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LOYOLA’S GENERAL.
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She rushed to the window and gazed after him till he had disappeared, then she uttered a deep cry of anguish, and, wholly overcome by her agony, she sank down on her knees weeping and wailing, wringing her hands, and raising them to God.
But just before so happy and joyful, she was now full of woe and anguish; and bitter sighs of complaint came trembling from her lips.
“Oh, oh,” moaned she, with sobs; “what terrible agonies are these, and how full of despair the anguish that lacerates my breast! I have lain in his arms; I have received his vows of love and accepted his kisses; and these vows are not mine, and these kisses he gave not to me. He kissed me, and he loves in me only her whom I hate. He lays his hands in mine and utters vows of love which he dedicates to her. He thinks and feels for her only--her alone. What a terrible torture this is! To be loved under her name; under her name to receive the vows of love that yet belong to me only--to me alone! For he loves me, me exclusively. They are my lips that he kisses, my form that he embraces; to me are addressed his words and his letters; and it is I that reply to them. He loves me, me only, and yet he puts no faith in me. I am nothing to him, naught but a lifeless image, like other women. This he has told me; and I did not become frenzied; and I had the cruel energy to pass off the tears wrung from me by despair, for tears of rapture. Oh, detestable, horrible mockery of fate--to be what I am not, and not to be what I am!”
And with a shrill cry of agony she tore her hair, and with her fist smote upon her breast, and wept and moaned aloud.
She heard naught; she saw naught; she felt naught but her inexpressible and despairing anguish.
She did not once tremble for herself; she thought not at all of this--that she would be lost if she were found in this place.
And yet at the other side of the room a door had opened, softly and noiselessly, and a man had entered.
He shut the door behind him and walked up to Lady Jane, who still lay on the floor. He stood behind her while she uttered her despairing lamentation. He heard every word of her quivering lips; her whole heart painfully convulsed and torn with grief lay unveiled before him; and she knew it not.
Now he bent over her; and with his hand he lightly touched her shoulder. At this touch she gave a convulsive start, as if hit by the stroke of a sword, and her sobbing was immediately silenced.
An awful pause ensued. The woman lay on the floor motionless, breathless, and near her, tall and cold as a figure of bronze, stood the man.
“Lady Jane Douglas,” said he then, sternly and solemnly, “stand up. It becomes not your father’s daughter to be upon her knees, when it is not God to whom she kneels. But you are not kneeling to God, but to an idol, which you yourself have made, and to which you hate erected a temple in your heart. This idol is called ‘Your own personal misfortune.’ But it is written, ‘Thou shalt have no other Gods but me.’ Therefore I say to you once more, Lady Jane Douglas, rise from your knees, for it is not your God to whom you kneel.”
And as though these words exercised a magnetic power over her, she raised herself up slowly from the floor, and now stood there before her father, stern and cold as a statue of marble.
“Cast from you the sorrows of this world, which burden you, and hinder you in the sacred work which God has imposed on you!” continued Earl Douglas in his metallic, solemn voice. “It is written, ‘Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,’ saith our God. But you, Jane, you are to throw down your trouble at the foot of the throne; and your burden will become a crown that will glorify your head.”
He laid his hand on her head, but she wildly shook it off.
“No,” cried she, with heavy, faltering tongue, as if confused in a dream. “Away with this crown! I wish no crown upon which devils have laid a spell. I wish no royal robe that has been dyed crimson with the blood of my beloved.”
“She is still in the delirium of her anguish,” muttered the earl, as he contemplated the pale, trembling woman who had now sunk again to her knees, and was staring straight before her with eyes bewildered and stretched wide open. But the looks of the earl remained cold and unmoved, and not the least compassion was aroused in him for his poor daughter, now penetrated with anguish.
“Arise,” said he, in a hard, steelly voice. “The Church, by my mouth, commands you to serve her as you have vowed to do; that is to say, with glad heart and a sense of your reliance on God; that is to say, with smiling lips and a serene, beaming eye, as becomes a disciple inspired by faith, and as you have sworn to do in the hands of our lord and master, Ignatius Loyola.”
“I cannot! I cannot!” moaned she, in a low tone. “I cannot be glad at heart when despair, like a wild boar, is rending my heart; I cannot command my eye to shine when my eyes are dimmed with tears of anguish. Oh, have pity, have compassion! Remember that you are my father; that I am your daughter--the daughter of a wife whom you loved, and who would find in the grave no rest if she knew how you are racking and torturing me. My mother, my mother, if thy spirit is near me, come and protect me. Let thy mild looks overshadow my head, and breathe a breath of thy love into the heart of this cruel father, who is ready to sacrifice his child on the altar of his God.”
“God has called me,” said the earl, “and, like Abraham, I too will learn to obey. But I will not adorn my victim with flowers, but with a royal crown. I will not plunge a knife into her breast, but will put a golden sceptre into her hand and say: Thou art a queen before men, but before God be thou a faithful and obedient servant. Thou hast all to command. But the holy Church, to whose service thou hast consecrated thyself, and who will bless thee if thou art faithful, who will dash thee in pieces with her curse if thou darest deal treacherously, she commands thee. No, you are not my daughter, but the priestess of the Church, consecrated to her holy service. No, I have no sympathy with your tear’s and this anguish, for I see the end of these sorrows, and I know that these tears will be as a diadem of pearls about your temples. Lady Jane Douglas, it is the saintly Loyola who sends you his commands by my mouth. Obey them, not because I am your father, but because I am the general to whom you have sworn obedience and fidelity unto your life’s end.”
“Then kill me, my father!” said she, feebly. “Let this life end, which is but a torture, a protracted martyrdom. Punish me for my disobedience by plunging your dagger deep into my breast. Punish me, and grudge me not the repose of the grave.”
“Poor enthusiast!” said the father; “suppose you, we would be foolish enough to subject you to so light a punishment! No, no, if you dare, in insolent disobedience, rebel against my commands, your penance shall be a terrible one, and your punishment without end. I will not kill you, but him whom you love; it will be his head that falls; and you will be his murderess. He shall die on the scaffold and you--you shall live in disgrace.”
“Oh, horrible!” groaned Jane, as she buried her face in her hands.
Her father continued: “Silly, short-sighted child, who thought she could play with the sword, and did not see that she herself might feel the stroke of this double-edged blade! You wanted to be the servant of the Church, that you might thereby become mistress of the world. You would acquire glory, but this glory must not singe your head with its fiery rays. Silly child! he who plays with fire will be consumed. But we penetrated your thoughts and the wish of which you yourself were unconscious. We looked into the depths of your being, and when we found love there, we made use of love for our own purposes and your salvation. What do you bewail, then, and why do you weep? Have we not allowed you to love? Have we not authorized you to give yourself entirely up to this love? Do you not call yourself Earl Surrey’s wife, though you cannot name to me the priest that married you? Lady Jane, obey, and we envy you not the happiness of your love; dare to rebel against us, and disgrace and shame overtake you, and you shall stand before all the world disowned and scoffed at; you the strumpet, that--” “Stop, my father!” cried Jane, as she sprang vehemently from the floor. “Desist from your terrible words if you do not wish me to die of shame. Nay, I submit, I obey! You are right, I cannot draw back.”
“And why would you either? Is it not a life pleasant and full of enjoyment? Is it not rare good fortune to see our sins transfigured to virtue; to be able to account earthly enjoyment the service of Heaven? And what do you bewail then? That he does not love you? Nay, he does love you; his vows of love still echo in your ears; your heart still trembles with the fruition of happiness. What matters it if the Earl of Surrey with his inward eyes sees the woman he folds in his arms to be another than you? Yet in reality he loves but you alone. Whether you are for him named Catharine Parr or Jane Douglas, it is all the same if you only are his love.”
“But a day will come when he will discover his mistake, and when he will curse me.”
“That day will never come. The holy Church will find a way to avert that, if you bow to her will and are obedient to her.”
“I do bow to it!” sighed Jane. “I will obey; only promise me, my father, that no harm shall happen to him; that I shall not be his murderess.”
“No, you shall become his savior and deliverer. Only you must fulfil punctually the work I commit to you. First of all, then, tell me the result of your meeting to-day. He does not doubt that you are the queen?”
“No, he believes it so firmly that he would take the sacrament on it. That is to say, he believes it now because I have promised him to give him publicly a sign by which he may recognize that it is the queen that loves him.”
“And this sign?” inquired her father, with a look beaming with joy.
“I have promised him that at the great tournament, the queen will give him a rosette, and that in that rosette be will find a note from the queen.”
“Ah, the idea is an admirable one!” exclaimed Lord Douglas, “and only a woman who wishes to avenge herself could conceive it. So, then, the queen will become her own accuser, and herself give into our hands a proof of her guilt. The only difficulty in the way is to bring the queen, without arousing her suspicion, to wear this rosette, and to give it to Surrey.”
“She will do it if I beg her to do so, for she loves me; and I shall so represent it to her that she will do it as an act of kindness to me. Catharine is good-natured and agreeable, and cannot refuse a request.”
“And I will apprise the king of it. That is to say, I shall take good care not to do this myself, for it is always dangerous to approach a hungry tiger in his cage and carry him his food, because he might in his voracity very readily devour our own hand together with the proffered meat.”
“But how?” asked she with an expression of alarm. “Will he content himself with punishing Catharine alone; will he not also crush him--him whom he must look upon as her lover?”
“He will do so. But you yourself shall save him and set him free. You shall open his prison and give him freedom, and he will love you--you, the savior of his life.”
“Father, father, it is a hazardous game that you are playing; and it may happen that you will become thereby your daughter’s murderer. For, listen well to what I tell you; if his head falls, I die by my own hands; if you make me his murderess, you become thereby mine; and I will curse you and execrate you in hell! What to me is a royal crown if it is stained with Henry Howard’s blood? What care I for renown and honor, if he is not there to see my greatness, and if his beaming eyes do not reflect back to me the light of my crown? Protect him, therefore; guard his life as the apple of your eye, if you wish me to accept the royal crown that you offer me, so that the King of England may become again a vassal of the Church!”
“And that the whole of devout Christendom may praise Jane Douglas, the pious queen who has succeeded in the holy work of bringing the rebellious and recreant son of the Church, Henry the Eighth, back to the Holy Father in Rome, to the only consecrated lord of the Church, truly penitent. On, on, my daughter; do not despond. A high aim beckons you, and a brilliant fortune awaits you! Our holy mother, the Church, will bless and praise you, and Henry the Eighth will declare you his queen.”
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{
"id": "3476"
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20
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THE PRISONER.
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Still all was calm and quiet in the palace of Whitehall. Nothing was stirring, and nobody had heard how Lady Jane Douglas left her chamber and glided down the corridor.
No one has heard it, and no eye is awake, and none sees what is now taking place in the queen’s room. She is alone--all alone. The servants are all asleep in their chambers. The queen herself has bolted the doors of the anteroom on the inside, and no other door leads into her boudoir and bedroom, except through this anteroom. She is therefore perfectly secluded, perfectly secure.
Speedily and in haste she envelops herself in a long black mantle, the hood of which she draws well over her head and brow, and which completely covers and conceals her form.
And now she presses on a spring inserted in the frame of a picture. The picture flies back and shows an opening, through which a person can quite conveniently pass out.
Catharine does so. Then she carefully pushes the picture back to its place from the outside, and for a long time walks on in the passage hollowed out of the solid wall, till groping along she at last lays hold again of a knob in the wall. She presses on it; and now at her feet opens a trap-door, through which a feeble light forces its way and renders visible a small narrow staircase there situated. Catharine enters and descends the steps with winged feet. Now at the foot of the staircase she again presses on a secret spring; and again a door opens, through which the queen passes into a large hall.
“Oh,” whispered she, fetching a long breath, “the green summer house at last.”
She quickly traversed it and opened the next door.
“John Heywood?”
“I am here, queen!”
“Hush, hush! gently as possible, that the watch, who walks up and down just behind the door, may not hear us. Come, we still have a long walk--let us make haste.”
Again she pressed on a spring inserted in the wall; and again a door opens. But before Catharine bolts this door, she takes the lamp burning on the table there, which is to lighten the dark and difficult path through which they are now to wend their way.
Now she bolts the door behind them; and they enter a long, dark corridor, at the end of which is found still another staircase, and down which they both go. Numberless steps conduct them below; gradually the air becomes dense, the steps moist. The stillness of the grave is around them. No sound of life, not the least noise, is now perceptible.
They are in a subterranean passage, which stretches out in length before them farther than the eye can reach. Catharine turns to John Heywood; the lamp lights up her face, which is pale, but exhibits an expression firm and resolute.
“John Heywood, reflect once more! I ask not whether you have courage, for I know that. I only wish to know whether you will employ this courage for your queen?”
“No, not for the queen, but for the noble woman who has saved my son.”
“You must then be my protector to-day if we meet with dangers. But if it be God’s will, we shall encounter no dangers. Let us go.”
They go vigorously forward, silent all the way. At length they come to a place where the passage grows broader, and spreads out into a little open chamber, on the side walls of which a few teats are placed.
“We have now accomplished half of the journey,” said Catharine; “and here we will rest a little.”
She placed the lamp on the small marble table in the middle of the passage, and sat down, pointing to John Heywood to take a seat near her.
“I am not the queen, here,” said she; “and you are not the king’s fool; but I am a poor weak woman, and you are my protector. You may, therefore, well have the right to sit by me.”
But John shook his head with a smile, and sat down at her feet. “St. Catharine, savior of my son, I lie at thy feet, and devoutly return thanks to thee.”
“John, are you acquainted with this subterranean passage?” asked the queen.
John gave a sad smile. “I am acquainted with it, queen.”
“Ah, you know it? I supposed it was a secret of the king and queen.”
“Then you will readily conceive that the fool knows it. For the King of England and the fool are twin brothers. Yes, queen, I know this passage; and I once wended it in anguish and tears.”
“What! You yourself, John Heywood?”
“Yes, queen. And now I ask you, do you know the history of this underground passage? You are silent. Now, well for you that you do not know it. It is a long and bloody history, and if I should narrate to you the whole of it, the night would be too short for it. When this passage was built, Henry was still young, and possessed yet a heart. At that time, he loved not merely his wives, but his friends and servants also--specially Cromwell, the all-powerful minister. He then resided at Whitehall, and Henry in the royal apartments of the Tower. But Henry was always longing for his favorite; and so Cromwell one day surprised him with this subterranean passage, the construction of which had occupied a hundred men a whole year. Ah, ah, the king was then very much moved, and thanked his powerful minister for this surprise with tears and hugs. There passed scarcely a day that Henry did not go to Cromwell through this passage. So he saw each day how the palace of Whitehall became more and more splendid and glorious; and when he returned to the Tower, he discovered that this residence was altogether unworthy of a king; but that his minister lived by far more magnificently than the King of England. That, queen, was the cause of Cromwell’s fall! The king wanted Whitehall. The sly Cromwell noticed it, and made him a present of his gem, the palace on whose construction and decoration he had labored ten years. Henry accepted the present; but now Cromwell’s fall was irrevocable. The king could not, of course, forgive Cromwell for having dared to offer him a present so valuable, that Henry could not or would not repay it. He remained, therefore, Cromwell’s debtor; and since this tormented and vexed him, he swore Cromwell’s ruin. When Henry moved into Whitehall, it was concluded that Cromwell must ascend the scaffold. Ah, the king is such an economical builder! A palace costs him nothing but the head of a subject. With Cromwell’s bead be paid for Whitehall; and Wolsey died for Hampton Court.”
“Not on the scaffold, though, John.”
“Oh, no; Henry preferred merely to break his heart, and not his head. First, he had that wonderful pleasure-villa, Hampton Court, with all its treasures, presented him by Wolsey; then he removed him from all his offices, and deprived him of all his honors. Finally, he was to go to the Tower as a prisoner; but he died on his way thither. No, you are right! Wolsey did not die on the scaffold, he was put to death much more slowly and more cruelly. He was not killed with the sword, but pricked to death with pins!”
“Did you not say, John, that you had travelled this way once before?”
“Yes, queen, and I did it to bid farewell to the noblest of men, and the truest of friends, Thomas More! I begged and besought Cromwell so long that he had compassion on my anguish, and allowed me to go through this passage to Thomas More, that I might at least receive the blessing and last kiss of affection of this saint. Ah, queen, speak no more of it to me! From that day I became a fool; for I saw it was not worth the trouble to be an honest man, when such men as More are executed as criminals. Come, queen, let us go on!”
“Yes, on, John!” said she, rising. “But do you know then whither we are going?”
“Ah, queen, do I not then know you? and did I not tell you that Anne Askew is to be stretched upon the rack to-morrow, unless she recant?”
“I see that you have understood me,” said she, giving him a friendly nod. “Yes, I am going to Anne Askew.”
“But how will you, without being seen and discovered, find out her cell?”
“John, even the unhappy have friends. Yes, the queen herself has a few; and so chance, or it may be even God’s will, has so arranged matters, that Anne Askew is occupying, just at this time, that small room in which the secret passage terminates.”
“Is she alone in that room?”
“Yes, all alone. The guard stands without before the door.”
“And should they hear you, and open the door?”
“Then without doubt I am lost, unless God supports me.”
They walked on in silence, both too much occupied with their own thoughts to interrupt them by conversation.
But this long, extended walk at length wearied Catharine. She leaned exhausted against the wall.
“Will you do me a favor, queen?” asked John Heywood. “Permit me to carry you. Your little feet can bear you no farther; make me your feet, your majesty!”
She refused with a friendly smile. “No, John, these are the passion-stations of a saint; and you know one must make the round of them in the sweat of his face, and on his knees.”
“Oh, queen, how noble and how courageous you are!” exclaimed John Heywood. “You do good without display, and you shun no danger, if it avails toward the accomplishment of noble work.”
“Yet, John,” said she, with a bewitching smile, “I dread danger; and just on that account I begged you to accompany me. I shudder at the long, desolate way, at the darkness and grave-like stillness of this passage. Ah, John, I thought to myself, if I came here alone, the shades of Anne Boleyn and Catharine would be roused from their sleep by me who wear their crown; they would hover about me, and seize me by the hand and lead me to their graves, to show me that there is yet room there for me likewise. You see, then, that I am not at all courageous, but a cowardly and trembling woman.”
“And nevertheless, you came, queen.”
“I reckoned on you, John Heywood. It was my duty to risk this passage, to save, perchance, the life of the poor enthusiastic girl. For it shall not be said that Catharine deserts her friends in misfortune, and that she shrinks back at danger. I am but a poor, weak woman, John, who cannot defend her friends with weapons, and, therefore, I must resort to other means. But see, John, here the path forks! Ah, my God! I know it only from the description that was given me, but no one said anything of this to me. John, which way must we now turn?”
“This way, queen; and here we are at the end of our journey. That path there leads to the torture-chamber, that is to say, to a small grated window, through which one can overlook that room. When King Henry was in special good-humor, he would resort with his friend to this grating to divert himself a little with the tortures of the damned and blasphemers. For you well know, queen, only such as have blasphemed God, or have not recognized King Henry as the pope of their Church, have the honor of the rack as their clue. But hush! here we are at the door, and here is the spring that opens it.”
Catharine set her lamp on the ground and pressed the spring.
The door turned slowly and noiselessly on its hinges, and softly, like shades, the two entered.
They now found themselves in a small, circular apartment, which seemed to have been originally a niche formed in the wall of the Tower, rather than a room. Through a narrow grated opening in the wall only a little air and light penetrated into this dungeon, the bald, bare walls of which showed the stones of the masonry. There was no chair, no table in the whole space; only yonder in that corner on the earth they had heaped up some straw. On this straw lay a pale, tender creature; the sunken, thin cheeks, transparently white as alabaster; the brow so pure and clear; the entire countenance so peaceful; the bare, meagre arms thrown back over the head; the hands folded over the forehead, the head bent to one side in quiet, peaceful slumber; the delicate, tender form wrapped in a long black dress, gently stretched out, and on her lips a smile, such as only the happy know.
That was Anne Askew, the criminal, the condemned--Anne Askew, who was an atheist only for this, because she did not believe in the king’s vast elevation and godlikeness, and would not subject her own free soul to that of the king.
“She sleeps,” whispered Catharine, deeply mored, Wholly involuntarily she folded her hands as she stepped to the couch of the sufferer, and a low prayer trembled on her lips.
“So sleep the gust!” said Hey wood. “Angels comfort them in their slumbers; and the breath of God refreshes them. Poor girl; how soon, and they will wrench these noble, fair limbs, and torture thee for the honor of God, and open to tones of distress that mouth which now smiles so peacefully!”
“No, no,” said the queen, hastily. “I have come to save her, and God will assist me to do it. I cannot spare her slumbers any longer. I must wake her.”
