

Margaret.
The air, but not the words.


Song (without).
Mail'd warders pace o'er keep and tower,
Gay maidens deck the lady's bower;
Page, Squire, and knight, a princely train,
Wait duteous at her bridle rein.
Yet in that cot the milk-white hound,
The favourite falcon still are found;
And one more fond, more true than they,
Born to adore and to obey.

Isabel.
'Tis a strange bridal song; but it hath waked
The statue into life. Look, how the blood
Mounts in her cheek!

Margaret.
Hush! it begins again.

Song (without).
The coronet of jewels rare
Shines proudly o'er her face so fair;
And titles high, and higher name
Fitz-Alwyn's lovely bride may claim.
And yet the wreath of hawthorn bough
Once lightlier press'd that snowy brow;
And hearts that wither now were gay
When she was but the Queen of May.

Isabel.
'Tis over now. That was the final close.
Why, Helen, wherefore dost thou wave thy hand
From the barr'd casement? Wherefore turn away
With thy fine form so raised, so firm a step,
So high a brow, and eyes that in their light
Bear such command?

Helen.
Margaret, tell Lord Fitz-Alwyn
That I entreat his presence.

Margaret.
Dearest lady—

Helen.
Question me not, but go.
[Exit Margaret.
So! will Fitz-Alwyn,
Think'st thou, obey the call?

Isabel.
Doubt not of that.
Thou hast been coyer than the fresh-caged bird,
To which poor Margaret likened thee; he scarce
Hath seen thee, Helen—scarce hath heard thy voice.
Re-enter Margaret with Lord Fitz-Alwyn.
What, here already? Come upon a wish!

Fitz-Alwyn.
I was not far to seek. Hast thou ne'er heard
How wakeful misers haunt the secret spot
Where their heart lies, their gold? Even so lurked I
Around my treasure, waiting but to hear
A distant footfall, or a clapping door,
Or pleasant rustling of a silken robe,
Or aught that told of her. What would fair Helen
Of her true knight?

Isabel.
Sit down beside us here—
She best can speak her will.

Helen.
I would but ask him
To listen to a simple tale of one
More simple, a poor northern maid. 'Tis short;
'Twill not detain thee long.

Fitz-Alwyn.
Oh make it long,
That I may listen! Could'st thou know the joy
To sit and hear thee! Oh prolong the tale!
Speak but till I be weary!

Isabel.
Now, dear Helen!

Helen.
There dwelt a knight among the Cumbrian hills
With one young daughter—an old wealthy knight,
Who had no joy but in the chase, small joy
Even in the chase without her. So she grew
The hardiest mountain-nymph that ever braved
The summer sun, the winter wind. Poor child!
She had no mother, none to teach the craft
Of female mysteries—the lute, the loom,
The needle—them she knew not. All her lore
Was of the beauty of the earth and sky,
The green hills and the bosky vales, the clear
And gushing waters, and the shifting forms
Of clouds. All her companions were the dear
Mute partners of her sports—how speaking they
Amidst their speechlessness! Her Barbary steed
With his bright arching neck, curved up to meet
Her fondling hand; her greyhound, playfullest
Of happy creatures, of a richer white,
Like marble touched by the sun, leaping and bounding
If he but heard her voice; her falcon, proud
To sit upon her wrist. She loved them all.—
I dally with my tale and weary thee.

Fitz-Alwyn.
Speak on. Thy voice hath in it such a charm
As the clear warblings of the bird of song,
The nightingale. Her varied notes we hear
All in themselves unlike, yet most unlike
All other melody, till every gush
Of liquid sound seems to our ravished souls
Too brief. Speak on.

Isabel.
Had she no comrade?

Helen.
One—
Her own dear father—and—

Fitz-Alwyn.
Speak on.

Helen.
Hard by
Dwelt a lone widow, poor, but gently born,
And she too had one child.

Fitz-Alwyn.
A daughter?

Helen.
No.
He was some two years older than the maid,
And loved like her the chase, or rather loved
Nature and beauty—the green wood, the show
Of hound and huntsman 'midst the forest glades,
The bright and moving picture. For the chase
He was too gentle. I have seen—'twas said
He had been seen to weep when the poor stag,
Panting and quivering, already dead
Almost with fear and toil, hath fallen. Yet still
He loved the Barbary steed, the milk-white hound,
The bright-eyed falcon. Ever at their side
Was Hubert Knowles.

Fitz-Alwyn.
And the young maid? Loved she
One of so soft a mould?