She bent down and pressed a kiss on the young girl’s forehead. “Anne, awake; I am here! I will save you and set you free. Anne, Anne, awake!”
She slowly raised her large, brilliant eyes, and nodded a salutation to Catharine.
“Catharine Parr!” said she, with a smile. “I expected only a letter from you; and have you come yourself?”
“The guards have been dismissed, and the turnkeys changed, Anne; for our correspondence had been discovered.”
“Ah, you will write to me no more in future! And yet your letters were my only comfort,” sighed Anne Askew. “But that also is well; and perhaps it will only make the path that I have to tread still easier. The heart may move its pinions freely and easily, and return to God.”
“Hear me, Anne, hear,” said Catharine in a low and hurried voice. “A terrible danger threatens you! The king has given orders to move you, by means of the rack, to recant.”
“Well, and what more?” asked Anne, with smiling face.
“Unfortunate, you know not what you are saying! You know not what fearful agonies await you! You know not the power of pains, which are perhaps still mightier than the spirit, and may overcome it.”
“And if I did know them now, what would it avail me?” asked Anne Askew. “You say they will put me to the rack. Well, then, I shall have to bear it, for I have no power to change their will.”
“Yet, Anne, yet you have the power! Retract what you have said, Anne! Declare that you repent, and that you perceive that you have been deluded! Say that you will recognize the king as lord of the Church; that you will swear to the six articles, and never believe in the Pope of Rome. Ah, Anne, God sees your heart and knows your thoughts. You have no need to make them known by your lips. He has given you life, and you have no right to throw it away; you must seek to keep it so long as you can. Recant, then! It is perfectly allowable to deceive those who would murder us. Recant, then, Anne, recant! When they in their haughty arrogance demand of you to say what they say, consider them as lunatics, to whom you make apparent concessions only to keep them from raving. Of what consequence is it whether you do or do not say that the king is the head of the Church? From His heavens above, God looks down and smiles at this petty earthly strife which concerns not Him, but men only. Let scholars and theologians wrangle; we women have nothing to do with it. If we only believe in God, and bear Him to our hearts, the form in which we do it is a matter of indifference. But in this case the question is not about God, but merely about external dogmas. Why should you trouble yourself with these? What have you to do with the controversies of the priests? Recant, then, poor enthusiastic child, recant!”
While Catharine, in a low tone and with fluttering breath, thus spoke, Anne Askew had slowly arisen from her couch, and now stood, like a lily, so slender and delicate, confronting the queen.
Her noble countenance expressed deep indignation. Her eyes shot lightning, and a contemptuous smile was on her lips.
“What! Can you thus advise me?” said she. “Can you wish me to deny my faith, and abjure my God, only to escape earthly pain? And your tongue does not refuse to utter this, and your heart does not shrink with shame while you do it? Look at these arms; what are they worth that I should not sacrifice them to God? See these feeble limbs! Are they so precious that I, like a disgusting niggard, should spare them? No, no, God is my highest good--not this feeble, decaying body! For God I sacrifice it. I should recant? Never! Faith is not enveloped in this or that garb; it must be naked and open. So may mine be. And if I then am chosen to be an example of pure faith, that denies not, and makes profession--well, then, envy me not this preeminence. ‘Many are called, but few are chosen.’ If I am one of the chosen, I thank God for it, and bless the erring mortals who wish to make me such by means of the torture of the rack. Ah, believe me, Catharine, I rejoice to die, for it is such a sad, desolate, and desperate thing to live. Let me die, Catharine--die, to enter into blessedness!”
“But, poor, pitiable child! this is more than death; it is the torture of earth that threatens you. Oh, bethink you, Anne, that you are only a feeble woman. Who knows whether the rack may not yet conquer your spirit, and whether you, with your mangled limbs, may not by the fury of the pain yet be brought to that point that you will recant and abjure your faith?”
“If I could do that,” cried Anne Askew, with flashing eyes, “believe me, queen, as soon as I came to my senses I would lay violent hands on myself, in order to give myself over to eternal damnation, as the punishment of my recantation! God has ordered that I shall be a sign of the true faith. Be His command fulfilled!”
“Well, then, so be it,” said Catharine resolutely. “Do not recant, but save yourself from your executioners! I, Anne, I, will save you! I cannot bear--I cannot think of it--that this dear noble form should be sacrificed to a vile delusion of man; that they will torture to the honor of God a noble likeness of the same God! Oh, come, come, I will save you! I, the queen! Give me your hand. Follow me out of this dungeon. I know a path that leads out of this place; and I will conceal you so long in my own apartments that you can continue your flight without danger.”
“No, no, queen, you shall not conceal her with you!” said John Heywood. “You have been graciously pleased to allow me to be your confidant; envy me not, then, a share in your noble work also. Not with you shall Anne Askew find refuge, but with me. Oh, come, Anne, follow your friends. It is life that calls you, that opens the doors to you, and desires to call you by a thousand names to itself! Do you not hear them, all those sweet and alluring voices; do you not see them, all those noble and smiling faces, how they greet you and beckon to you? Anne Askew, it is the noble husband that calls you! You know him not as yet, but he is waiting for you there in the world without. Anne Askew, there are your children, who are stretching their tender arms out to you. You have not yet borne them; but love holds them in her arms, and will bring them to meet you. It is the wife and the mother that the world yet demands of you, Anne. You ought not to shun the holy calling which God has given you. Come, then, and follow us--follow your queen, who has the right to order her subject. Follow the friend, who has sworn that he will watch over you and protect you as a father!”
“Father in heaven, protect me!” exclaimed Anne Askew, falling on her knees and stretching her hands upward. “Father in heaven! they would tear away Thy child, and alienate my heart from Thee! They are leading me into temptation and alluring me with their words. Protect me, my Father; make my ear deaf, that I may not hear them! Give me a sign that I am Thine; that no one has any longer power over me, save Thou alone! A sign, that Thou, Father, callest me!”
And as if God had really heard her prayer, a loud knocking was now perceived at the outer door, and a voice cried: “Anne Askew, awake! and hold yourself ready! The high chancellor and the Bishop of Winchester come to fetch you away!”
“Ah, the rack!” groaned Catharine, as with a shudder she buried her face in her hands.
“Yes, the rack!” said Anne, with a blissful smile. “God calls me!”
John Heywood had approached the queen and impetuously seized her hand. “You see it is in vain,” said he, urgently. “Make haste then to save yourself! Hasten to leave this prison before the door there opens.”
“No,” said Catharine, firmly and resolutely. “No, I stay. She shall not surpass me in courage and greatness of soul! She will not deny her God; well, then, I also will be a witness of my God. I will not in shame cast my eyes to the ground before this young girl; like her, I will frankly and openly profess my faith; like her I will say: ‘God alone is Lord of his Church,’ God--” There was a movement without; a key was heard to turn in the lock.
“Queen, I conjure you,” besought John Heywood, “by all that is holy to you, by your love, come, come!”
“No, no!” cried she, vehemently.
But now Anne seized her hand, and stretching the other arm toward heaven, she said in a loud, commanding voice: “In the name of God, I order you to leave me!”
While Catharine drew back wholly involuntarily, John Heywood pushed her to the secret door, and urging her out almost with violence, he drew the door to behind them both.
Just as the secret door had closed, the other on the opposite side opened. “With whom were you speaking?” asked Gardiner, peering around the room with a sharp look.
“With the tempter, that wished to alienate me from God,” said she--“with the tempter, who at the approach of your footsteps wanted to fool my heart with fear, and persuade me to recant!”
“You are, then, firmly resolved? you do not retract?” asked Gardiner; and a savage joy shone in his pale, hard countenance.
“No, I do not recant!” said she, with a face beaming with smiles.
“Then, in the name of God and of the king, I take you into the torture-chamber!” cried Chancellor Wriothesley, as he advanced and laid his heavy hand on Anne’s shoulder. “You would not hear the voice of love warning you and calling you, so we will now try to arouse you from your madness by the voice of wrath and damnation.” He beckoned to the attendants on the rack, who stood behind him in the open door, and ordered them to seize her and carry her to the torture-chamber.
Anne, smiling, turned them back. “Nay, not so!” said she. “The Saviour went on foot, and bore His cross to the place of execution. I will tread His path. Show me the way, I follow you. But let no one dare touch me. I will show you that not by constraint, but gladly and freely, I tread the path of suffering, which I shall endure for the sake of my God. Rejoice, oh my soul! --sing, my lips! for the bridegroom is near, and the feast is about to begin.”
And in exultant tones Anne Askew began to sing a hymn, that had not died away when she entered the torture-chamber.
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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21
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PRINCESS ELIZABETH.
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The king sleeps. Let him sleep! He is old and infirm, and God has severely punished the restless tyrant with a vacillating, ever-disquieted, never-satisfied spirit, while He bound his body and made the spirit prisoner of the body; while He made the ambitious king, struggling for the infinite, a slave to his own flesh. How high soever his thoughts soar, still the king remains a clumsy, confined, powerless child of humanity; how much soever his conscience harasses him with disquiet and dread, yet he must be calm and endure it. He cannot run away from his conscience; God has fettered him by the flesh. The king is sleeping! But the queen is not; and Jane Douglas is not; neither is the Princess Elizabeth. She has watched with heart beating high. She is restless, and, pacing her room up and down in strange confusion, waited for the hour that she had appointed for the meeting. Now the hour had arrived. A glowing crimson overspread the face of the young princess; and her hand trembled as she took the light and opened the secret door to the corridor. She stood still for a moment, hesitating; then, ashamed of her irresolution, she crossed the corridor and ascended the small staircase which led to the tower-chamber. With a hasty movement she pushed open the door and entered the small slip that was at the end of her journey, and Thomas Seymour was already there.
As she saw him, an involuntary trepidation came over her, and for the first time she now became conscious of her hazardous step.
As Seymour, the ardent young man, approached her with a passionate salutation, she stepped shyly back and pushed away his hand.
“How! you will not allow me to kiss your hand?” asked he, and she thought she observed on his face a slight, scornful smile. “You make me the happiest of mortals by inviting me to this interview, and now you stand before me rigid and cold, and I am not once permitted to clasp you in my arms, Elizabeth!”
Elizabeth! He had called her by her first name without her having given him permission to do so. That offended her. In the midst of her confusion, that aroused the pride of the princess, and made her aware how much she must have forgotten her own dignity, when another could be so forgetful of it.
She wished to regain it. At this moment she would have given a year of her life if she had not taken this step--if she had not invited the earl to this meeting.
She wanted to try and regain in his eyes her lost position, and again to become to him the princess.
Pride in her was still mightier than love. She meant her lover should at the same time bow before her as her favored servant.
Therefore she gravely said: “Earl Thomas Seymour, you have often begged us for a private conversation; we now grant it to you. Speak, then! what matter of importance have you to bring before us?”
And with an air of gravity she stepped to an easy-chair, on which she seated herself slowly and solemnly like a queen, who gives audience to her vassals.
Poor, innocent child, that in her unconscious trepidation wished to intrench herself behind her grandeur, as behind a shield, which might conceal her maidenly fear and girlish anxiety!
Thomas Seymour, however, divined her thoughts; and his proud and cold heart revolted against this child’s attempt to defy him.
He wanted to humble her; he wished to compel her to bow before him, and implore his love as a gracious gift.
He therefore bowed low to the princess, and respectfully said: “Your highness, it is true I have often besought you for an audience; but you have so long refused me, that at last I could no longer summon up courage to solicit it; and I let my wish be silent and my heart dumb. Therefore seek not now, when these pains have been subdued, to excite them again. My heart should remain dead, my lips mute. You have so willed; and I have submitted to your will. Farewell, then, princess, and may your days be happier and more serene than those of poor Thomas Seymour!”
He bowed low before her, and then went slowly to the door. He had already opened it and was about to step out, when a hand was suddenly laid on his shoulder and drew him with vehement impetuosity back into the room.
“Do you want to go?” asked Elizabeth, with fluttering breath and trembling voice. “You want to leave me, and, flouting me, you want now, it may be, to go to the Duchess of Richmond, your mistress, and relate to her with a sneer that the Princess Elizabeth granted you an interview, and that you have flouted her?”
“The Duchess of Richmond is not my mistress,” said the earl, earnestly.
“No, not your mistress; but she will very soon be your wife!”
“She will never be my wife!”
“And why not?”
“Because I do not love her, princess.”
A beam of delight passed over Elizabeth’s pale, agitated face. “Why do you call me princess?” asked she.
“Because you have come as a princess to favor your poor servant with an audience. But, ah, it would be greatly abusing your princely grace did I want to protract this audience still further. I therefore retire, princess.”
And again he approached the door. But Elizabeth rushed after him, and, laying hold of his arms with both her hands, she wildly pushed him back.
Her eyes shot lightning; her lips trembled; a passionate warmth was manifested in her whole being. Now she was the true daughter of her father, inconsiderate and passionate in her wrath, destroying in her ferocity.
“You shall not go,” muttered she, with her teeth firmly set. “I will not let you go! I will not let you confront me any longer with that cold, smiling face. Scold me; cast on me the bitterest reproaches, because I have dared to brave you so long; curse me, if you can! Anything but this smiling calmness. It kills me; it pierces my heart like a dagger. For you see well enough that I have no longer the power to withstand you; you see well enough that I love you. Yes, I love you to ecstasy and to desperation; with desire and dread. I love you as my demon and my angel. I am angry, because you have so entirely crushed the pride of my heart. I curse you, because you have made me so entirely your slave; and the next moment I fall on my knees and beseech God to forgive me this crime against you. I love you, I say--not as those soft, gentle-hearted women love, with a smile on the lip; but with madness and desperation, with jealousy and wrath. I love you as my father loved Anne Boleyn, whom, in the hatred of his love and the cruel wrath of his jealousy, he made to mount the scaffold, because he had been told that she was untrue to him. Ah, had I the power, I would do as my father did; I would murder you, if you should dare ever to cease to love me. And now, Thomas Seymour, now say whether you have the courage to desire to leave me?”
She looked bewitching in the naming might of her passion; she was so young, so ardent; and Thomas Seymour was so ambitious! In his eyes Elizabeth was not merely the beautiful, charming maiden, who loved him: she was more than that: she was the daughter of Henry the Eighth, the Princess of England, perchance some day the heiress of the throne. It is true, her father had disinherited her, and by act of Parliament declared her unworthy of succeeding to the throne. [Footnote: Burnet, vol. i, p. 138] But Henry’s vacillating mind might change, and the disowned princess might one day become queen.
The earl thought of this as he gazed on Elizabeth--as he saw her before him, so charming, so young, and so glowing with passion. He thought of it as he now clasped her in his arms, and pressed on her lips a burning kiss.
“No, I will not go,” whispered he. “I will never more depart from your side, if you do not wish me to go. I am yours! --your slave, your vassal; and I will never be anything else but this alone. They may betray me; your father may punish me for high treason; yet will I exult in my good fortune, for Elizabeth loves me, and it will be for Elizabeth that I die!”
“You shall not die!” cried she, clinging fast to him. “You shall live, live at my side, proud, great, and happy! You shall be my lord and my master; and if I am ever queen, and I feel here in my heart that I must become so, then will Thomas Seymour be King of England.”
“That is to say, in the quiet and secrecy of your chamber I should perhaps be so!” said he with a sigh. “But there without, before the world, I shall still be ever only a servant; and at the best, I shall be called the favorite.”
“Never, never, that I swear to you! Said I not that I loved you?”
“But the love of a woman is so changeable! Who knows how long it will be before you will tread under your feet poor Thomas Seymour, when once the crown has adorned your brow.”
She looked at him well-nigh horrified. “Can this be, then? Is it possible that one can forget and forsake what he once loved?”
“Do you ask, Elizabeth? Has not your father already his sixth wife?”
“It is true,” said she, as mournfully she dropped her head upon her breast. “But I,” said she, after a pause, “I shall not be like my father in that. I shall love you eternally! And that you may have a guaranty of my faithfulness, I offer myself to you as your wife.”
Astonished, he looked inquiringly into her excited, glowing face! He did not understand her.
But she continued, passionately: “Yes, you shall be my lord and my husband! Come, my beloved, come! I have not called you to take upon yourself the disgraceful role of the secret lover of a princess--I have called you to be my husband. I wish a bond to unite us two, that is so indissoluble that not even the wrath and will of my father, but only death itself, can sever it. I will give you proof of my love and my devotion; and you shall be forced to acknowledge that I truly love you. Come, my beloved, that I may soon hail you as my husband!”
He looked at her as though petrified. “Whither will you lead me?”
“To the private chapel,” said she, innocently. “I have written Cranmer to await me there at daybreak. Let us hasten, then!”
“Cranmer! You have written to the archbishop?” cried Seymour, amazed. “How! what say you? Cranmer awaits us in the private chapel?”
“Without doubt he is waiting for us, as I have written him to do so.”
“And what is he to do? What do you want of him?”
She looked at him in astonishment. “What do I want of him? Why, that he may marry us!”
The earl staggered back as if stunned. “And have you written him that also?”
“Nay, indeed,” said she, with a charming, childlike smile. “I know very well that it is dangerous to trust such secrets to paper. I have only written him to come in his official robes, because I have an important secret to confess to him.”
“Oh, God be praised! We are not lost,” sighed Seymour.
“But how, I do not understand you?” asked she. “You do not extend me your hand! You do not hasten to conduct me to the chapel!”
“Tell me, I conjure you, tell me only this one thing: have you ever spoken to the archbishop of your--no--of our love? Have you ever betrayed to him so much, as a syllable of that which stirs our hearts?”
She blushed deeply beneath the steady gaze which he fixed on her. “Upbraid me, Seymour,” whispered she. “But my heart was weak and timorous; and as often as I tried to fulfil the holy duty, and confess everything honestly and frankly to the archbishop, I could not do it! The word died on my lips; and it was as though an invisible power paralyzed my tongue.”
“So, then, Cranmer knows nothing?”
“No, Seymour, he knows nothing as yet. But now he shall learn all; now we will go before him and tell him that we love each other, and constrain him, by our prayers, to bless our union, and join our hands.”
“Impossible!” cried Seymour. “That can never be!”
“How! What do you say?” asked she in astonishment.
“I say that Cranmer will never be so insane, nay, so criminal, as to fulfil your wish. I say that you can never be my wife.”
She looked him full and square in the face. “Have you not then told me that you loved me?” asked she. “Have I not sworn to you that I loved you in return? Must we then not be married, in order to sanctify the union of our hearts?”
Seymour sank his eyes to the ground before her pure innocent look, and blushed for shame. She did not understand this blush; because he was silent, she deemed him convinced.
“Come,” said she, “come; Cranmer is waiting for us!”
He again raised his eyes and looked at her in amazement, “Do you not see, then, this is all only a dream that can never become reality? Do you not feel that this precious fantasy of your great and noble heart will never be realized? How! are you then so little acquainted with your father as not to know that he would destroy us both if we should dare to set at naught his paternal and his royal authority? Your birth would not secure you from his destroying fury, for you well know he is unyielding and reckless in his wrath; and the voice of consanguinity sounds not so loud in him that it would not be drowned by the thunder of his wrath. Poor child, you have learned that already! Remember with what cruelty he has already revenged himself on you for the pretended fault of your mother; how he transferred to you his wrath against her. Remember that he refused your hand to the Dauphin of France, not for the sake of your happiness, but because he said you were not worthy of so exalted a position. Anne Boleyn’s bastard could never become Queen of France. And after such a proof of his cruel wrath against you, will you dare cast in his face this terrible insult? --compel him to recognize a subject, a servant, as his son?”
“Oh, this servant is, however, the brother of a Queen of England!” said she, shyly. “My father loved Jane Seymour too warmly not to forgive her brother.”
“Ah, ah, you do not know your father! He has no heart for the past; or, if he has, it is only to take vengeance for an injury or a fault, but not to reward love. King Henry would be capable of sentencing Anne Boleyn’s daughter to death, and of sending to the block and rack Catharine Howard’s brothers, because these two queens once grieved him and wounded his heart; but he would not forgive me the least offence on account of my being the brother of a queen who loved him faithfully and tenderly till her death. But I speak not of myself. I am a warrior, and have too often looked death in the face to fear him now. I speak only of you, Elizabeth. You have no right to perish thus. This noble head must not be laid upon the block. It is destined to wear a royal crown. A fortune still higher than love awaits you--fame and power! I must not draw you away from this proud future. The Princess Elizabeth, though abused and disowned, may yet one day mount the throne of England. The Countess Seymour never! she disinherits herself! Follow, then, your high destiny. Earl Seymour retires before a throne.”
“That is to say, you disdained me?” asked she, angrily stamping the floor with her foot. “That is to say, the proud Earl Seymour holds the bastard too base for his coronet! That is to say, you love me not!”