Helen.
From earliest youth,
From earliest childhood, they were playmates, friends.
All that she knew of book or song was learnt
Of Hubert in that low-roofed cot, where dwelt
His smiling mother. There, beneath the shade
Of the light fragrant birch and to the sound
Of running waters, they—I speak of them,
The mountain maid and the fond mother—oft
Would sit for hours, listening his minstrel lay
And marking how the poet's fire lit up
That mild blue eye, and kindled that pale cheek
Embrowned with a sweet sunniness, and raised
The veins on his white brow, and seemed to swell
His slender form into a nobleness
Of beauty; till, at length, with head flung back,
And chest dilating, the forgotten harp
Dropt silent from his hands, and song was lost
In the wild crowd of images that pressed
On his awakened fancy.

Fitz-Alwyn.
Did the maid
Wed the young minstrel?

Helen.
No: she was betrothed.

Fitz-Alwyn.
Alas! I thought so;—was betrothed to one
Unworthy?

Helen.
Oh, no, no; to one too good,
Too great, too noble!

Fitz-Alwyn.
One whom she loved not?

Helen.
One whom she knew not, therefore loved not. Love
Is born of love.

Fitz-Alwyn.
And Hubert?

Helen.
He spake not;
No, not a word! She had broad lands, and he
Was poor—

Fitz-Alwyn.
Why dost thou pause?

Helen.
Scarcely she knew,
Till they were parted, what her own heart meant
When it so throbbed.

Fitz-Alwyn.
Prythee say on.

Helen.
Oh, look not
So searchingly upon me! Her dear father
Died, and her noble wooer from the wars
Came crowned with honour; and her guardian sought
The lonely orphan in her northern hall,
And brought her to his castle.

Fitz-Alwyn.
Well!

Helen.
She met
Him, her betrothed; and she would fain have told—
But fear, and awe, and maiden shame, and doubt
If Hubert loved, for never till—

Margaret.
Hark! Hark!
Again the sweet harp of the north.


Song (without).

Helen.
Alas! alas! Dost hear him?

Fitz-Alwyn.
Margaret, seek
This harper; bring him hither. We must check
His boldness.
[Exit Margaret.
Tremble not, my loveliest bride,
But listen. I have heard thy simple tale
Of a fair maiden; now do thou hear mine
Of a rough soldier. A young warrior once
Rescued an aged knight, brave to a fault,
From out the enemy's ranks. Too grateful he
For common service; he had one bright gem
Fit for an emperor's crown,—but only one,—
Yet that he offered, and the warrior took.

Helen.
What was the gem?

Fitz-Alwyn.
A girl! a cherub girl!
She was a child—but such a child!—so full
Of life and beauty! sun, and wind, and dew
Had formed her like gay flowers, or gayer birds,
Or the light brilliant butterfly, that lives
In the air. She was all smiles. And he went forth
To battle with that vision, as a dream
Of gladness round him. Often on the watch
Or in the trench before a leaguered town,
Or in the pause which weighs upon the soul
After the day of battle, would that form,
In all its witchery, float around his steps,
Around his heart. Years passed, and as he saw
The laughing girls of France, he'd pause and say,
So tall must she be now.—This tale of mine
Troubles thee, sweet one.

Helen.
Oh, go on, my lord!
Prythee go on! How little she deserved,
How little deemed—Go on.

Fitz-Alwyn.
At length came peace,
And our rude warrior turned him to his home
And his betrothed bride. His first kind friend,
The good old knight, was dead; but he found friends
In all around her. She alone—how fair
How beautiful she was! her charms outran
Memory and fancy;—but so pale, so sad,
With head averted and with downcast eyes
And shivering hands that shrank from his, and speech
Short and unfrequent, and more chilling cold
Than silence—Helen, from the hour we met,
Thy thoughts have injured me. I was thy friend,
Why treat me as thy tyrant? Why delay
The story of thy love? Why tremble thus?
Why hide thy beauteous face?

Helen.
Oh, spare me now,
Fitz-Alwyn! Spare me! I have told thee all.

Fitz-Alwyn.
Ay; but too late. The bridal hour is fixed;
The guests are bidden; the huge tables groan
Already with the banquet; harp and song
Already fill the halls; already flowers
Bestrew the path where thou and thy fair maids
Shall tread; already those fair maids have donned
Their smiles and blushes. Lady Isabel,
Say, is it not too late? Must she not wed
To-morrow?

Helen.
Oh, no! no! In mercy no!

Re-enter Margaret with Hubert.
Fitz-Alwyn.
This is thy bridal eve. Approach, young Sir!
Helen—my Helen—for the first, last time,
I dare to call thee so.—Look up, dear maid!
Thou hast done rightly, wisely, kindly, Helen,
By me, by all. Nay, draw not back thy hand;
I will but seal it with one parting kiss.—
Now take it, Hubert Knowles! thou hast her heart;
They shall not be divided. She is thine.