“No, it means that I love you more than myself--better and more purely than any other man can love you; for this love is so great that it makes my selfishness and my ambition silent, and allows me to think only of you and your future.”
“Ah,” sighed she, mournfully, “if you really loved me, you would not consider--you would not see the danger, nor fear death. You would think of nothing, and know nothing, save love.”
“Because I think of love, I think of you,” said Seymour. “I think that you are to move along over the world, great, powerful, and glorious, and that I will lend you my arm for this. I think of this, that my queen of the future needs a general who will win victories for her, and that I will be that general. But when this goal is reached--when you are queen--then you have the power from one of your subjects to make a husband; then it rests with your own will to elevate me to be the proudest, the happiest, and the most enviable of all men. Extend me your hand, then, and I will thank and praise God that he is so gracious to me; and my whole existence will be spent in the effort to give you the happiness that you are so well entitled to demand.”
“And until then?” asked she, mournfully.
“Until then, we will be constant, and love each other!” cried he, as he gently pressed her in his arms. She gently repelled him. “Will you also be true to me till then?”
“True till death!”
“They have told me that you would marry the Duchess of Richmond, in order thereby to at length put an end to the ancient hatred between the Howards and Seymours.”
Thomas Seymour frowned, and his countenance grew dark. “Believe me, this hatred is invincible,” said he; “and no matrimonial alliance could wash it away. It is an inheritance from many years in our families; and I am firmly resolved not to renounce my inheritance. I shall just as little marry the Duchess of Richmond, as Henry Howard will my sister, the Countess of Shrewsbury.”
“Swear that to me! Swear to me, that you say the truth, and that this haughty and coquettish duchess shall never be your wife. Swear it to me, by all that is sacred to you!”
“I swear it by my love!” exclaimed Thomas Seymour, solemnly.
“I shall then at least have one sorrow the less,” sighed Elizabeth. “I shall have no occasion to be jealous. And is it not true,” she then said, “is it not true we shall often see each other? We will both keep this secret of this tower faithfully and sacredly; and after days full of privation and disappointment, we will here keep festival the nights full of blissful pleasure and sweet transport. But why do you smile, Seymour?”
“I smile, because you are pure and innocent as an angel,” said he, as he reverently kissed her hand. “I smile, because you are an exalted, godlike child, whom one ought to adore upon his knees, and to whom one ought to pray, as to the chaste goddess Vesta! Yes, my dear, beloved child, here we will, as you say, pass nights full of blissful pleasure; and may I be reprobate and damned, if I should ever be capable of betraying this sweet, guileless confidence with which you favor me, and sully your angel purity!”
“Ah, we will be very happy, Seymour!” said she, smiling. “I lack only one thing--a friend, to whom I can tell my happiness, to whom I can speak of you. Oh, it often seems to me as if this love, which must always be concealed, always shut up, must at last burst my breast; as if this secret must with violence break a passage, and roar like a tempest over the whole world. Seymour, I want a confidante of my happiness and my love.”
“Guard yourself well against desiring to seek such a one!” exclaimed Seymour, anxiously. “A secret that three know, is a secret no more; and one day your confidante will betray us.”
“Not so; I know a woman who would be incapable of that--a woman who loves me well enough to keep my secret as faithfully as I myself; a woman who could be more than merely a confidante, who could be the protectress of our love. Oh, believe me, if we could gain her to our side, then our future would be a happy and a blessed one, and we might easily succeed in obtaining the king’s consent to our marriage.”
“And who is this woman?”
“It is the queen.”
“The queen!” cried Thomas Seymour, with such an expression of horror that Elizabeth trembled; “the queen your confidante? But that is impossible! That would be plunging us both inevitably into ruin. Unhappy child, be very careful not to mention even a single word, a syllable of your relation to me. Be very careful not to betray to her, even by the slightest intimation, that Thomas Seymour is not indifferent to you! Ah, her wrath would dash to pieces you and me!”
“And why do you believe that?” asked Elizabeth, gloomily. “Why do you suppose that Catharine would fly into a passion because Earl Seymour loves me? Or how? --it is she, perhaps, that you love, and you dare not therefore let her know that you have sworn your love to me also? Ah, I now see through it all; I understand it all! You love the queen--her only. For that reason you will not go to the chapel with me; for that reason you swore that you would not marry the Duchess of Richmond; and therefore--oh, my presentiment did not deceive me--therefore that furious ride in Epping Forest to-day. Ah, the queen’s horse must of course become raving, and run away, that his lordship, the master of horse, might follow his lady, and with her got lost in the thicket of the woods! --And now,” said she, her eyes flashing with anger, and raising her hand to heaven as if taking an oath, “now I say to you: Take heed to yourself! Take heed to yourself, Seymour, that you do not, even by a single word or a single syllable, betray your secret, for that word would crush you! Yes, I feel it, that I am no bastard, that I am my father’s own daughter; I feel it in this wrath and this jealousy that rages within me! Take heed to yourself, Seymour, for I will go hence and accuse you to the king, and the traitor’s head will fall upon the scaffold!”
She was beside herself. With clenched fists and a threatening air she paced the room up and down. Tears gushed from her eyes; but she shook them out of her eyelashes, so that they fell scattering about her like pearls. Her father’s impetuous and untractable nature stirred within her, and his blood seethed in her veins.
But Thomas Seymour had already regained his self-command and composure. He approached the princess and despite her struggles clasped her in his arms.
“Little fool!” said he, between his kisses. “Sweet, dear fool, how beautiful you are in your anger, and how I love you for it! Jealousy is becoming to love; and I do not complain, though you are unjust and cruel toward me. The queen has much too cold and proud a heart ever to be loved by any man. Ah, only to think this is already treason to her virtue and modesty; and surely she has not deserved this from us two, that we should disdain and insult her. She is the first that has always been just to you; and to me she has ever been only a gracious mistress!”
“It is true,” murmured Elizabeth, completely ashamed; “she is a true friend and mother; and I have her to thank for my present position at this court.”
Then, after a pause, she said, smiling, and extending her hand to the earl: “You are right. It would be a crime to suspect her; and I am a fool. Forgive me, Seymour, forgive my absurd and childish anger; and I promise you in return to betray our secret to no one, not even to the queen.”
“Do you swear that to me?”
“I swear it to you! and I swear to you more than that: I will never again be jealous of her.”
“Then you do but simple justice to yourself and to the queen also,” said the earl, with a smile, as he drew her again to his arms.
But she pushed him gently back. “I must now away. The morning dawns, and the archbishop awaits me in the royal chapel.”
“And what will you say to him, beloved?”
“I will make my confession to him.”
“How! so you will then betray our love to him?”
“Oh,” said she, with a bewitching smile, “that is a secret between us and God; and only to Him alone can we confess it; because He alone can absolve us from it. Farewell, then, Seymour, farewell, and think of me till we see each other again! But when--say, when shall we meet again?”
“When there is a night like this one, beloved, when the moon is not in the heavens. Oh, then I could wish there were a change of the moon every week,” said she, with the charming innocence of a child. “Farewell, Seymour, farewell; we must part.”
She clung to his tall, sturdy form as the ivy twines around the trunk of an oak. Then they parted. The princess slipped again softly and unseen into her apartments, and thence into the royal chapel; the earl descended again the spiral staircase which led to the secret door of the garden.
Unobserved and unseen he returned to his palace; even his valet, who slept in the anteroom, did not see him, as the earl crept past him lightly on his toes, and betook himself to his sleeping-room.
But no sleep came to his eyes that night, and his soul was restless and full of fierce torment. He was angry with himself, and accused himself of treachery and perfidy; and then again, full of proud haughtiness, he still tried to excuse himself and to silence his conscience, which was sitting in judgment on him.
“I love her--her only!” said he to himself. “Catharine possesses my heart, my soul; I am ready to devote my whole life to her. Yes, I love her! I have this day so sworn to her; and she is mine for all eternity!”
“And Elizabeth?” asked his conscience. “Have you not sworn truth and love to her also?”
“No!” said he. “I have only received her oath; I have not given her mine in return. And when I vowed never to marry the Duchess of Richmond; when I swore this ‘by my love,’ then I thought only of Catharine--of that proud, beautiful, charming woman, at once maidenly and voluptuous; but not of this young, inexperienced, wild child--of this unattractive little princess!”
“But the princess may one day become a queen,” whispered his ambition.
“That, however, is very doubtful,” replied he to himself. “But it is certain that Catharine will one day be the regent, and if I am at that time her husband, then I am Regent of England.”
This was the secret of his duplicity and his double treachery. Thomas Seymour loved nothing but himself, nothing but his ambition. He was capable of risking his life for a woman; but for renown and greatness he would have gladly sacrificed this woman.
For him there was only one aim, one struggle: to be come great and powerful above all the nobles of the kingdom--to be the first man in England. And to reach this aim, he would be afraid of no means; he would shrink from no treachery and no sin.
Like the disciples of Loyola, he said, in justification of himself, “the end sanctifies the means.”
And thus for him every means was right which conducted him to the end; that is to say, to greatness and glory.
He was firmly convinced that he loved the queen ardently; and in his nobler hours he did really love her. Depending on the moment, a son of the hour, in him feeling and will varied with the rapidity of lightning, and he ever was wholly and completely that with which the moment inflamed him.
When, therefore, he stood before the queen, he did not lie when he swore that he loved her passionately. He really loved her, with double warmth, since she had to his mind in some sort identified herself with his ambition. He adored her, because she was the means that might conduct him to his end; because she might some day hold in her hands the sceptre of England. And on the day when this came to pass, he wished to be her lover and her lord. She had accepted him as her lord, and he was entirely certain of his future sway.
Consequently he loved the queen, but his proud and ambitious heart could never be so completely animated by one love as that there should not be room in it for a second, provided this second love presented him a favorable chance for the attainment of the aim of his life.
Princess Elizabeth had this chance. And if the queen would certainly become one day Regent of England, yet Elizabeth might some day perchance become queen thereof. Of course, it was as yet only a perhaps, but one might manage out of this perhaps to make a reality. Besides, this young, passionate child loved him, and Thomas Seymour was himself too young and too easily excitable to be able to despise a love that presented him with such enticing promises and bright dreams of the future.
“It does not become a man to live for love alone,” said he to himself as he now thought over the events of the night. “He must struggle for the highest and wish to reach the greatest, and no means of attaining this end ought he to leave unemployed. Besides, my heart is large enough to satisfy a twofold love. I love them both--both of these fair women who fetch me a crown. Let fate decide to which of the two I shall one day belong!”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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22
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HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY.
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The great court festival, so long expected, was at last to take place today. Knights and lords were preparing for the tournament; poets and scholars for the feast of the poets. For the witty and brave king wished to unite the two in this festival today, in order to give the world a rare and great example of a king who could claim all virtue and wisdom as his own; who could be equally great as a hero and as a divine; equally great as a poet and as a philosopher and a scholar.
The knights were to fight for the honor of their ladies; the poets were to sing their songs, and John Heywood to bring out his merry farces. Ay, even the great scholars were to have a part in this festival; for the king had specially, for this, summoned to London from Cambridge, where he was then professor in the university, his former teacher in the Greek language, the great scholar Croke, to whom belonged the merit of having first made the learned world of Germany, as well as of England, again acquainted with the poets of Greece. [Footnote: Tytler, p. 307.] He wished to recite with Croke some scenes from Sophocles to his wondering court; and though, to be sure, there was no one there who understood the Greek tongue, yet all, without doubt, must be enraptured with the wonderful music of the Greek and the amazing erudition of the king.
Preparations were going on everywhere; arrangements were being made; every one was making his toilet, whether it were the toilet of the mind or of the body.
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, made his also; that is to say, he had retired to his cabinet, and was busy filing away at the sonnets which he expected to recite to-day, and in which he lauded the beauty and the grace of the fair Geraldine.
He had the paper in his hand, and was lying on the velvet ottoman which stood before his writing-table.
Had Lady Jane Douglas seen him now, she would have been filled with painful rapture to observe how, with head leaned back on the cushion, his large blue eyes raised dreamily to heaven, he smiled and whispered gentle words.
He was wholly absorbed in sweet reminiscences; he was thinking of those rapturous, blessed hours which he a few days before had spent with his Geraldine; and as he thought of them he adored her, and repeated to her anew in his mind his oath of eternal love and inviolable truth.
His enthusiastic spirit was completely filled with a sweet melancholy; and he felt perfectly intoxicated by the magical happiness afforded him by his Geraldine.
She was his--his at last! After struggles so long and painful, after such bitter renunciation, and such mournful resignation, happiness had at last arisen for him; the never expected had at last become indeed a reality. Catharine loved him. With a sacred oath she had sworn to him that she would one day become his wife; that she would become his wife before God and man.
But when is the day to come on which he may show her to the world as his consort? When will she be at length relieved from the burden of her royal crown? When at length will fall from her those golden chains that bind her to a tyrannical and bloodthirsty husband--to the cruel and arrogant king? When will Catharine at length cease to be queen, in order to become Lady Surrey?
Strange! As he asked himself this, there ran over him a shudder, and an unaccountable dread fell upon his soul.
It seemed to him as if a voice whispered to him: “Thou wilt never live to see that day! The king, old as he is, will nevertheless live longer than thou! Prepare thyself to die, for death is already at thy door!”
And it was not the first time that he had heard that voice. Often before it had spoken to him, and always with the same words, the same warning. Often it seemed to him in his dreams as if he felt a cutting pain about the neck; and he had seen a scaffold, from which his own head was rolling down.
Henry Howard was superstitious; for he was a poet, and to poets it is given to perceive the mysterious connection between the visible and the invisible world; to believe that supernatural powers and invisible forms surround man, and either protect him or else curse him.
There were hours in which he believed in the reality of his dreams--in which he did not doubt of that melancholy and horrible fate which they foretold.
Formerly he had given himself up to it with smiling resignation; but now--since he loved Catharine, since she belonged to him--now he would not die. Now, when life held out to him its most enchanting enjoyments, its intoxicating delights--now he would not leave them--now he dreaded to die. He was therefore cautious and prudent; and, knowing the king’s malicious, savage, and jealous character, he had always been extremely careful to avoid everything that might excite him, that might arouse the royal hyena from his slumbers.
But it seemed to him as though the king bore him and his family a special spite; as though he could never forgive them that the consort whom he most loved, and who had the most bitterly wronged him, had sprung from their stock. In the king’s every word and every look, Henry Howard felt and was sensible of this secret resentment of the king; he suspected that Henry was only watching for the favorable moment when he could seize and strangle him.
He was therefore on his guard. For now, when Geraldine loved him, his life belonged no longer to himself alone; she loved him; she had a claim on him; his days were, therefore, hallowed in his own eyes.
So he had kept silence under the petty annoyances and vexations of the king. He had taken it even without murmuring, and without demanding satisfaction, when the king had suddenly recalled him from the army that was fighting against France, and of which he was commander-in-chief, and in his stead had sent Lord Hertford, Earl of Sudley, to the army which was encamped before Boulogne and Montreuil. He had quietly and without resentment returned to his palace; and since he could no longer be a general and warrior, he became again a scholar and poet. His palace was now again the resort of the scholars and writers of England; and he was always ready, with true princely munificence, to assist oppressed and despised talent; to afford the persecuted scholar an asylum in his palace. He it was who saved the learned Fox from starvation, and took him into his house, where Horatius Junius and the poet Churchyard, afterward so celebrated, had both found a home--the former as his physician and the latter as his page. [Footnote: Nott’s Life of the Earl of Surrey] Love, the arts, and the sciences, caused the wounds that the king had given his ambition, to heal over; and he now felt no more rancor; now he almost thanked the king. For to his recall only did he owe his good fortune; and Henry, who had wished to injure him, had given him his sweetest pleasure.
He now smiled as he thought how Henry, who had taken from him the baton, had, without knowing it, given him in return his own queen, and had exalted him when he wished to humble him.
He smiled, and again took in hand the poem in which he wished to celebrate in song, at the court festival that day, the honor and praise of his lady-love, whom no one knew, or even suspected--the fair Geraldine.
“The verses are stiff,” muttered he; “this language is so poor! It has not the power of expressing all that fulness of adoration and ecstasy which I feel. Petrarch was more fortunate in this respect. His beautiful, flexible language sounds like music, and it is, even just by itself, the harmonious accompaniment of his love. Ah, Petrarch, I envy thee, and yet would not be like thee. For thine was a mournful and bitter-sweet lot. Laura never loved thee; and she was the mother of twelve children, not a single one of whom belonged to thee.”
He laughed with a sense of his own proud success in love, and seized Petrarch’s sonnets, which lay near him on the table, to compare his own new sonnet with a similar one of Petrarch’s.
He was so absorbed in these meditations, that he had not at all observed that the hanging which concealed the door behind him was pushed aside, and a marvellous young woman, resplendent with diamonds and sparkling with jewelry, entered his cabinet.
For an instant she stood still upon the threshold, and with a smile observed the earl, who was more and more absorbed in his reading.
She was of imposing beauty; her large eyes blazed and glowed like a volcano; her lofty brow seemed in all respects designed to wear a crown. And, indeed, it was a ducal coronet that sparkled on her black hair, which in long ringlets curled down to her full, voluptuous shoulders. Her tall and majestic form was clad in a white satin dress, richly trimmed with ermine and pearls; two clasps of costly brilliants held fast to her shoulders the small mantilla of crimson velvet, faced with ermine, which covered her back and fell down to her waist.
Thus appeared the Duchess of Richmond, the widow of King Henry’s natural son, Henry Richmond; the sister of Lord Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey; and the daughter of the noble Duke of Norfolk.
Since her husband had died and left her a widow at twenty, she resided in her brother’s palace, and had placed herself under his protection, and in the world they were known as “the affectionate brother and sister.”
Ah, how little knew the world, which is ever wont to judge from appearances, of the hatred and the love of these two; how little suspicion had it of the real sentiments of this brother and sister!
Henry Howard had offered his sister his palace as her residence, because he hoped by his presence to lay on her impulsive and voluptuous disposition a restraint which should compel her not to overstep the bounds of custom and decency. Lady Richmond had accepted this offer of his palace because she was obliged to; inasmuch as the avaracious and parsimonious king gave his son’s widow only a meagre income, and her own means she had squandered and lavishly thrown away upon her lovers.
Henry Howard had thus acted for the honor of his name; but he loved not his sister; nay, he despised her. But the Duchess of Richmond hated her brother, because her proud heart felt humbled by him, and under obligations of gratitude.
But their hatred and their contempt were a secret that they both preserved in the depths of the heart, and which they scarcely dared confess to themselves. Both had veiled this their inmost feeling with a show of affection, and only once in a while was one betrayed to the other by some lightly dropped word or unregarded look.
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{
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23
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BROTHER AND SISTER.
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Lightly on the tips of her toes the duchess stole toward her brother, who did not yet observe her. The thick Turkish carpet made her steps inaudible. She already stood behind the earl, and he had not yet noticed her.
Now she bent over his shoulder, and fastened her sparkling eyes on the paper in her brother’s hand.
Then she read in a loud, sonorous voice the title of it: “Complaint, because Geraldine never shows herself to her lover unless covered by her veil.” [Footnote: Sonnet by Surrey. --See Nott’s Life and Works of Surrey.] “Ah,” said the duchess, laughing, “now, then, I have spied out your secret, and you must surrender to me at discretion. So you are in love; and Geraldine is the name of the chosen one to whom you address your poems! I swear to you, my brother, you will repay me dear for this secret.”
“It is no secret at all, sister,” said the earl, with a quiet smile, as he rose from the divan and saluted the duchess. “It is so little a secret, that I shall recite this sonnet at the court festival this very evening. I shall not, therefore, need your secrecy, Rosabella.”
“So the fair Geraldine never shows herself to you unless in a dark veil, black as the night,” said the duchess, musingly. “But tell me, brother, who then is the fair Geraldine? Of the ladies at court, I know not a single one who bears that name.”
“So you see from that, the whole is only a fiction--a creation of my fancy.”
“No, indeed,” said she, smiling; “one does not write with such warmth and enthusiasm unless he is really in love. You sing your lady-love, and you give her another name. That is very plain. Do not deny it, Henry, for I know indeed that you have a lady-love. It may be read in your eyes. And look you! it is on account of this dear one that I have come to you. It pains me, Henry, that you have no confidence in me, and allow me no share in your joys and sorrows. Do you not know, then, how tenderly I love you, my dear, noble brother?”
She put her arm tenderly round his neck, and wanted to kiss him. He bent his head back, and laying his hand on her rosy, round chin, he looked inquiringly and smilingly into her eyes.
“You want something of me, Rosabella!” said he. “I have never yet enjoyed your tenderness and sisterly affection, except when you needed my services.”
“How suspicious you are!” cried she, with a charming pout, as she shook his hand away from her face. “I have come from wholly disinterested sympathy; partly to warn you, partly to find out whether your love is perchance fixed upon a lady that would render my warning useless.”
“Well, so you see, Rosabella, that I was right, and that your tenderness was not aimless. Now, then, you want to warn me? I have yet to learn that I need any warning.”
“Nay, brother! For it would certainly be very dangerous and mischievous for you, if your love should chance not to be in accordance with the command of the king.”
A momentary flush spread over Henry Howard’s face, and his brow darkened.
“With the king’s command?” asked he, in astonishment. “I did not know that Henry the Eighth could control my heart. And, at any rate, I would never concede him that right. Say quickly, then, sister, what is it? What means this about the king’s command, and what matrimonial scheme have you women been again contriving? For I well know that you and my mother have no rest with the thought of seeing me still unmarried. You want to bestow on me, whether or no, the happiness of marriage; yet, nevertheless, it appears to me that you both have sufficiently learned from experience that this happiness is only imaginary, and that marriage in reality is, at the very least, the vestibule of hell.”
“It is true,” laughed the duchess; “the only happy moment of my married life was when my husband died. For in that I am more fortunate than my mother, who has her tyrant still living about her. Ah, how I pity my mother!”
“Dare not to revile our noble father!” cried the earl, almost threateningly. “God alone knows how much he has suffered from our mother, and how much he still suffers. He is not to blame for this unhappy marriage. But you have not come to talk over these sad and disgraceful family matters, sister! You wish to warn me, did you say?”
“Yes, warn you!” said the duchess, tenderly, as she took her brother’s hand and led him to the ottoman. “Come, let us sit down here, Henry, and let us for once chat confidentially and cordially, as becomes brother and sister. Tell me, who is Geraldine?”
“A phantom, an ideal! I have told you that already.”
“You really love, then, no lady at this court?”
“No, none! There is among all these ladies, with whom the queen has surrounded herself, not one whom I am able to love.”
“Ah, your heart then is free, Henry; and you will be so much more easily inclined to comply with the king’s wish.”
“What does the king wish?”
She laid her head on her brother’s shoulder, and said in a low whisper: “That the Howard and Seymour families be at last reconciled; that at last they may reconcile the hatred, which has for centuries separated them, by means of a firm and sincere bond of love.”
“Ah, the king wants that!” cried the earl, scornfully.
“Forsooth, now, he has made a good beginning toward bringing about this reconciliation. He has insulted me before all Europe, by removing me from my command, and investing a Seymour with my rank and dignity; and he requires that I in return shall love this arrogant earl, who has robbed me of what is my due; who has long intrigued and besieged the king’s ears with lies and calumnies, till he has gained his end and supplanted me.”
“It is true the king recalled you from the army; but this was done in order to give you the first place at his court--to appoint you lord chamberlain to the queen.”
Henry Howard trembled and was silent. “It is true,” he then muttered; “I am obliged to the king for this place.”
“And then,” continued the duchess, with an innocent air, “then I do not believe either that Lord Hertford is to blame for your recall. To prove this to you, he has made a proposal to the king, and to me also, which is to testify to you and to all the world how great an honor Lord Hertford esteems it to be allied to the Howards, and above all things to you, by the most sacred bonds.”
“Ah, that noble, magnanimous lord!” cried Henry Howard, with a bitter laugh. “As matters do not advance well with laurels, he tries the myrtles; since he can win no battles, he wants to make marriages. Now, sister, let me hear what he has to propose.”
“A double marriage, Henry. He asks my hand for his brother Thomas Seymour, provided you choose his sister, Lady Margaret, for your wife.”
“Never!” cried the earl. “Never will Henry Howard present his hand to a daughter of that house; never condescend so far as to elevate a Seymour to be his wife. That is well enough for a king--not for a Howard!”
“Brother, you insult the king!”
“Well, I insult him, then! He has insulted me, too, in arranging this base scheme.”
“Brother, reflect; the Seymours are powerful, and stand high in the king’s favor.”
“Yes, in the king’s favor they stand high! But the people know their proud, cruel, and arrogant disposition; and the people and nobility despise them. The Seymours have the voice of the king in their favor; the Howards the voice of the whole country, and that is of more consequence. The king can exalt the Seymours, for they stand far beneath him. He cannot exalt the Howards, for they are his equals. Nor can he degrade them. Catharine died on the scaffold--the king became thereby only a hangman--our escutcheon was not sullied by that act!”
“These are very proud words, Henry!”
“They become a son of the Norfolks, Rosabella! Ah, see that petty Lord Hertford, Earl Seymour. He covets a ducal coronet for his sister. He wants to give her to me to wife; for as soon as our poor father dies, I wear his coronet! The arrogant upstarts! For the sister’s escutcheon, my coronet; for the brother’s, your coronet. Never, say I, shall that be!”
The duchess had become pale, and a tremor ran through her proud form. Her eyes flashed, and an angry word was already suspended on her lips; but she still held it back. She violently forced herself to calmness and self-possession.
“Consider once more, Henry,” said she, “do not decide at once. You speak of our greatness; but you do not bear in mind the power of the Seymours. I tell you they are powerful enough to tread us in the dust, despite all our greatness. And they are not only powerful at the present; they will be so in the future also; for it is well known in what disposition and what way of thinking the Prince of Wales is trained up. The king is old, weak, and failing; death lurks behind his throne, and will soon enough press him in his arms. Then Edward is king. With him, the heresy of Protestantism triumphs; and however great and numerous our party may be, yet we shall be powerless and subdued. Yes, we shall be the oppressed and persecuted.”
“We shall then know how to fight, and if it must be so, to die also!” cried her brother. “It is more honorable to die on the battle-field than to purchase life and humiliation.”
“Yes, it is honorable to die on the field of battle; but, Henry, it is a disgrace to come to an end upon the scaffold. And that, my brother, may be your fate, if you do not this time bend your pride; if you do not grasp the hand that Lord Hertford extends to you in reconciliation, but mortally offend him. He will take bloody vengeance, when once he comes into power.”
“Let him do it, if he can; my life is in God’s hand! My head belongs to the king, but my heart to myself; and that I will never degrade to merchandise, which I may barter for a little security and royal favor.”
“Brother, I conjure you, consider it!” cried the duchess, no longer able to restrain her passionate disposition, and all ablaze in her savage wrath. “Dare not in proud arrogance to destroy my future also! You may die on the scaffold, if you choose; but I--I will be happy; I will at last, after so many years of sorrow and disgrace, have my share of life’s joys also. It is my due, and I will not relinquish it; and you shall not be allowed to tear it from me. Know, then, my brother, I love Thomas Seymour; all my desire, all my hope is fixed on him; and I will not tear this love out of my heart; I will not give him up.”
“Well, if you love him, marry him, then!” exclaimed her brother. “Become the wife of this Thomas Seymour! Ask the duke, our father, for his consent to this marriage, and I am certain he will not refuse you, for he is prudent and cautious, and will, better than I, calculate the advantages which a connection with the Seymours may yield our family. Do that, sister, and marry your dearly beloved. I do not hinder you.”
“Yes, you do hinder me--you alone!” cried his sister, flaming with wrath. “You will refuse Margaret’s hand; you will give the Seymours mortal offence. You thereby make my union with Thomas Seymour impossible! In the proud selfishness of your haughtiness, you see not that you are dashing to atoms my happiness, while you are thinking only of your desire to offend the Seymours. But I tell you, I love Thomas Seymour--nay, I adore him. He is my happiness, my future, my eternal bliss. Therefore have pity on me, Henry! Grant me this happiness, which I implore you for as Heaven’s blessing. Prove to me that you love me, and are willing to make this sacrifice for me. Henry, on my knees, I conjure you! Give me the man I love; bend your proud head; become Margaret Seymour’s husband, that Thomas Seymour may become mine.”
She had actually sunk upon her knees; and her face deluged with tears, bewitchingly beautiful in her passionate emotion, she looked up imploringly to her brother.
But the earl did not lift her up; on the contrary, with a smile, he fell back a step. “How long is it now, duchess,” asked he, mockingly, “since you swore that your secretary, Mr. Wilford, was the man whom you loved? Positively, I believed you--I believed it till I one day found you in the arms of your page. On that day, I swore to myself never to believe you again, though you vowed to me, with an oath ever so sacred, that you loved a man. Well, now, you love a man; but what one, is a matter of indifference. To-day his name is Thomas, tomorrow Archibald, or Edward as you please!”
For the first time the earl drew the veil away from his heart, and let his sister see all the contempt and anger that he felt toward her.
The duchess also felt wounded by his words, as by a red-hot iron.
She sprang from her knees; and with flurried breath, with looks flashing with rage, every muscle of her countenance convulsed and trembling, there she stood before her brother. She was a woman no more; she was a lioness, that, without compassion or pity, will devour him who has dared irritate her.
“Earl of Surrey, you are a shameless wretch!” said she, with compressed, quivering lips. “Were I a man, I would slap you in the face, and call you a scoundrel. But, by the eternal God, you shall not say that you have done this with impunity! Once more, and for the last time, I now ask you, will you comply with Lord Hertford’s wish? Will you marry Lady Margaret, and accompany me with Thomas Seymour to the altar?”
“No, I will not, and I will never do it!” exclaimed her brother, solemnly. “The Howards bow not before the Seymours; and never will Henry Howard marry a wife that he does not love!”
“Ah, you love her not!” said she, breathless, gnashing her teeth. “You do not love Lady Margaret; and for this reason must your sister renounce her love, and give up this man whom she adores. Ah, you love not this sister of Thomas Seymour? She is not the Geraldine whom you adore--to whom you dedicate your verses! Well, now, I will find her out--your Geraldine. I will discover her; and then, woe to you and to her! You refuse me your hand to lead me to the altar with Thomas Seymour; well, now, I will one day extend you my hand to conduct you and your Geraldine to the scaffold!”
And as she saw how the earl startled and turned pale, she continued with a scornful laugh: “Ah, you shrink, and horror creeps over you! Does your conscience admonish you that the hero, rigid in virtue, may yet sometimes make a false step? You thought to hide your secret, if you enveloped it in the veil of night, like your Geraldine, who, as you wailingly complain in that poem there, never shows herself to you without a veil as black as night. Just wait, wait! I will strike a light for you, before which all your night-like veils shall be torn in shreds; I will light up the night of your secret with a torch which will be large enough to set on fire the fagot piles about the stake to which you and your Geraldine are to go!”
“Ah, now you let me see for the first time your real countenance,” said Henry Howard, shrugging his shoulders. “The angel’s mask falls from your face; and I behold the fury that was hidden beneath it. Now you are your mother’s own daughter; and at this moment I comprehend for the first time what my father has suffered, and why he shunned not even the disgrace of a divorce, just to be delivered from such a Megaera.”
“Oh, I thank you, thank you!” cried she, with a savage laugh. “You are filling up the measure of your iniquity. It is not enough that you drive your sister to despair; you revile your mother also! You say that we are furies; well, indeed, for we shall one day be such to you, and we will show you our Medusa-face, before which you will be stiffened to stone. Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, from this hour out, I am your implacable enemy; look out for the head on your shoulders, for my hand is raised against it, and in my hand is a sword! Guard well the secret that sleeps in your breast; for you have transformed me to a vampire that will suck your heart’s blood. You have reviled my mother, and I will go hence and tell her of it. She will believe me; for she well knows that you hate her, and that you are a genuine son of your father; that is to say, a canting hypocrite, a miserable fellow, who carries virtue on the lips and crime in the heart.”
“Cease, I say, cease,” cried the earl, “if you do not want me to forget that you are a woman and my sister!”
“Forget it by all means,” said she, scornfully. “I have forgotten long since that you are my brother, as you have long since forgotten that you are the son of your mother. Farewell, Earl of Surrey; I leave you and your palace, and will from this hour out abide with my mother, the divorced wife of the Duke of Norfolk. But mark you this: we two are separated from you in our love--but not in our hate! Our hatred to you remains eternal and unchangeable; and one day it will crush you! Farewell, Earl of Surrey; we meet again in the king’s presence!”
She rushed to the door. Henry Howard did not hold her back. He looked after her with a smile as she left the cabinet, and murmured, almost compassionately: “Poor woman! I have, perhaps, cheated her out of a lover, and she will never forgive me that. Well, let it be so! Let her, as much as she pleases, be my enemy, and torment me with petty pin-prickings, if she be but unable to harm her. I hope, though, that I have guarded well my secret, and she could not suspect the real cause of my refusal. Ah, I was obliged to wrap myself in that foolish family pride, and make haughtiness a cloak for my love. Oh, Geraldine, thee would I choose, wert thou the daughter of a peasant; and I would not hold my escutcheon tarnished, if for thy sake I must draw a pale athwart it. --But hark! It is striking four! My service begins! Farewell, Geraldine, I must to the queen!”
And while he betook himself to his dressing-room, to put on his state robes for the great court feast, the Duchess of Richmond returned to her own apartments, trembling and quivering with rage. She traversed these with precipitate haste, and entered her boudoir, where Earl Douglas was waiting for her.
“Well,” said he, stepping toward her with his soft, lurking smile, “has he consented?”
“No,” said she, gnashing her teeth. “He swore he would never enter into an alliance with the Seymours.”
“I well knew that,” muttered the earl. “And what do you decide upon now, my lady?”
“I will have revenge! He wants to hinder me from being happy; I will for that make him unhappy!”
“You will do well in that, my lady; for he is an apostate and perjurer; an unfaithful son of the Church. He inclines to the heretical sect, and has forgotten the faith of his fathers.”
“I know it!” said she, breathlessly.
Earl Douglas looked at her in astonishment, and continued: “But he is not merely an atheist, he is a traitor also; and more than once he has reviled his king, to whom he, in his pride of heart, believes himself far superior.”
“I know it!” repeated she.
“So proud is he,” continued the earl, “so full of blasphemous haughtiness, that he might lay his hands upon the crown of England.”
“I know it!” said the duchess again. But as she saw the earl’s astonished and doubting looks, she added, with an inhuman smile: “I know everything that you want that I should know! Only impute crimes to him; only accuse him; I will substantiate everything, testify to everything that will bring him to ruin. My mother is our ally; she hates the father as hotly as I the son. Bring your accusation, then, Earl Douglas; we are your witnesses!”
“Nay, indeed, my lady,” said he, with a gentle, insinuating smile. “I know nothing at all; I have heard nothing; how, then, can I bring an accusation? You know all; to you he has spoken. You must be his accuser!”
“Well, then, conduct me to the king!” said she.
“Will you allow me to give you some more advice first?”
“Do so, Earl Douglas.”
“Be very cautious in the choice of your means. Do not waste them all at once, so that if your first thrust does not hit, you may not be afterward without weapons. It is better, and far less dangerous, to surely kill the enemy that you hate with a slow, creeping poison, gradually and day by day, than to murder him at once with a dagger, which may, however, break on a rib and become ineffective. Tell, then, what you know, not at once, but little by little. Administer your drug which is to make the king furious, gradually; and if you do not hit your enemy to-day, think that you will do it so much the more surely to-morrow. Nor do you forget that we have to punish, not merely the heretic Henry Howard, but above all things the heretical queen, whose unbelief will call down the wrath of the Most High upon this land.”
“Come to the king,” said she, hastily. “On the way you can tell me what I ought to make known and what conceal. I will do implicitly what you say. Now, Henry Howard,” said she softly to herself, “hold yourself ready; the contest begins! In your pride and selfishness you have destroyed the happiness of my life--my eternal felicity. I loved Thomas Seymour; I hoped by his side to find the happiness that I have so long and so vainly sought in the crooked paths of life. By this love my soul would have been saved and restored to virtue. My brother has willed otherwise. He has, therefore, condemned me to be a demon, instead of an angel. I will fulfil my destiny. I will be an evil spirit to him.” [Footnote: The Earl of Surrey, by his refusal to marry Margaret Seymour, gave occasion to the rupture of the proposed alliance between Thomas Seymour and the Duchess of Richmond, his sister. After that the duchess mortally hated him and combined with his enemies against him. The Duchess of Richmond is designated by all the historians of her time as “the most beautiful woman of her century, but also a shameless Messalina.” --See Tytler, p. 890. Also Burnet, vol. i, p. 134; Leti, vol. i, p. 83; and Nott’s Life of Henry Howard.]
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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24
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THE QUEEN’S TOILET.
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The festivities of the day are concluded, and the gallant knights and champions, who have to-day broken a lance for the honor of their ladies, may rest from their victories upon their laurels. The tournament of arms was over, and the tournament of mind was about to begin. The knights, therefore, retired to exchange the coat-of-mail for gold-embroidered velvet apparel; the ladies to put on their lighter evening dresses; and the queen, likewise with this design, had withdrawn to her dressing-room, while the ladies and lords of her court were in attendance in the large anteroom to escort her to the throne.
Without, it was beginning to grow dusky, and the twilight cast its long shadows across this hall, in which the cavaliers of the court were walking up and down with the ladies, and discussing the particularly important events of the day’s tourney.
The Earl of Sudley, Thomas Seymour, had borne off the prize of the day, and conquered his opponent, Henry Howard. The king had been in raptures on this account. For Thomas Seymour had been for some time his favorite; perhaps because he was the declared enemy of the Howards. He had, therefore, added to the golden laurel crown which the queen had presented to the earl as the award, a diamond pin, and commanded the queen to fasten it in the earl’s ruff with her own hand. Catharine had done so with sullen countenance and averted looks; and even Thomas Seymour had shown himself only a very little delighted with the proud honor with which the queen, at her husband’s command, was to grace him.
The rigid popish party at court formed new hopes from this, and dreamed of the queen’s conversion and return to the true, pure faith; while the Protestant, “the heretical” party, looked to the future with gloomy despondency, and were afraid of being robbed of their most powerful support and their most influential patronage.
Nobody had seen that, as the queen arose to crown the victor, Thomas Seymour, her handkerchief, embroidered with gold, fell from her hands, and that the earl, after he had taken it up and presented it to the queen, had thrust his hand for a moment, with a motion wholly accidental and undesigned, into his ruff, which was just as white as the small neatly-folded paper which he concealed in it, and which he had found in the queen’s handkerchief.
One person had seen it. This little ruse of the queen had not escaped John Heywood, who had immediately, by some cutting witticism, set the king to laughing, and tried to draw the attention of the courtiers from the queen and her lover.
He was now standing crowded into the embrasure of a window, and entirely concealed behind the silk curtain; and so, without being seen, he let his falcon eyes roam over the whole room.
He saw everything; he heard everything; and, noticed by none, he observed all.
He saw how Earl Douglas now made a sign to Bishop Gardiner, and how he quickly answered it.
As if by accident, both now left the groups with whom they had just been chatting, and drew near each other, looking about for some place where, unobserved and separated from the rest, they might converse together. In all the windows were standing groups, chatting and laughing; only that window behind the curtain of which John Heywood was concealed, was unoccupied.
So Earl Douglas and the bishop turned thither.
“Shall we attain our end to-day?” asked Gardiner, in a low voice.
“With God’s gracious assistance, we shall annihilate all our enemies to-day. The sword already hangs over their heads, and soon it will fall and deliver us from them,” said Earl Douglas, solemnly.
“Are you, then, certain of it?” asked Gardiner, and an expression of cruel delight flitted across his malicious, ashy face. “But tell me, how comes it that Archbishop Cranmer is not here?”
“He is sick, and so had to remain at Lambeth.”
“May this sickness be the forerunner of his death!” muttered the bishop, devoutly folding his hands.
“It will be so, your highness; God will destroy His enemies and bless us. Cranmer is accused, and the king will judge him without mercy.”
“And the queen?”
Earl Douglas was a moment silent, and then said, in a low whisper: “Wait but a few hours more, and she will be queen no longer. Instead of returning from the throne-room to her apartments, we shall accompany her to the Tower.”
John Heywood, completely enveloped in the folds of the curtain, held his breath and listened.
“And you are, then, perfectly sure of our victory?” asked Gardiner. “Can no accident, no unforeseen circumstance, snatch it from us?”
“If the queen gives him the rosette--no! For then the king will find Geraldine’s love-letter in the silver knot, and she is condemned. So all depends on the queen’s wearing the rosette, and not discovering its contents. But see, your highness, there is the Duchess of Richmond approaching us. She makes a sign to me. Now pray for us, your highness, for I am going with her to the king, and she will accuse this hated Catharine Parr! I tell you, bishop, it is an accusation involving life and death; and if Catharine escape one danger, she will run into another. Wait here for me, your highness; I will return soon and tell you the result of our scheme. Lady Jane, also, will soon bring us news here.”
He left the window and followed the duchess, who crossed the hall, and with her disappeared through the door that led to the king’s apartments.
The ladies and lords of the court laughed and chatted away.
John Heywood stood, with throbbing heart and in breathless anxiety, behind the curtain, close by Gardiner, who had folded his hands and was praying.
While Gardiner prayed, and Douglas accused and calumniated, the queen, suspecting nothing of these plots they were framing against her, was in her toilet-room and being adorned by her women.
She was to-day very beautiful, very magnificent to look upon; at once a woman and queen; at the same time resplendent and modest, with a bewitching smile on her rosy lips; and yet commanding respect in her proud and glorious beauty. None of Henry’s queens had so well understood the art of appearing in public, and none remained so much the woman while doing so.
As she now stood before the large mirror, which the Republic of Venice had sent the king as a wedding-gift, and which reflected the figure of the queen sparkling with diamonds, she smiled, for she was obliged to confess to herself that she was very beautiful to-day; and she thought that to-day Thomas Seymour would look upon his love with pride.
As she thought of him, a deep crimson overspread her face, and a thrill flew through her frame. How handsome he had been at the tournament that day; how splendidly he leaped over the barriers; how his eye flashed; how contemptuous had been his smile! And then, that look which he directed over to her at the moment when he had conquered his antagonist, Henry Howard, and hurled the lance from his hand! Oh, her heart was then ready to burst with delight and rapture!
Wholly given up to her reverie, she sank in her gilded arm-chair and cast her eyes to the ground, dreaming and smiling.
Behind her stood her women in respectful silence, waiting for a sign from their mistress. But the queen no longer thought at all of them; she imagined herself alone; she saw nobody but that handsome, manly face for which she had reserved a place in her heart.
Now the door opened, and Lady Jane Douglas entered. She, too, was magnificently dressed, and sparkling with diamonds; she, too, was beautiful, but it was the pallid, dreadful beauty of a demon; and he who looked upon her just then, as she entered the room, would have trembled, and his heart would have been seized with an undefined fear.
She threw a quick glance on her mistress lost in revery; and as she saw that her toilet was finished, she made a sign to the women, who silently obeyed and left the room.
Still Catharine noticed nothing. Lady Jane stood behind her and observed her in the mirror. As she saw the queen smile, her brow darkened and fierce fire flashed in her eyes.
“She shall smile no more,” said she to herself. “I suffer thus terribly by her; well, now, she shall suffer too.”
Softly and noiselessly she slipped into the next room, the door of which stood ajar, and opened with hurried hand a carton filled with ribbons and bows. Then she drew from the velvet pocket, wrought with pearls, which hung at her side, suspended by a gold chain, a dark-red rosette, and threw it into the box. That was all.
Lady Jane now returned to the adjoining room; and her countenance, which had been previously gloomy and threatening, was now proud and joyful.
With a bright smile she walked up to the queen, and kneeling down at her side, she pressed a fervent kiss on the hand that was hanging down.
“What is my queen musing over?” asked she, as she laid her head on Catharine’s knee and tenderly looked up at her.
The queen gave a slight start, and raised her head. She saw Lady Jane’s tender smile, and her yet searching looks.
Because she felt conscious of guilt, at least of guilty thoughts, she was on her guard, and remembered John Heywood’s warning.
“She is observing me,” she said to herself; “she seems affectionate; so she is brooding over some wicked plot.”
“Ah, it is well you have come, Jane,” said she aloud. “You can help me; for, to tell you the truth, I am in great perplexity. I am in want of a rhyme, and I am thinking in vain how I shall find it.”
“Ah, are you composing poetry, queen?”
“Why, Jane, does that surprise you? Shall I, the queen, be able, then, to bear off no prize? I would give my precious jewels, if I could succeed in composing a poem to which the king was obliged to award the prize. But I am wanting in a musical ear; I cannot find the rhyme, and so shall be obliged at last to give up the idea of winning laurels also. How the king would enjoy it, though! For, to confess the truth to you, I believe he is a little afraid that Henry Howard will bear off the prize, and he would be very thankful to me if I could contest it with him. You well know the king has no love for the Howards.”
“And you, queen?” asked Jane; and she turned so pale, that the queen herself noticed it.
“You are unwell, Jane,” said she, sympathizingly. “Really, Jane, you seem to be suffering. You need recreation; you should rest a little.”
But Jane had already regained her calm and earnest air, and she succeeded in smiling.
“No, indeed!” said she. “I am well, and satisfied to be permitted to be near you. But will you allow me, queen, to make a request of you?”
“Ask, Jane, ask, and it is granted beforehand; for I know that Jane will request nothing that her friend cannot grant.”
Lady Jane was silent, and looked thoughtfully upon the ground. With firm resolution she struggled with herself. Her proud heart reared fiercely up at the thought of bowing before this woman, whom she hated, and of being obliged to approach her with a fawning prayer. She felt such raging hate against the queen, that in that hour she would willingly have given her own life, if she could have first seen her enemy at her feet, wailing and crushed.
Henry Howard loved the queen; so Catharine had robbed her of the heart of him whom she adored. Catharine had condemned her to the eternal torment of renouncing him--to the rack of enjoying a happiness and a rapture that was not hers--to warm herself at a fire which she like a thief had stolen from the altar of another’s god.
Catharine was condemned and doomed. Jane had no more compassion. She must crush her.
“Well,” asked the queen, “you are silent? You do not tell me what I am to grant you?”
Lady Jane raised her eyes, and her look was serene and peaceful. “Queen,” said she, “I encountered in the ante-room one who is unhappy, deeply bowed down. In your hand alone is the power to raise him up again. Will you do it?”
“Will I do it!” exclaimed Catharine, quickly. “Oh, Jane, you well know how much my heart longs to help and be serviceable to the unfortunate! Ah, so many wounds are inflicted at this court, and the queen is so poor in balm to heal them! Allow me this pleasure then, Jane, and I shall be thankful to you, not you to me! Speak then, Jane, speak quickly; who is it that needs my help?”
“Not your help, queen, but your compassion and your grace. Earl Sudley has conquered poor Earl Surrey in the tournament to-day, and you comprehend that your lord chamberlain feels himself deeply bowed and humbled.”
“Can I alter that, Jane? Why did the visionary earl, the enthusiastic poet, allow himself a contest with a hero who already knows what he wants, and ever accomplishes what he wills? Oh, it was wonderful to look upon, with what lightning speed Thomas Seymour lifted him out of the saddle! And the proud Earl Surrey, the wise and learned man, the powerful party leader, was forced to bow before the hero, who like an angel Michael had thrown him in the dust.”
The queen laughed.
That laugh went through Jane’s heart like a cutting sword.
“She shall pay me for that!” said she softly to herself. “Queen,” said she aloud, “you are perfectly right; he has deserved this humiliation; but now, after he is punished, you should lift him up. Nay, do not shake your beautiful head. Do it for your own sake, queen; do it from prudence. Earl Surrey, with his father, is the head of a powerful party, whom this humiliation of the Howards fills with a still more burning hate against the Seymours, and who will, in time to come, take a bloody revenge for it.”
“Ah, you frighten me!” said the queen, who had now become serious.
Lady Jane continued: “I saw how the Duke of Norfolk bit his lips, as his son had to yield to Seymour; I heard how one, here and there, muttered low curses and vows of vengeance against the Seymours.”
“Who did that? Who dared to do it?” exclaimed Catharine, springing up impetuously from her arm-chair. “Who at this court is so audacious as to wish to injure those whom the queen loves? Name him to me, Jane; I will know his name! I will know it, that I may accuse him to the king. For the king does not want that these noble Seymours should give way to the Howards; he does not want that the nobler, the better, and more glorious, should bow before these quarrelsome, domineering papists. The king loves the noble Seymours, and his powerful arm will protect them against all their enemies.”
“And, without doubt, your majesty will assist him in it?” said Jane, smiling.
This smile brought the queen back to her senses again.
She perceived that she had gone too far; that she had betrayed too much of her secret. She must, therefore, repair the damage, and allow her excitement to be forgotten. Therefore she said, calmly: “Certainly, Jane; I will assist the king to be just. But never will I be unjust, not even against these papists. If I cannot love them, nevertheless no one shall say that I hate them. And besides, it becomes a queen to rise above parties. Say, then, Jane, what can I do for poor Surrey? With what shall we bind up these wounds that the brave Seymour has inflicted on him?”
“You have publicly given the victor in the tournament a token of your great favor--you have crowned him.”
“It was the king’s order,” exclaimed Catharine, warmly.
“Well! He will not, however, command you to reward the Earl of Surrey also, if he likewise should gain the victory this evening. Do it, therefore, of your own accord, queen. Give him openly, before your whole court, a token of your favor! It is so easy for princes to make men happy, to comfort the unfortunate! A smile, a friendly word, a pressure of the hand is sufficient for it. A ribbon that you wear on your dress makes him to whom you present it, proud and happy, and raises him high above all others. Ponder it well, queen; I speak not for Earl Surrey’s sake; I am thinking more of yourself. If you have the courage, publicly and in spite of the disgrace with which King Henry threatens the Howards, to be nevertheless just to them, and to recognize _their_ merits as well as that of others--believe me, if you do that, the whole of this powerful party, which is now hostile to you, will fall at your feet overcome and conquered. You will at last become the all-powerful and universally loved Queen of England; and, like the heretics, the papists also will call you their mistress and protectress. Consider no longer! Let your noble and generous heart prevail! Spiteful fortune has prostrated Henry Howard in the dust. Extend him your hand, queen, that he may rise again, and again stand there at your court, proud and radiant as he always was. Henry Howard well deserves that you should be gracious to him. Great and beaming like a star, he shines on high above all men; and there is no one who can say that he himself is more prudent or braver, wiser or more learned, noble or greater, than the noble, the exalted Surrey. All England resounds with his fame. The women repeat with enthusiasm his beautiful sonnets and love-songs; the learned are proud to call him their equal, and the warriors speak with admiration of his feats of arms. Be just, then, queen! You have so highly honored the merit of valor; now, honor the merit of mind also! You have, in Seymour, honored the warrior; now, in Howard, honor the poet and the man!”
“I will do it,” said Catharine, as with a charming smile she looked into Jane’s glowing and enthusiastic countenance. “I will do it, Jane, but upon one condition!”
“And this condition is--” Catharine put her arm around Jane’s neck, and drew her close to her heart, “That you confess to me, that you love Henry Howard, whom you know how to defend so enthusiastically and warmly.”
Lady Jane gave a start, and for a moment leaned her head on the queen’s shoulder, exhausted.
“Well,” asked she, “do you confess it? Will you acknowledge that your proud, cold heart is obliged to declare itself overcome and conquered?”
“Yes, I confess it,” cried Lady Jane, as with passionate vehemence she threw herself at Catharine’s feet. “Yes, I love him--I adore him. I know it is a disdained and unhappy love; but what would you have? My heart is mightier than everything else. I love him; he is my god and my lord; I adore him as my savior and lord. Queen, you know all my secret; betray me if you will! Tell it to my father, if you wish him to curse me. Tell it to Henry Howard, if it pleases you to hear how he scoffs at me. For he, queen--he loves me not!”
“Poor unfortunate Jane!” exclaimed the queen, compassionately.
Jane uttered a low cry, and rose from her knees. That was too much. Her enemy commiserated her. She, who was to blame for her sorrow--she bemoaned her fate.
Ah, she could have strangled the queen; she could have plunged a dagger into her heart, because she dared to commiserate her.
“I have complied with your condition, queen,” said she, breathing hurriedly. “Will you now comply with my request?”
“And will you really be an advocate for this unthankful, cruel man, who does not love you? Proudly and coldly he passes your beauty by, and you--you intercede for him!”
“Queen, true love thinks not of itself! It sacrifices itself. It makes no question of the reward it receives, but only of the happiness which it bestows. I saw in his pale, sorrowful face, how much he suffered; ought I not to think of comforting him? I approached him, I addressed him; I heard his despairing lamentation over that misfortune, which, however, was not the fault of his activity and courage, but, as all the world saw, the fault of his horse, which was shy and stumbled. And as he, in all the bitterness of his pain, was lamenting that you, queen, would despise and scorn him, I, with full trust in your noble and magnanimous heart, promised him that you would, at my request, yet give him to-day, before your whole court, a token of your favor. Catharine, did I do wrong?”
“No, Jane, no! You did right; and your words shall be made good. But how shall I begin? What shall I do?”
“The earl this evening, after the king has read the Greek scene with Croke, will recite some new sonnets which he has composed. When he has done so, give him some kind of a present--be it what it may, no matter--as a token of your favor.”
“But how, Jane, if his sonnets deserve no praise and no acknowledgment?”
“You may be sure that they do deserve it. For Henry Howard is a noble and true poet, and his verses are full of heavenly melody and exalted thoughts.”
The queen smiled. “Yes,” said she, “you love him ardently; for you have no doubt as to him. We will, therefore, recognize him as a great poet. But with what shall I reward him?”
“Give him a rose that you wear in your bosom--a rosette that is fastened to your dress and shows your colors.”
“But alas, Jane, to-day I wear neither a rose nor a rosette.”
“Yet you can wear one, queen. A rosette is, indeed, wanting here on your shoulder. Your purple mantle is too negligently fastened. We must put some trimming here.”
She went hastily into the next room and returned with the box in which were kept the queen’s ribbons embroidered with gold, and bows adorned with jewels.
Lady Jane searched and selected, here and there, a long time. Then she took the crimson velvet rosette, which she herself had previously thrown into the box, and showed it to the queen.
“See, it is at the same time tasteful and rich, for a diamond clasp confines it in the middle. Will you allow me to fasten this rosette on your shoulder, and will you give it to the Earl of Surrey?”
“Yes, Jane, I will give it to him, because you wish it. But, poor Jane, what do, you gain by my doing it?”
“At any rate, a friendly smile, queen.”
“And is that enough for you? Do you love him so much, then?”
“Yes, I love him!” said Jane Douglas, with a sigh of pain, as she fastened the rosette on the queen’s shoulder.
“And now, Jane, go and announce to the master of ceremonies that I am ready, as soon as the king wishes it, to resort to the gallery.” Lady Jane turned to leave the chamber. But, already upon the threshold, she returned once more.
“Forgive me, queen, for venturing to make one more request of you. You have, however, just shown yourself too much the noble and true friend of earlier days for me not to venture one more request.”
“Now, what is it, poor Jane?”
“I have intrusted my secret not to the queen, but to Catharine Parr, the friend of my youth. Will she keep it, and betray to none my disgrace and humiliation?”
“My word for that, Jane. Nobody but God and ourselves shall ever know what we have spoken.”
Lady Jane humbly kissed her hand and murmured a few words of thanks; then she left the queen’s room to go in quest of the master of ceremonies.
In the queen’s anteroom she stopped a moment, and leaned against the wall, exhausted, and as it were crushed. Nobody was here who could observe and listen to her. She had no need to smile, no need to conceal, beneath a calm and equable appearance, all those tempestuous and despairing feelings which were working within. She could allow her hatred and her resentment, her rage and her despair, to pour forth in words and gestures, in tears and imprecations, in sobs and sighs. She could fall on her knees and beseech God for grace and mercy, and call on the devil for revenge and destruction.
When she had so done, she arose, and her demeanor resumed its wonted cold and calm expression. Only her cheeks were still paler; only a still gloomier fire darted from her eyes, and a scornful smile played about her thin, compressed lips.
She traversed the rooms and corridors, and now she entered the king’s anteroom. As she observed Gardiner, who was standing alone and separated from the rest in the embrasure of the window, she went up to him; and John Heywood, who was still hidden behind the curtain, shuddered at the frightful and scornful expression of her features.
She offered the bishop her hand, and tried to smile. “It is done” said she, almost inaudibly.
“What! The queen wears the rosette?” asked Gardiner vivaciously.
“She wears the rosette, and will give it to him.”
“And the note is in it?”
“It is concealed under the diamond clasp.”
“Oh, then she is lost!” muttered Gardiner. “If the king finds this paper, Catharine’s death-warrant is signed.”
“Hush!” said Lady Jane. “See! Lord Hertford is coming toward us. Let us go to meet him.”
They both left the window and walked out into the hall.
John Heywood immediately slipped from behind the curtain, and, softly gliding along by the wall, left the hall perceived by no one.
Outside, he stopped and reflected.
“I must see this conspiracy to the bottom,” said he to himself. “I must find out through whom and by what they wish to destroy her; and I must have sure and undeniable proof in my hands, in order to be able to convict them, and successfully accuse them to the king. Therefore it is necessary to be cautious and prudent. So let us consider what to do. The simplest thing would be to beg the queen not to wear the rosette. But that is only to demolish the web for this time, without, however, being able to kill the spider that wove it. So she must wear the rosette; for besides, without that I should never be able either to find out to whom she is to give it. But the paper that is concealed in the rosette--that I must have--that must not be in it. ‘If the king finds this paper. Catharine’s death-warrant is signed.’ Now, my reverend priest of the devil, the king will not find that paper, for John Heywood will not have it so. But how shall I begin? Shall I tell the queen what I heard? No! She would lose her cheerful spirit and become embarrassed, and the embarrassment would be in the king’s eyes the most convincing proof of her guilt. No, I must take this paper out of the rosette without the queen’s being aware of it. Boldly to work, then! I must have this paper, and tweak these hypocrites by the nose. How it can be done, it is not clear to me yet; but I will do it--that is enough. Halloo, forward to the queen!”
With precipitant haste he ran through the halls and corridors, while with a smile he muttered away to himself: “Thank God, I enjoy the honor of being the fool; for only the king and the fool have the privilege of being able to enter unannounced every room, even the queen’s.”
Catharine was alone in her boudoir, when the small door, through which the king was accustomed to resort to her, was softly opened.
“Oh, the king is coming!” said she, walking to the door to greet her husband.
“Yes, the king is coming, for the fool is already here,” said John Heywood, who entered through the private door. “Are we alone, queen? Does nobody overhear us?”
“No, John Heywood, we are all alone. What do you bring me?”
“A letter, queen.”
“From whom?” asked she, and a glowing crimson flitted over her cheek.
“From whom?” repeated John Heywood, with a waggish smile. “I do not know, queen; but at any rate it is a begging letter; and without doubt you would do well not to read it at all; for I bet you, the shameless writer of this letter demands of you some impossibility--it may be a smile, or a pressure of the hand, a lock of your hair, or perchance even a kiss. So, queen, do not read the begging letter at all.”
“John,” said she, smiling, and yet trembling with impatience, “John, give me the letter.”
“I will sell it to you, queen. I have learned that from the king, who likewise gives nothing away generously, without taking in return more than he gives. So let us trade. I give you the letter; you give me the rosette which you wear on your shoulder there.”
“Nay, indeed, John; choose something else--I cannot give you the rosette.”
“And by the gods be it sworn!” exclaimed John, with comic pathos, “I give you not the letter, if you do not give me the rosette.”
“Silly loon,” said the queen, “I tell you I cannot! Choose something else, John; and I conjure you, dear John, give me the letter.”
“Then only, when you give me the rosette. I have sworn it by the gods, and what I vow to them, that I stick to! No, no, queen--not those sullen airs, not that angry frown. For if I cannot in earnest receive the rosette as a present, then let us do like the Jesuits and papists, who even trade with the dear God, and snap their fingers at Him. I must keep my oath! I give you the letter, and you give me the rosette; but listen--you only lend it to me; and when I have it in my hand a moment, I am generous and bountiful, like the king, and I make you a present of your own property.”
With a quick motion the queen tore the rosette from her shoulder, and handed it to John Heywood.
“Now give me the letter, John.”
“Here it is,” said John Heywood as he received the rosette. “Take it; and you will see that Thomas Seymour is my brother.”
“Your brother?” asked Catharine with a smile, as with trembling hand she broke the seal.
“Yes, my brother, for he is a fool! Ah, I have a great many brothers. The family of fools is so very large!”
The queen no longer heard. She was reading the letter of her lover. She had eyes only for those lines, that told her that Thomas Seymour loved her, adored her, and was pining away with longing after her. She did not see how John Heywood, with nimble hand, unfastened the diamond clasp from the rosette, and took out of it the little paper that was concealed in the folds of the ribbon.
“She is saved!” murmured he, while he thrust the fatal paper into his doublet, and fastened the clasp again with the pin. “She is saved, and the king will not sign her death-warrant this time.”
Catharine had read the letter to the end, and hid it in her bosom.
“Queen, you have sworn to burn up every letter that I bring you from him; for, forbidden love-letters are dangerous things. One day they may find a tongue and testify against you! Queen, I will not bring you again another letter, if you do not first burn that one.”
“John, I will burn it up when once I have really read it. Just now I read it only with my heart, not with my eyes. Allow me, then, to wear it on my heart a few hours more.”
“Do you swear to me that you will burn it up this very day?”
“I swear it.”
“Then I will be satisfied this time. Here is your rosette; and like the famous fox in the fable, that pronounced the grapes sour because he could not get them, I say, take your rosette back; I will have none of it.”
He handed the queen the rosette, and she smilingly fastened it on her shoulder again.
“John,” said she, with a bewitching smile, extending her hand to him, “John, when will you at length permit me to thank you otherwise than with words? When will you at length allow your queen to reward you for all this service of love, otherwise than with words?”
John Heywood kissed her hand, and said mournfully: “I will demand a reward of you on the day when my tears and my prayers succeed in persuading you to renounce this wretched and dangerous love. On that day I shall have really deserved a reward, and I will accept it from you with a proud heart.”
“Poor John! So, then, you will never receive your reward; for that day will never come!”
“So, then, I shall probably receive my reward, but from the king; and it will be a reward whereby one loses hearing and sight, and head to boot. Well, we shall see! Till then, farewell, queen! I must to the king; for somebody might surprise me here, and come to the shrewd conclusion that John Heywood is not always a fool, but sometimes also the messenger of love! I kiss the hem of your garment; farewell, queen!”
He glided again through the private door.
“Now we will at once examine this paper,” said he, as he reached the corridor and was sure of being seen by no one.
He drew the paper out of his doublet and opened it. “I do not know the hand-writing,” muttered her, “but it was a woman that wrote it.”
The letter read: “Do you believe me now, my beloved? I swore to deliver to you to-day, in the presence of the king and all of my court, this rosette; and I have done so. For you I gladly risk my life, for you are my life; and still more beautiful were it to die with you, than to live without you. I live only when I rest in your arms; and those dark nights, when you can be with me, are the light and sunshine of my days. Let us pray Heaven a dark night may soon come; for such a night restores to me the loved one, and to you, your happy wife, Geraldine.”
“Geraldine! who is Geraldine?” muttered John Heywood, slipping the paper into his doublet again. “I must disentangle this web of lying and deceit. I must know what all this means. For this is more than a conspiracy--a false accusation. It concerns, as it seems, a reality. This letter the queen is to give to a man; and in it, sweet recollections, happy nights, are spoken of. So he who receives this letter is in league with them against Catharine, and I dare say her worst enemy, for he makes use of love against her. Some treachery or knavery is concealed behind this. Either the man to whom this letter is addressed is deceived--and he is unintentionally a tool in the hands of the papists--or he is in league with them, and has given himself up to the villainy of playing the part of a lover to the queen. But who can he be? Perchance, Thomas Seymour. It were possible; for he has a cold and deceitful heart, and he would be capable of such treachery. But woe be to him if it is he! Then it will be I who accuses him to the king; and, by God! his head shall fall! Now away to the king!”
Just as he entered the king’s anteroom, the door of the cabinet opened, and the Duchess of Richmond, accompanied by Earl Douglas, walked out.
Lady Jane and Gardiner were standing, as if by accident, near the door.
“Well, have we attained our end there also?” asked Gardiner.
“We have attained it,” said Earl Douglas. “The duchess has accused her brother of a liaison with the queen. She has deposed that he sometimes leaves the palace by night, and does not return to it before morning. She has declared that for four nights she herself dogged her brother and saw him as he entered the wing of the castle occupied by the queen; and one of the queen’s maids has communicated to the duchess that the queen was not in her room on that night.”
“And the king listened to the accusation, and did not throttle you in his wrath!”
“He is just in that dull state of rage in which the lava that the crater will afterward pour forth, is just prepared. As yet all is quiet, but be sure there will be an eruption, and the stream of red-hot lava will busy those who have dared excite the god Vulcan.”
“And does he know about the rosette?” asked Lady Jane.
“He knows everything. And until that moment he will allow no one to suspect his wrath and fury. He says he will make the queen perfectly secure, in order to get into his hands thereby sure proof of her guilt. Well, we will furnish him this evidence; and hence it follows that the queen is inevitably lost.”
“But hark! The doors are opened, and the master of ceremonies comes to summon us to the golden gallery.”
“Just walk in,” muttered John Heywood, gliding along behind them. “I am still here; and I will be the mouse that gnaws the net in which you want to catch my noble-minded lioness.”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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25
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THE QUEEN’S ROSETTE.
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The golden gallery, in which the tourney of the poets was to take place, presented to-day a truly enchanting and fairy-like aspect. Mirrors of gigantic size, set in broad gilt frames, ornamented with the moat perfect carved work, covered the walls, and threw back, a thousand times reflected, the enormous chandeliers which, with their hundreds and hundreds of candles, shed the light of day in the vast hall. Here and there were seen, arranged in front of the mirrors, clusters of the rarest and choicest flowers, which poured through the hall their fragrance, stupefying and yet so enchanting, and outshone in brilliancy of colors even the Turkish carpet, which stretched through the whole room and changed the floor into one immense flower-bed. Between the clumps of flowers were seen tables with golden vases, in which were refreshing beverages; while at the other end of the enormous gallery stood a gigantic sideboard, which contained the choicest and rarest dishes. At present the doors of the sideboard, which, when open, formed a room of itself, were closed.
They had not yet come to the material enjoyments; they were still occupied in absorbing the spiritual. The brilliant and select company that filled the hall was still for some time condemned to be silent, and to shut up within them their laughter and gossip, their backbiting and slander, their flattery and hypocrisy.
Just now a pause ensued. The king, with Croke, had recited to his court a scene from “Antigone”; and they were just taking breath from the wonderful and exalted enjoyment of having just heard a language of which they understood not a word, but which they found to be very beautiful, since the king admired it.
Henry the Eighth had again leaned back on his golden throne, and, panting, rested from his prodigious exertion; and while he rested and dreamed, an invisible band played a piece of music composed by the king himself, and which, with its serious and solemn movement, strangely contrasted with this room so brilliant and cheerful--with this splendid, laughing and jesting assembly.
For the king had bidden them amuse themselves and be gay; to give themselves up to unrestrained chit-chat. It was, therefore, natural for them to laugh, and to appear not to notice the king’s exhaustion and repose.
Besides, they had not for a long time seen Henry so cheerful, so full of youthful life, so sparkling with wit and humor, as on this evening. His mouth was overflowing with jests that made the gentlemen laugh, and the beautiful, brilliant women blush, and, above all, the young queen, who sat by him on the rich and splendid throne, and now and then threw stolen and longing glances at her lover, for whom she would willingly and gladly have given her royal crown and her throne.
When the king saw how Catharine blushed, he turned to her, and in his tenderest tone begged her pardon for his jest, which, however, in its sauciness, served only to make his queen still more beautiful, still more bewitching. His words were then so tender and heartfelt, his looks so full of love and admiration, that nobody could doubt but that the queen was in highest favor with her husband, and that he loved her most tenderly.
Only the few who knew the secret of this tenderness of the king, so open and so unreservedly displayed, comprehended fully the danger which threatened the queen; for the king was never more to be dreaded than when he flattered; and on no one did his wrath fall more crushingly than on him whom he had just kissed and assured of his favor.
This was what Earl Douglas said to himself, when he saw with what a cordial look Henry the Eighth chatted with his consort.
Behind the throne of the royal pair was seen John Heywood, in his fantastic and dressy costume, with his face at once noble and cunning; and the king just then broke out into loud, resounding laughter at his sarcastic and satirical observations.
“King, your laugh does not please me to-day,” said John Heywood, earnestly. “It smacks of gall. Do you not find it so, queen?”
The queen was startled from her sweet reveries, and that was what John Heywood had wished. He, therefore, repeated his question.
“No, indeed,” said she: “I find the king to-day quite like the sun. He is radiant and bright, like it.”
“Queen, you do not mean the sun, but the full moon,” said John Heywood. “But only see, Henry, how cheerfully Earl Archibald Douglas over there is chatting with the Duchess of Richmond! I love that good earl. He always appears like a blind-worm, which is just in the notion of stinging some one on the heel, and hence it comes that, when near the earl, I always transform myself into a crane. I stand on one leg; because I am then sure to have the other at least safe from the earl’s sting. King, were I like you, I would not have those killed that the blind-worm has stung; but I would root out the blind-worms, that the feet of honorable men might be secure from them.”
The king cast at him a quick, searching look, which John Heywood answered with a smile.
“Kill the blind-worms, King Henry,” said he; “and when you are once at work destroying vermin, it will do no harm if you once more give these priests also a good kick. It is now a long time since we burnt any of them, and they are again becoming arrogant and malicious, as they always were and always will be. I see even the pious and meek bishop of Winchester, the noble Gardiner, who is entertaining himself with Lady Jane over there, smiling very cheerfully, and that is a bad sign; for Gardiner smiles only when he has again caught a poor soul, and prepared it as a breakfast for his lord. I do not mean you, king, but his lord--the devil. For the devil is always hungry for noble human souls; and to him who catches one for him he gives indulgence for his sins for an hour. Therefore Gardiner catches so many souls; for since he sins every hour, every hour he needs indulgence.”
“You are very spiteful to-day, John Heywood,” said the queen, smiling, while the king fixed his eyes on the ground, thoughtful and musing.
John Heywood’s words had touched the sore place of his heart, and, in spite of himself, filled his suspicious soul with new doubts.
He mistrusted not merely the accused, but the accusers also; and if he punished the one as criminals, he would have willingly punished the others as informants.
He asked himself: “What aim had Earl Douglas and Gardiner in accusing the queen; and why had they startled him out of his quiet and confidence?” At that moment, when he looked on his beautiful wife, who sat by him in such serene tranquillity, unembarrassed and smiling, he felt a deep anger fill his heart, not against Catharine, but against Jane, who accused her. She was so lovely and beautiful! Why did they envy him her? Why did they not leave him in his sweet delusion? But perhaps she was not guilty. No, she was not. The eye of a culprit is not thus bright and clear. The air of infidelity is not thus unembarrassed--of such maidenly delicacy.
Moreover, the king was exhausted and disgusted. One can become satiated even with cruelty; and, at this hour, Henry felt completely surfeited with bloodshed.
His heart--for, in such moments of mental relaxation and bodily enfeeblement, the king even had a heart--his heart was already in the mood of pronouncing the word pardon, when his eye fell on Henry Howard, who, with his father, the Duke of Norfolk, and surrounded by a circle of brilliant and noble lords, was standing not far from the royal throne.
The king felt a deadly stab in his breast, and his eyes darted lightning over toward that group.
How proud and imposing the figure of the noble earl looked; how high he overtopped all others; how noble and handsome his countenance; how kingly was his bearing and whole appearance!
Henry must admit all this; and because he must do so, he hated him.
Nay! no mercy for Catharine! If what her accusers had told him were true--if they could give him the proofs of the queen’s guilt, then she was doomed. And how could he doubt it? Had they not told him that in the rosette, which the queen would give Earl Surrey, was contained a love-letter from Catharine, which he would find? Had not Earl Surrey, in a confidential hour, yesterday imparted this to his sister, the Duchess of Richmond, when he wished to bribe her to be the messenger of love between the queen and himself? Had she not accused the queen of having meetings by night with the earl in the deserted tower?
Nay, no compassion for his fair queen, if Henry Howard was her lover.
He must again look over at his hated enemy. There he still stood by his father, the Duke of Norfolk. How sprightly and gracefully the old duke moved; how slim his form; and how lofty and imposing his bearing! The king was younger than the duke; and yet he was fettered to his truckle-chair; yet he sat on his throne like an immovable colossus, while he moved freely and lightly, and obeyed his own will, not necessity. Henry could have crushed him--this proud, arrogant earl, who was a free man, whilst his king was nothing but a prisoner to his own flesh, a slave of his unwieldy body.
“I will exterminate it--this proud, arrogant race of Howards!” muttered the king, as he turned with a friendly smile to the Earl of Surrey.
“You have promised us some of your poems, cousin!” said he. “So let us now enjoy them; for you see, indeed, how impatiently all the beautiful women look on England’s noblest and greatest poet, and how very angry with me they would be if I still longer withhold this enjoyment from them! Even my fair queen is full of longing after your songs, so rich in fancy; for you well know, Howard, she loves poetry, and, above all things, yours.”
Catharine had scarcely heard what the king said. Her looks had encountered Seymour’s, and their eyes were fixed on each other’s. But she had then cast down to the floor her eyes, still completely filled with the sight of her lover, in order to think of him, since she no longer dared gaze at him.
When the king called her name, she started up and looked at him inquiringly. She had not heard what he had said to her.
“Not even for a moment does she look toward me!” said Henry Howard to himself. “Oh, she loves me not! or at least her understanding is mightier than her love. Oh, Catharine, Catharine, fearest thou death so much that thou canst on that account deny thy love?”
With desperate haste he drew out his portfolio. “I will compel her to look at me, to think of me, to remember her oath,” thought he. “Woe to her, if she does not fulfil it--if she gives me not the rosette, which she promised me with so solemn a vow! If she does it not, then I will break this dreadful silence, and before her king, and before her court, accuse her of treachery to her love. Then, at least, she will not be able to cast me off; for we shall mount the scaffold together.”
“Does my exalted queen allow me to begin?” asked he aloud, wholly forgetting that the king had already given him the order to do so, and that it was he only who could grant such a permission.
Catharine looked at him in astonishment. Then her glance fell on Lady Jane Douglas, who was gazing over at her with an imploring expression. The queen smiled; for she now remembered that it was Jane’s beloved who had spoken to her, and that she had promised the poor young girl to raise again the dejected Earl of Surrey and to be gracious to him.
“Jane is right,” thought she; “he appears to be deeply depressed and suffering. Ah, it must be very painful to see those whom one loves suffering. I will, therefore, comply with Jane’s request, for she says this might revive the earl.”
With a smile she bowed to Howard. “I beg you,” said she, “to lend our festival its fairest ornament--to adorn it with the fragrant flowers of your poesy. You see we are all burning with desire to hear your verses.”
The king shook with rage, and a crushing word was already poised upon his lip. But he restrained himself. He wanted to have proofs first; he wanted to see them not merely accused, but doomed also; and for that he needed proofs of their guilt.
Henry Howard now approached the throne of the royal pair, and with beaming looks, with animated countenance, with a voice trembling with emotion, he read his love-song to the fair Geraldine. A murmur of applause arose when he had read his first sonnet. The king only looked gloomily, with fixed eyes; the queen alone remained uninterested and cold.
“She is a complete actress,” thought Henry Howard, in the madness of his pain. “Not a muscle of her face stirs; and yet this sonnet must remind her of the fairest and most sacred moment of our love.”
The queen remained unmoved and cold. But had Henry Howard looked at Lady Jane Douglas, he would have seen how she turned pale and blushed; how she smiled with rapture, and how, nevertheless, her eyes filled with tears.
Earl Surrey, however, saw nothing but the queen; and the sight of her made him tremble with rage and pain. His eyes darted lightning: his countenance glowed with passion; his whole being was in desperate, enthusiastic excitement. At that moment he would have gladly breathed out his life at Geraldine’s feet, if she would only recognize him--if she would only have the courage to call him her beloved.
But her smiling calmness, her friendly coolness, brought him to despair.
He crumpled the paper in his hand; the letters danced before his eyes; he could read no more.
But he would not remain, mute, either. Like the dying swan, he would breathe out his pain in a last song, and give sound and words to his despair and his agony. He could no longer read; but he improvised.
Like a glowing stream of lava, the words flowed from his lips; in fiery dithyrambic, in impassioned hymns, he poured forth his love and pain. The genius of poesy hovered over him and lighted up his noble and thoughtful brow.
He was radiantly beautiful in his enthusiasm; and even the queen felt herself carried away by his words. His plaints of love, his longing pains, his rapture and his sad fancies, found an echo in her heart. She understood him; for she felt the same joy, the same sorrow and the same rapture; only she did not feel all this for him.
But, as we have said, he enchanted her; the current of his passion carried her away. She wept at his laments; she smiled at his hymns of joy.
When Henry Howard at length ceased, profound silence reigned in the vast and brilliant hall.
All faces betrayed deep emotion; and this universal silence was the poet’s fairest triumph; for it showed that envy and jealousy were dumb, and that scorn itself could find no words.
A momentary pause ensued; it resembled that sultry, ominous stillness which is wont to precede the bursting of a tempest; when Nature stops a moment in breathless stillness, to gather strength for the uproar of the storm.
It was a significant, an awful pause; but only a few understood its meaning.
Lady Jane leaned against the wall, completely shattered and breathless. She felt that the sword was hanging over their heads, and that it would destroy her if it struck her beloved.
Earl Douglas and the Bishop of Winchester had involuntarily drawn near each other, and stood there hand in hand, united for this unholy struggle; while John Heywood had crept behind the king’s throne, and in his sarcastic manner whispered in his ear some epigrams, that made the king smile in spite of himself.
But now the queen arose from her seat, and beckoned Henry Howard nearer to her.
“My lord,” said she, almost with solemnity, “as a queen and as a woman I thank you for the noble and sublime lyrics which you have composed in honor of a woman! And for that the grace of my king has exalted me to be the first woman in England, it becomes me, in the name of all women, to return to you my thanks. To the poet is due a reward other than that of the warrior. To the victor on the battlefield is awarded a laurel crown. But you have gained a victory not less glorious, for you have conquered hearts! We acknowledge ourselves vanquished, and in the name of all these noble women, I proclaim you their knight! In token of which, accept this rosette, my lord. It entitles you to wear the queen’s colors; it lays you under obligation to be the knight of all women!”
She loosened the rosette from her shoulder, and handed it to the earl.
He had sunk on one knee before her, and already extended his hand to receive this precious and coveted pledge.
But at this moment the king arose, and, with an imperious gesture, held back the queen’s hand.
“Allow me, my lady,” said he, in a voice quivering with rage--“allow me first to examine this rosette, and convince myself that it is worth enough to be presented to the noble earl as his sole reward. Let me see this rosette.”
Catharine looked with astonishment into that face convulsed with passion and fury, but without hesitation she handed him the rosette.
“We are lost!” murmured Earl Surrey, while Earl Douglas and Gardiner exchanged with each other looks of triumph; and Jane Douglas murmured in her trembling heart prayers of anxiety and dread, scarcely hearing the malicious and exultant words which the Duchess of Richmond was whispering in her ear.
The king held the rosette in his hand and examined it. But his hands trembled so much that he was unable to unfasten the clasp which held it together.
He, therefore, handed it to John Heywood. “These diamonds are poor,” said he, in a curt, dry tone. “Unfasten the clasp, fool; we will replace it with this pin here. Then will the present gain for the earl a double value; for it will come at the same time from me and from the queen.”
“How gracious you are to-day!” said John Heywood, smiling--“as gracious as the cat, that plays a little longer with the mouse before she devours it.”
“Unfasten the clasp!” exclaimed the king, in a thundering voice, no longer able to conceal his rage. Slowly John Heywood unfastened the clasp from the ribbon. He did it with intentional slowness and deliberation; he let the king see all his movements, every turn of his fingers; and it delighted him to hold those who had woven this plot in dreadful suspense and expectation.
Whilst he appeared perfectly innocent and unembarrassed, his keen, piercing glance ran over the whole assembly, and he noticed well the trembling impatience of Gardiner and Earl Douglas; and it did not escape him how pale Lady Jane was, and how full of expectation were the intent features of the Duchess of Richmond.
“They are the ones with whom this conspiracy originated,” said John Heywood to himself. “But I will keep silence till I can one day convict them.”
“There, here is the clasp!” said he then aloud to the king. “It stuck as tightly in the ribbon as malice in the hearts of priests and courtiers!”
The king snatched the ribbon out of his hand, and examined it by drawing it through his fingers.
“Nothing! nothing at all!” said he, gnashing his teeth; and now, deceived in his expectations and suppositions, he could no longer muster strength to withstand that roaring torrent of wrath which overflowed his heart. The tiger was again aroused in him; he had calmly waited for the moment when the promised prey would be brought to him; now, when it seemed to be escaping him, his savage and cruel disposition started up within him. The tiger panted and thirsted for blood; and that he was not to get it, made him raging with fury.
With a wild movement he threw the rosette on the ground, and raised his arm menacingly toward Henry Howard. “Dare not to touch that rosette,” cried he, in a voice of thunder, “before you have exculpated yourself from the guilt of which you are accused.”
Earl Surrey looked him steadily and boldly in the eye. “Have I been accused, then?” asked he. “Then I demand, first of all, that I be confronted with my accusers, and that my fault be named!”
“Ha, traitor! Do you dare to brave me?” yelled the king, stamping furiously with his foot. “Well, now, I will be your accuser and I will be your judge!”
“And surely, my king and husband, you will be a righteous judge,” said Catharine, as she inclined imploringly toward the king and grasped his hand. “You will not condemn the noble Earl Surrey without having heard him; and if you find him guiltless, you will punish his accusers?”
But this intercession of the queen made the king raging. He threw her hand from him, and gazed at her with looks of such flaming wrath, that she involuntarily trembled.
“Traitoress yourself!” yelled he, wildly. “Speak not of innocence--you who are yourself guilty; and before you dare defend the earl, defend yourself!”
Catharine rose from her seat and looked with flashing eyes into the king’s face blazing with wrath. “King Henry of England,” said she, solemnly, “you have openly, before your whole court, accused your queen of a crime. I now demand that you name it!”
She was of wondrous beauty in her proud, hold bearing--in her imposing, majestic tranquillity.
The decisive moment had come, and she was conscious that her life and her future were struggling with death for the victory.
She looked over to Thomas Seymour, and their eyes met. She saw how he laid his hand on his sword, and nodded to her a smiling greeting.
“He will defend me; and before he will suffer me to be dragged to the Tower, he himself will plunge his sword into my breast,” thought she, and a joyous, triumphant assurance filled her whole heart.
She saw nothing but him, who had sworn to die with her when the decisive moment came. She looked with a smile on the blade which he had already half drawn from its scabbard; and she hailed it as a dear, long-yearned-for friend.
She saw not that Henry Howard also had lain his hand on his sword; that he, too, was ready for her defence, firmly resolved to slay the king himself, before his mouth uttered the sentence of death over the queen.
But Lady Jane Douglas saw it. She understood how to read the earl’s countenance; she felt that he was ready to go to death for his beloved; and it filled her heart at once with woe and rapture.
She, too, was now firmly resolved to follow her heart and her love; and, forgetting all else besides these, she hastened forward, and was now standing by Henry Howard.
“Be prudent, Earl Surrey,” said she, in a low whisper. “Take your hand from your sword. The queen, by my mouth, commands you to do so!”
Henry Howard looked at her astonished and surprised; but he let his hand slip from the hilt of his sword, and again looked toward the queen.
She had repeated her demand; she had once more demanded of the king--who, speechless and completely overcome with anger, had fallen back into his seat--to name the crime of which she was accused.
“Now, then, my queen, you demand it, and you shall hear it,” cried he. “You want to know the crime of which you are accused? Answer me then, my lady! They accuse you of not always staying at night in your sleeping-room. It is alleged that you sometimes leave it for many hours; and that none of your women accompanied you when you glided through the corridors and up the secret stairs to the lonely tower, in which, was waiting for you your lover, who at the same time entered the tower through the small street door.”
“He knows all!” muttered Henry Howard; and again he laid his hand on his sword, and was about to approach the queen.
Lady Jane held him back. “Wait for the issue,” said she. “There is still time to die!”
“He knows all!” thought the queen also; and now she felt within herself the daring courage to risk all, that at least she might not stand there a traitoress in the eyes of her lover.
“He shall not believe that I have been untrue to him,” thought she. “I will tell all--confess all, that he may know why I went and whither.”
“Now answer, my Lady Catharine!” thundered the king. “Answer, and tell me whether you have been falsely accused. Is it true that you, eight days ago, in the night between Monday and Tuesday, left your sleeping-room at the hour of midnight, and went secretly to the lonely tower? Is it true that you received there a man who is your lover?”
The queen looked at him in angry pride. “Henry, Henry, woe to you, that you dare thus insult your own wife!” cried she.
“Answer me! You were not on that night in your sleeping-room?”
“No,” said Catharine, with dignified composure, “I was not there.”
The king sank back in his seat, and a real roar of fury sounded from his lips. It made the women turn pale, and even the men felt themselves tremble.
Catharine alone had not heeded it at all; she alone had heard nothing save that cry of amazement which Thomas Seymour uttered; and she saw only the angry and up-braiding looks which he threw across at her. She answered these looks with a friendly and confident smile, and pressed both her hands to her heart, as she looked at him.
“I will justify myself before him at least,” thought she.
The king had recovered from his first shock. He again raised himself up, and his countenance now exhibited a fearful, threatening coolness.
“You confess, then,” asked he, “that you were not in your sleeping-room on that night?”
“I have already said so,” exclaimed Catharine, impatiently. The king compressed his lips so violently, that they bled. “And a man was with you?” asked he--“a man with whom you made an assignation, and whom you received in the lonely tower?”
“A man was with me. But I did not receive him in the lonely tower; and it was no assignation.”
“Who was that man?” yelled the king. “Answer me! Tell me his name, if you do not want me to strangle you myself!”
“King Henry, I fear death no longer!” said Catharine, with a contemptuous smile.
“Who was that man? Tell me his name!” yelled the king once more.
The queen raised herself more proudly, and her defiant look ran over the whole assembly.
“The man,” said she, solemnly, “who was with me on that night--he is named--” “He is named John Heywood!” said this individual; as he seriously and proudly walked forward from behind the king’s throne. “Yes, Henry, your brother, the fool John Heywood, had on that night the proud honor of accompanying your consort on her holy errand; but, I assure you, that he was less like the king, than the king is just now like the fool.”
A murmur of surprise ran through the assembly. The king leaned back in his royal seat speechless. “And now, King Henry,” said Catharine, calmly--“now I will tell you whither I went with John Heywood on that night.”
She was silent, and for a moment leaned back on her seat. She felt that the looks of all were directed to her; she heard the king’s wrathful groan; she felt her lover’s flashing, reproachful glances; she saw the derisive smile of those haughty ladies, who had never forgiven her--that she, from a simple baroness, had become queen. But all this made her only still bolder and more courageous.
She had arrived at the turning-point of her life, where she must risk everything to avoid sinking into the abyss.
But Lady Jane also had arrived at such a decisive moment of her existence. She, too, said to herself: “I must at this hour risk all, if I do not want to lose all.” She saw Henry Howard’s pale, expectant face. She knew, if the queen now spoke, the whole web of their conspiracy would be revealed to him.
She must, therefore, anticipate the queen. She must warn Henry Howard.
“Fear nothing!” whispered she to him. “We were prepared for that. I have put into her hands the means of escape!”
“Will you now at last speak?” exclaimed the king, quivering with impatience and rage. “Will you at last tell us where you were on that night?”
“I will tell!” exclaimed Catharine, rising up again boldly and resolutely “But woe be to those who drive me to this! For I tell you beforehand, from the accused I will become an accuser who demands justice, if not before the throne of the King of England, yet before the throne of the Lord of all kings! King Henry of England, do you ask me whither I went on that night with John Heywood? I might, perhaps, as your queen and consort, demand that you put this question to me not before so many witnesses, but in the quiet of our chamber; but you seek publicity, and I do not shun it. Well, hear the truth, then, all of you! On that night, between Monday and Tuesday, I was not in my sleeping-apartment, because I had a grave and sacred duty to perform; because a dying woman called on me for help and pity! Would you know, my lord and husband, who this dying woman was? It was Anne Askew!”
“Anne Askew!” exclaimed the king in astonishment; and his countenance exhibited a less wrathful expression.
“Anne Askew!” muttered the others; and John Heywood very well saw how Bishop Gardiner’s brow darkened, and how Chancellor Wriothesley turned pale and cast down his eyes.
“Yes, I was with Anne Askew!” continued the queen--“with Anne Askew, whom those pious and wise lords yonder had condemned, not so much on account of her faith, but because they knew that I loved her. Anne Askew was to die, because Catharine Parr loved her! She was to go to the stake, that my heart also might burn with fiery pains! And because it was so, I was obliged to risk everything in order to save her. Oh, my king, say yourself, did I not owe it to this poor girl to try everything in order to save her? On my account she was to suffer these tortures. For they had shamefully stolen from me a letter which Anne Askew, in the distress of her heart, had addressed to me; and they showed this letter to you in order to cast suspicion on me and accuse me to you. But your noble heart repelled the suspicion; and now their wrath fell again on Anne Askew, and she must suffer, because they did not find me punishable. She must atone for having dared to write to me. They worked matters with you so that she was put to the rack. But when my husband gave way to their urging, yet the noble king remained still awake in him. ‘Go,’ said he, ‘rack her and kill her; but see first whether she will not recant. ’” Henry looked astonished into her noble and defiant face. “Do you know that?” asked he. “And yet we were alone, and no human being present. Who could tell you that?”
“When man is no longer able to help, then God undertakes!” said Catharine solemnly. “It was God who commanded me to go to Anne Askew, and try whether I could save her. And I went. But though the wife of a noble and great king, I am still but a weak and timid woman. I was afraid to tread this gloomy and dangerous path alone; I needed a strong manly arm to lean upon; and so John Heywood lent me his.”
“And you were really with Anne Askew,” interposed the king, thoughtfully--“with that hardened sinner, who despised mercy, and in the stubbornness of her soul would not be a partaker of the pardon that I offered her?”
“My lord and husband,” said the queen, with tears in her eyes, “she whom you have just accused stands even now before the throne of the Lord, and has received from her God the forgiveness of her sins! Therefore, do you likewise pardon her; and may the flames of the stake, to which yesterday the noble virgin body of this girl was bound, have consumed also the wrath and hatred which had been kindled in your heart against her! Anne Askew passed away like a saint; for she forgave all her enemies and blessed her tormentors.”
“Anne Askew was a damnable sinner, who dared resist the command of her lord and king!” interrupted Bishop Gardiner, looking daggers at her.
“And dare you maintain, my lord, that you at that time fulfilled the commands of your royal master simply and exactly?” asked Catharine. “Did you keep within them with respect to Anne Askew? No! I say; for the king had not ordered you to torture her; he had not bidden you to lacerate in blasphemous wrath a noble human form, and distort that likeness of God into a horrible caricature. And that, my lord, you did! Before God and your king, I accuse you of it--I, the queen! For you know, my lord and husband, I was there when Anne Askew was racked. I saw her agony, and John Heywood saw it with me.”
The eyes of all were now directed inquiringly to the king, of whose ferocity and choler every one expected a violent outbreak.
But this time they were mistaken. The king was so well satisfied to find his consort clear of the crime laid to her charge, that he willingly forgave her for having committed a crime of less weighty character. Besides, it filled him with respect to see his consort confronting her accusers so boldly and proudly; and he felt toward them just as burning wrath and hatred as he had before harbored against the queen. He was pleased that the malignant and persistent persecutors of his fair and proud wife should now be humbled by her before the eyes of all his court.
Therefore he looked at her with an imperceptible smile, and said with deep interest: “But how could this happen, my lady? By what path did you get thither?”
“That is an inquiry which any one except the king is authorized to make. King Henry alone knows the way that I went!” said Catharine, with a slight smile.
John Heywood, who was still standing behind the king’s throne, now bent down close to Henry’s ear, and spoke with him a long time in a quick, low tone.
The king listened to him attentively; then he murmured so loud that the bystanders could very well understand him: “By God, she is a spirited and brave woman; and we should be obliged to confess that, even were she not our queen!”
“Continue, my lady!” said he then aloud, turning to the queen with a gracious look. “Relate to me, Catharine, what saw you then in the torture-chamber?”
“Oh, my king and lord, it horrifies me only to think of it,” cried she, shuddering and turning pale. “I saw a poor young woman who writhed in fearful agony, and whose staring eyes were raised in mute supplication to Heaven. She did not beg her tormentors for mercy; she wanted from them no compassion and no pity; she did not scream and whine from the pain, though her limbs cracked and her flesh snapped apart like glass; she raised her clasped hands to God, and her lips murmured low prayers, which, perhaps, made the angels of heaven weep, but were not able to touch the hearts of her tormentors. You had ordered her to be racked, if she would not retract. They did not ask her whether she would do this--they racked her. But her soul was strong and full of courage; and, under the tortures of the executioner, her lips remained mute. Let theologians say and determine whether Anne Askew’s faith was a false one; but this they will not dare deny: that in the noble enthusiasm of this faith, she was a heroine who at least did not deny her God. At length, worn out with so much useless exertion, the assistant executioners discontinued their bloody work, to rest from the tortures which they had prepared for Anne Askew. The lieutenant of the Tower declared the work of the rack ended. The highest degrees had been applied, and they had proved powerless; cruelty was obliged to acknowledge itself conquered. But the priests of the Church, with savage vehemence, demanded that she should be racked once more. Dare deny that, ye lords, whom I behold standing there opposite with faces pale as death! Yes, my king, the servants of the rack refused to obey the servants of God; for in the hearts of the hangman’s drudges there was more pity than in the hearts of the priests! And when they refused to proceed in their bloody work, and when the lieutenant of the Tower, in virtue of the existing law, declared the racking at an end, then I saw one of the first ministers of our Church throw aside his sacred garments; then the priest of God transformed himself into a hangman’s drudge, who, with bloodthirsty delight, lacerated anew the noble mangled body of the young girl, and more cruel than the attendants of the rack, unsparingly they broke and dislocated the limbs, which they had only squeezed in their screws. [Footnote: Burnet’s “History of the Reformation,” vol. i, p. 132.] Excuse me, my king, from sketching this scene of horror still further! Horrified and trembling, I fled from that frightful place, and returned to my room, shattered and sad at heart.”
Catharine ceased, exhausted, and sank back into her seat.
A breathless stillness reigned around. All faces were pale and colorless. Gardiner and Wriothesley stood with their eyes fixed, gloomy and defiant, expecting that the king’s wrath would crush and destroy them.
But the king scarcely thought of them; he thought only of his fair young queen, whose boldness inspired him with respect, and whose innocence and purity filled him with a proud and blissful joy.
He was, therefore, very much inclined to forgive those who in reality had committed no offence further than this, that they had carried out a little too literally and strictly the orders of their master.
A long pause had ensued--a pause full of expectation and anxiety for all who were assembled in the hall. Only Catharine reclined calmly in her chair, and with beaming eyes looked across to Thomas Seymour, whose handsome countenance betrayed to her the gratification and satisfaction which he felt at this clearing up of her mysterious night-wandering.
At last the king arose, and, bowing low before his consort, said in a loud, full-toned voice: “I have deeply and bitterly injured you, my noble wife; and as I publicly accused you, I will also publicly ask your forgiveness! You have a right to be angry with me; for it behooved me, above all, to believe with unshaken firmness in the truth and honor of my wife. My lady, you have made a brilliant vindication of yourself; and I, the king, first of all bow before you, and beg that you may forgive me and impose some penance.”
“Leave it to me, queen, to impose a penance on this repentant sinner!” cried John Hey wood, gayly. “Your majesty is much too magnanimous, much too timid, to treat him as roughly as my brother King Henry deserves. Leave it to me, then, to punish him; for only the fool is wise enough to punish the king after his deserts.”
Catharine nodded to him with a grateful smile. She comprehended perfectly John Heywood’s delicacy and nice tact; she apprehended that he wanted by a joke to relieve her from her painful situation, and put an end to the king’s public acknowledgment, which at the same time must turn to her bitter reproach--bitter, though it were only self-reproach.
“Well,” said she, smiling, “what punishment, then, will you impose upon the king?”
“The punishment of recognizing the fool as his equal!”
“God is my witness that I do so!” cried the king, almost solemnly. “Fools we are, one and all, and we fall short of the renown which we have before men.”
“But my sentence is not yet complete, brother!” continued John Heywood. “I furthermore give sentence, that you also forthwith allow me to recite my poem to you, and that you open your ears in order to hear what John Heywood, the wise, has indited!”
“You have, then, fulfilled my command, and composed a new interlude?” cried the king, vivaciously.
“No interlude, but a wholly novel, comical affair--a play full of lampoons and jokes, at which your eyes are to overflow, yet not with weeping, but with laughter. To the right noble Earl of Surrey belongs the proud honor of having presented to our happy England her first sonnets. Well, now, I also will give her something new. I present her the first comedy; and as he sings the beauty of his Geraldine, so I celebrate the fame of Gammer Gurton’s sewing-needle--Gammer Gurton’s needle--so my piece is called; and you, King Henry, shall listen to it as a punishment for your sins!”
“I will do so,” cried the king, cheerfully, “provided you permit it, Kate! But before I do so, I make also one more condition--a condition for you, queen! Kate, you have disdained to impose a penance on me, but grant me at least the pleasure of being allowed to fulfil some wish of yours! Make me a request, that I may grant it you!”
“Well, then, my lord and king,” said Catharine with a charming smile, “I beg you to think no more of the incidents of this day, and to forgive those whom I accused, only because their accusation was my vindication. They who brought charges against me have in this hour felt contrition for their own fault. Let that suffice, king, and forgive them, as I do!”
“You are a noble and great woman, Kate!” cried the king; and, as his glance swept over toward Gardiner with an almost contemptuous expression, he continued: “Your request is granted. But woe to them who shall dare accuse you again! And have you nothing further to demand, Kate?”
“Nay, one thing more, my lord and husband!” She leaned nearer to the king’s ear, and whispered: “They have also accused your noblest and most faithful servant; they have accused Cranmer. Condemn him not, king, without having heard him; and if I may beg a favor of you, it is this: talk with Cranmer yourself. Tell him of what they have charged him, and hear his vindication.”
“It shall be so, Kate,” said the king, “and you shall be present! But let this be a secret between us, Kate, and we will carry it out in perfect silence. And now, then, John Heywood, let us hear your composition; and woe to you, if it does not accomplish what you promised--if it does not make us laugh! For you well know that you are then inevitably exposed to the rods of our injured ladies.”
“They shall have leave to whip me to death, if I do not make you laugh!” cried John Heywood, gayly, as he drew out his manuscript.
Soon the hall rang again with loud laughter; and in the universal merriment no one observed that Bishop Gardiner and Earl Douglas slipped quietly away.
In the anteroom without, they stopped and looked at each other long and silently; their countenances expressed the wrath and bitterness which filled them; and they understood this mute language of their features.
“She must die!” said Gardiner in a short and quick tone. “She has for once escaped from our snares; we will tie them all the tighter next time!”
“And I already hold in my hand the threads out of which we will form these snares,” said Earl Douglas. “We have to-day falsely accused her of a love-affair. When we do it again, we shall speak the truth. Did you see the looks that Catharine exchanged with the heretical Earl Sudley, Thomas Seymour?”
“I saw them, earl!”
“For these looks she will die, my lord. The queen loves Thomas Seymour, and this love will be her death.”
“Amen!” said Bishop Gardiner, solemnly, as he raised his eyes devoutly to heaven. “Amen! The queen has grievously and bitterly injured us to-day; she has insulted and abused us before all the court. We will requite her for it some day! The torture-chamber, which she has depicted in such lively colors, may yet one day open for her, too--not that she may behold another’s agonies, but that she may suffer agonies herself. We shall one day avenge ourselves!”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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26
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REVENGE.
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Miss Holland, the beautiful and much-admired mistress of the Duke of Norfolk, was alone in her magnificently adorned boudoir. It was the hour when ordinarily the duke was wont to be with her; for this reason she was charmingly attired, and had wrapped herself in that light and voluptuous negligee which the duke so much liked, because it set off to so much advantage the splendid form of his friend.
But to-day the expected one did not make his appearance: in his stead his valet had just come and brought the fair miss a note from his master. This note she was holding in her hand, while with passionate violence she now walked up and down her boudoir. A glowing crimson blazed upon her cheeks, and her large, haughty eyes darted wild flashes of wrath.
She was disdained--she, Lady Holland, was forced to endure the disgrace of being dismissed by her lover.
There, there, in that letter which she held in her hand, and which burned her fingers like red-hot iron--there it stood in black and white, that he would see her no more; that he renounced her love; that he released her.
Her whole frame shook as she thought of this. It was not the anguish of a loving heart which made her tremble; it was the wounded pride of the woman.
He had abandoned her. Her beauty, her youth no longer had the power to enchain him--the man with white hairs and withered features.
He had written her that he was satiated and weary, not of her, but only of love in general; that his heart had become old and withered like his face: and that there was still in his breast no more room for love, but only for ambition.
Was not that a revolting, an unheard-of outrage--to abandon the finest woman in England for the sake of empty, cold, stern ambition?
She opened the letter once more. Once more she read that place. Then grinding her teeth with tears of anger in her eyes: “He shall pay me for this! I will take vengeance for this insult!” She thrust the letter into her bosom, and touched the silver bell.
“Have my carriage brought round!” was her order to the servant who entered; and he withdrew in silence.
“I will avenge myself!” muttered she, as with trembling hands she wrapped herself in her large Turkish shawl. “I will avenge myself; and, by the Eternal! it shall be a bloody and swift vengeance! I will show him that I, too, am ambitious, and that my pride is not to be humbled. He says he will forget me. Oh, I will compel him to think of me, even though it be only to curse me!”
With hasty step she sped through the glittering apartments, which the liberality of her lover had furnished so magnificently, and descended to the carriage standing ready for her.
“To the Duchess of Norfolk’s!” said she to the footman standing at the door of the carriage, as she entered it.
The servant looked at her in astonishment and inquiringly.
“To the Duke of Norfolk; is it not, my lady?”
“No, indeed, to the duchess!” cried she with a frown, as she leaned back on the cushion.
After a short time, the carriage drew up before the palace of the duchess, and with haughty tread and commanding air she passed through the porch.
“Announce me to the duchess immediately,” was her order to the lackey who was hurrying to meet her.
“Your name, my lady?”
“Miss Arabella Holland.”
The servant stepped back, and stared at her in surprise.
“Miss Arabella Holland! and you order me to announce you to the duchess?”
A contemptuous smile played a moment about the thin lips of the beautiful miss. “I see you know me,” said she, “and you wonder a little to see me here. Wonder as much as you please, good friend; only conduct me immediately to the duchess.”
“I doubt whether her ladyship receives calls to-day,” stammered the servant, hesitatingly.
“Then go and ask; and, that I may learn her answer as soon as possible, I will accompany you.”
With a commanding air, she motioned to the servant to go before her; and he could not summon up courage to gainsay this proud beauty.
In silence they traversed the suite of stately apartments, and at length stood before a door hung with tapestry.
“I must beg you to wait here a moment, my lady, so that I can announce you to the duchess, who is there in her boudoir.”
“No, indeed; I will assume that office myself,” said Miss Holland, as with strong hand she pushed back the servant and opened the door.
The duchess was sitting at her writing-table, her back turned to the door through which Arabella had entered. She did not turn round; perhaps she had not heard the door open. She continued quietly writing.
Miss Arabella Holland with stately step crossed the room, and now stood close to the chair of the duchess.
“Duchess, I would like to speak with you,” said she, coolly and calmly.
The duchess uttered a cry and looked up. “Miss Holland!” cried she amazed, and hastily rising. “Miss Holland! you here with me, in my house! What do you want here? How dare you cross my threshold?”
“I see you still hate me, my lady,” said Arabella, smiling. “You have not yet forgiven me that the duke, your husband, found more delight in my young, handsome face, than in yours, now growing old--that my sprightly, wanton disposition pleased him better than your cold, stately air.”
The duchess turned pale with rage, and her eyes darted lightning. “Silence, you shameless creature! silence, or I will call my servants to rid me of you!”
“You will not call them; for I have come to be reconciled with you, and to offer you peace.”
“Peace with you!” sneered the duchess--“peace with that shameless woman who stole from me my husband, the father of my children? --who loaded me with the disgrace of standing before the whole world as a repudiated and despised wife, and of suffering myself to be compared with you, that the world might decide which of us two was worthier of his love? Peace with you, Miss Holland? --with the impudent strumpet who squanders my husband’s means in lavish luxury, and, with scoffing boldness, robs my children of their lawful property?”
“It is true, the duke is very generous,” said Miss Holland, composedly. “He loaded me with diamonds and gold.”
“And meanwhile I was doomed almost to suffer want,” said the duchess, grinding her teeth.
“Want of love, it may be, my lady, but not want of money; for you are very magnificently fitted up; and every one knows that the Duchess of Norfolk is rich enough to be able to spare the trifles that her husband laid at my feet. By Heaven! my lady, I would not have deemed it worth the trouble to stoop for them, if I had not seen among these trifles his heart. The heart of a man is well worth a woman’s stooping for! You have neglected that, my lady, and therefore you lost your husband’s heart. I picked it up. That is all. Why will you make a crime of that?”
“That is enough!” cried the duchess. “It does not become me to dispute with you; I desire only to know what gave you the courage to come to me?”
“My lady, do you hate me only? Or do you also hate the duke your husband?”
“She asks me whether I hate him!” cried the duchess, with a wild, scornful laugh. “Yes, Miss Holland, yes! I hate him as ardently as I despise you. I hate him so much that I would give my whole estate--ay, years of my life--if I could punish him for the disgrace he has put upon me.”
“Then, my lady, we shall soon understand each other; for I too hate him,” said Miss Holland, quietly seating herself on the velvet divan, and smiling as she observed the speechless astonishment of the duchess.
“Yes, my lady, I hate him; and without doubt still more ardently, still more intensely than you yourself; for I am young and fiery; you are old, and have always managed to preserve a cool heart.”
The duchess was convulsed with rage; but silently, and with an effort, she gulped down the drop of wormwood which her wicked rival mingled in the cup of joy which she presented to her.
“You do hate him, Miss Holland?” asked she, joyfully.
“I hate him, and I have come to league myself with you against him. He is a traitor, a perfidious wretch, a perjurer. I will take vengeance for my disgrace!”
“Ah, has he then deserted you also?”
“He has deserted me also.”
“Well, then, God be praised!” cried the duchess, and her face beamed with joy. “God is great and just; and He has punished you with the same weapons with which you sinned! For your sake, he deserted me; and for the sake of another woman, he forsakes you.”
“Not so, my lady!” said Miss Holland, proudly. “A woman like me is not forsaken on account of a woman; and he who loves me will love no other after me. There, read his letter!”
She handed the duchess her husband’s letter.
“And what do you want to do now?” asked the duchess, after she had read it.
“I will have revenge, my lady! He says he no longer has a heart to love; well, now, we will so manage, that he may no longer have a head to think. Will you be my ally, my lady?”
“I will.”
“And I also will be,” said the Duchess of Richmond, who just then opened the door and came out of the adjoining room.
Not a word of this entire conversation had escaped her, and she very well understood that the question was not about some petty vengeance, but her father’s head. She knew that Miss Holland was not a woman that, when irritated, pricked with a pin; but one that grasped the dagger to strike her enemy a mortal blow.
“Yes, I too will be your ally,” cried the Duchess of Richmond; “we have all three been outraged by the same man. Let, then, our revenge be a common one. The father has insulted you; the son, me. Well, then, I will help you to strike the father, if you in return will assist me to destroy the son.”
“I will assist you,” said Arabella, smiling; “for I also hate the haughty Earl of Surrey, who prides himself on his virtue, as if it were a golden fleece which God himself had stuck on his breast. I hate him; for he never meets me but with proud disregard; and he alone is to blame for his father’s faithlessness.”
“I was present when with tears he besought the duke, our father, to free himself from your fetters, and give up this shameful and disgraceful connection with you,” said the young duchess.
Arabella answered nothing. But she pressed her hands firmly together, and a slight pallor overspread her cheeks.
“And why are you angry with your brother?” asked the old duchess, thoughtfully.
“Why am I angry with him, do you ask, my mother? I am not angry with him; but I execrate him, and I have sworn to myself never to rest till I have avenged myself. My happiness, my heart, and my future, lay in his hands; and he has remorselessly trodden under his haughty feet these--his sister’s precious treasures. It lay with him to make me the wife of the man I love; and he has not done it, though I lay at his feet weeping and wringing my hands.”
“But it was a great sacrifice that you demanded,” said her mother. “He had to give his hand to a woman he did not love, so that you might be Thomas Seymour’s wife.”
“Mother, you defend him; and yet he it is that blames you daily; and but yesterday it seemed to him perfectly right and natural that the duke had forsaken you, our mother.”
“Did he do that?” inquired the duchess, vehemently. “Well, now, as he has forgotten that I am his mother, so will I forget that he is my son. I am your ally! Revenge for our injured hearts! Vengeance on father and son!”
She held out both hands, and the two young women laid their hands in hers.
“Vengeance on father and son!” repeated they both; and their eyes flashed, and crimson now mantled their cheeks.
“I am tired of living like a hermit in my palace, and of being banished from court by the fear that I may encounter my husband there.”
“You shall encounter him there no more,” said her daughter, laconically.
“They shall not laugh and jeer at me,” cried Arabella. “And when they learn that he has forsaken me, they shall also know how I have avenged myself for it.”
“Thomas Seymour can never become my husband so long as Henry Howard lives; for he has mortally offended him, as Henry has rejected the hand of his sister. Perhaps I may become his wife, if Henry Howard is no more,” said the young duchess. “So let us consider. How shall we begin, so as to strike them surely and certainly?”
“When three women are agreed, they may well be certain of their success,” said Arabella, shrugging her shoulders. “We live--God be praised for it--under a noble and high-minded king, who beholds the blood of his subjects with as much pleasure as he does the crimson of his royal mantle, and who has never yet shrunk back when a death-warrant was to be signed.”
“But this time he will shrink back,” said the old duchess. “He will not dare to rob the noblest and most powerful family of his kingdom of its head.”
“That very risk will stimulate him,” said the Duchess of Richmond, laughing; “and the more difficult it is to bring down these heads, so much the more impatiently will he hanker after it. The king hates them both, and he will thank us, if we change his hatred into retributive justice.”
“Then let us accuse both of high treason!” cried Arabella. “The duke is a traitor; for I will and can swear that he has often enough called the king a bloodthirsty tiger, a relentless tyrant, a man without truth and without faith, although he coquettishly pretends to be the fountain and rock of all faith.”
“If he has said that, and you have heard him, you are in duty bound to communicate it to the king, if you do not want to be a traitoress yourself,” exclaimed the young duchess, solemnly.
“And have you not noticed that the duke has for some time borne the same coat-of-arms as the king?” asked the Duchess of Norfolk. “It is not enough for his haughty and ambitious spirit to be the first servant of this land; he strives to be lord and king of it.”
“Tell that to the king, and by to-morrow the head of the traitor falls. For the king is as jealous of his kingdom as ever a woman was of her lover. Tell him that the duke bears his coat-of-arms, and his destruction is certain.”
“I will tell him so, daughter.”
“We are sure of the father, but what have we for the son?”
“A sure and infallible means, that will as certainly dispatch him into eternity as the hunter’s tiny bullet slays the proudest stag. Henry loves the queen; and I will furnish the king proof of that,” said the young duchess.
“Then let us go to the king!” cried Arabella, impetuously.
“No, indeed! That would make a sensation, and might easily frustrate our whole plan,” said the Duchess of Richmond. “Let us first talk with Earl Douglas, and hear his advice. Come; every minute is precious! We owe it to our womanly honor to avenge ourselves. We cannot and will not leave unpunished those who have despised our love, wounded our honor, and trodden under foot the holiest ties of nature!”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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27
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THE ACKNOWLEDGMENT.
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The Princess Elizabeth was sitting in her room, melancholy and absorbed in thought. Her eyes were red with weeping; and she pressed her hand on her heart, as if she would repress its cry of anguish.
With a disconsolate, perplexed look she gazed around her chamber, and its solitude was doubly painful to her to-day, for it testified to her forsaken condition, to the disgrace that still rested on her. For were it not so, to-day would have been to the whole court a day of rejoicing, of congratulations.
To-day was Elizabeth’s birthday; fourteen years ago to-day, Anne Boleyn’s daughter had seen the light of this world.
“Anne Boleyn’s daughter!” That was the secret of her seclusion. That was why none of the ladies and lords of the court had remembered her birthday; for that would have been at the same time a remembrance of Anne Boleyn, of Elizabeth’s beautiful and unfortunate mother, who had been made to atone for her grandeur and prosperity by her death.
Moreover, the king had called his daughter Elizabeth a bastard, and solemnly declared her unworthy of succeeding to the throne.
Her birthday, therefore, was to Elizabeth only a day of humiliation and pain. Reclining on her divan, she thought of her despised and joyless past, of her desolate and inglorious future.
She was a princess, and yet possessed not the rights of her birth; she was a young maiden, and yet doomed, in sad resignation, to renounce all the delights and enjoyments of youth, and to condemn her passionate and ardent heart to the eternal sleep of death. For when the Infante of Spain sued for her hand, Henry the Eighth had declared that the bastard Elizabeth was unworthy of a princely husband. But in order to intimidate other suitors also, he had loudly and openly declared that no subject should dare be so presumptuous as to offer his hand to one of his royal daughters, and he who dared to solicit them in marriage should be punished as a traitor.
So Elizabeth was condemned to remain unmarried; and nevertheless she loved; nevertheless she harbored only this one wish, to be the wife of her beloved, and to be able to exchange the proud title of princess for the name of Countess Seymour.
Since she loved him, a new world, a new sun had arisen on her; and before the sweet and enchanting whispers of her love, even the proud and alluring voices of her ambition had to be silent. She no longer thought of it, that she would never be a queen; she was only troubled that she could not be Seymour’s wife.
She no longer wanted to rule, but she wanted to be happy. But her happiness reposed on him alone--on Thomas Seymour.
Such were her thoughts, as she was in her chamber on the morning of her birthday, alone and lonely; and her eyes reddened by tears, her painfully convulsed lips, betrayed how much she had wept to-day; how much this young girl of fourteen years had already suffered.
But she would think no more about it; she would not allow the lurking, everywhere-prying, malicious, and wicked courtiers the triumph of seeing the traces of her tears, and rejoicing at her pains and her humiliation. She was a proud and resolute soul; she would rather have died than to have accepted the sympathy and pity of the courtiers.
“I will work,” said she. “Work is the best balm for all pains.”
And she took up the elaborate silk embroidery which she had begun for her poor, unfortunate friend, Anne of Cleves, Henry’s divorced wife. But the work occupied only her fingers, not her thoughts.
She threw it aside and seized her books. She took Petrarch’s Sonnets; and his love plaints and griefs enchained and stirred her own love-sick heart.
With streaming tears, and yet smiling and full of sweet melancholy, Elizabeth read these noble and tender poems. It appeared to her as if Petrarch had only said what she herself so warmly felt. There were her thoughts, her griefs. He had said them in his language; she must now repeat them in her own. She seated herself, and with hands trembling with enthusiasm, fluttering breath, perfectly excited and glowing, in glad haste she began a translation of Petrarch’s first sonnet. [Footnote: Elizabeth, who even as a girl of twelve years old spoke four languages, was very fond of composing verses, and of translating the poems of foreign authors. But she kept her skill in this respect very secret, and was always very angry if any one by chance saw one of her poems. After her death there were found among her papers many translations, especially of Petrarch’s Sonnets, which were the work of her earliest youth. --Leti, vol. i, p. 150.] A loud knock interrupted her; and in the hastily opened door now appeared the lovely form of the queen.
“The queen!” exclaimed Elizabeth with delight. “Have you come to me at such an early morning hour?”
“And should I wait till evening to wish my Elizabeth happiness on her festival? Should I first let the sun go down on this day, which gave to England so noble and so fair a princess?” asked Catharine. “Or you thought, perhaps, I did not know that this was your birthday, and that to-day my Elizabeth advances from the years of childhood, as a proud maiden full of hope?”
“Full of hope?” said Elizabeth, sadly. “Anne Boleyn’s daughter has no hopes: and when you speak of my birthday, you remind me at the same time of my despised birth!”
“It shall be despised no longer!” said Catharine, and, as she put her arm tenderly around Elizabeth’s neck, she handed her a roll of parchment.
“Take that, Elizabeth; and may this paper be to you the promise of a joyful and brilliant future! At my request, the king has made this law, and he therefore granted me the pleasure of bringing it to you.”
Elizabeth opened the parchment and read, and a radiant expression overspread her countenance.
“Acknowledged! I am acknowledged!” cried she. “The disgrace of my birth is taken away! Elizabeth is no more a bastard--she is a royal princess!”
“And she may some day be a queen!” said Catharine, smiling.
“Oh,” cried Elizabeth, “it is not that which stirs me with such joy. But the disgrace of my birth is taken away; and I may freely hold up my head and name my mother’s name! Now thou mayst sleep calmly in thy grave, for it is no longer dishonored! Anne Boleyn was no strumpet; she was King Henry’s lawful wife, and Elizabeth is the king’s legitimate daughter! I thank Thee, my God--I thank Thee!” And the young, passionate girl threw herself on her knees, and raised her hands and her eyes to heaven.
“Spirit of my glorified mother,” said she, solemnly, “I call thee! Come to me! Overshadow me with thy smile, and bless me with thy breath! Queen Anne of England, thy daughter is no longer a bastard, and no one dares venture more to insult her. Thou wert with me when I wept and suffered, my mother; and often in my disgrace and humiliation, it was as if I heard thy voice, which whispered comfort to me; as if I saw thy heavenly eyes, which poured peace and love into my breast! Oh, abide with me now also, my mother--now, when my disgrace is taken away, abide with me in my prosperity; and guard my heart, that it may be kept pure from arrogance and pride, and remain humble in its joy! Anne Boleyn, they laid thy beautiful, innocent head upon the block; but this parchment sets upon it again the royal crown; and woe, woe to those who will now still dare insult thy memory!”
She sprang from her knees and rushed to the wall opposite, on which was a large oil painting, which represented Elizabeth herself as a child playing with a dog.
“Oh, mother, mother!” said she, “this picture was the last earthly thing on which thy looks rested; and to these painted lips of thy child thou gavest thy last kiss, which thy cruel hangman would not allow to thy living child. Oh, let me sip up this last kiss from that spot; let me touch with my mouth the spot that thy lips have consecrated!”
She bent down and kissed the picture.
“And now come forth out of thy grave, my mother,” said she, solemnly. “I have been obliged so long to hide, so long to veil thee! Now thou belongest to the world and to the light! The king has acknowledged me as his lawful daughter; he cannot refuse me to have a likeness of my mother in my room.”
As she thus spoke, she pressed on a spring set in the broad gilt frame of the picture; and suddenly the painting was seen to move and slowly open like a door, so as to render visible another picture concealed beneath it, which represented the unfortunate Anne Boleyn in bridal attire, in the full splendor of her beauty, as Holbein had painted her, at the desire of her husband the king.
“How beautiful and angelic that countenance is!” said Catharine, stepping nearer. “How innocent and pure those features! Poor queen! Yet thine enemies succeeded in casting suspicion on thee and bringing thee to the scaffold. Oh, when I behold thee, I shudder; and my own future rises up before me like a threatening spectre! Who can believe herself safe and secure, when Anne Boleyn was not secure; when even she had to die a dishonorable death? Ah, do but believe me, Elizabeth, it is a melancholy lot to be Queen of England; and often indeed have I asked the morning whether I, as still Queen of England, shall greet the evening. But no--we will not talk of myself in this hour, but only of you, Elizabeth--of your future and of your fortune. May this document be acceptable to you, and realize all the wishes that slumber in your bosom!”
“One great wish of mine it has fulfilled already,” said Elizabeth, still occupied with the picture. “It allows me to show my mother’s likeness unveiled! That I could one day do so was her last prayer and last wish, which she intrusted to John Heywood for me. To him she committed this picture. He alone knew the secret of it, and he has faithfully preserved it.”
“Oh, John Heywood is a trusty and true friend,” said Catharine, heartily; “and it was he who assisted me in inclining the king to our plan and in persuading him to acknowledge you.”
With an unutterable expression Elizabeth presented both hands to her. “I thank you for my honor, and the honor of my mother,” said she; “I will love you for it as a daughter; and never shall your enemies find with me an open ear and a willing heart. Let us two conclude with each other a league offensive and defensive! Lot us keep true to each other; and the enemies of the one shall be the enemies of the other also. And where we see danger we will combat it in common; and we will watch over each other with a true sisterly eye, and warn one another whenever a chance flash brings to light an enemy who is stealing along in the darkness, and wants with his dagger to assassinate us from behind.”
“So be it!” said Catharine, solemnly. “We will remain inseparable, and true to one another, and love each other as sisters!”
And as she imprinted a warm kiss on Elizabeth’s lips, she continued: “But now, princess, direct your looks once more to that document, of which at first you read only the beginning. Do but believe me, it is important enough for you to read it quite to the end; for it contains various arrangements for your future, and settles on you a suite and a yearly allowance, as is suitable for a royal princess.”
“Oh, what care I for these things?” cried Elizabeth, merrily. “That is my major-domo’s concern, and he may attend to it.”
“But there is yet another paragraph that will interest you more,” said Catharine, with a slight smile; “for it is a full and complete reparation to my proud and ambitious Elizabeth. You recollect the answer which your father gave to the King of France when he solicited your hand for the dauphin?”
“Do I recollect it!” cried Elizabeth, her features quickly becoming gloomy. “King Henry said: ‘Anne Boleyn’s daughter is not worthy to accept the hand of a royal prince. ’” “Well, then, Elizabeth, that the reparation made to you may be complete, the king, while he grants you your lawful title and honor, has decreed that you are permitted to marry only a husband of equal birth; to give your hand only to a royal prince, if you would preserve your right of succeeding to the throne, Oh, certainly, there could be no more complete recantation of the affront once put upon you. And that he consented to do this, you owe to the eloquent intercession of a true and trusty friend; you have John Hey wood to thank for it.”
“John Heywood!” cried Elizabeth, in a bitter tone.
“Oh, I thank you, queen, that it was not you who determined my father to this decision. John Heywood did it, and you call him my friend? You say that he is a true and devoted servant to us both? Beware of his fidelity, queen, and build not on his devotedness; for I tell you his soul is full of falsehood; and while he appears to bow before you in humbleness, his eyes are only searching for the place on your heel where he can strike you most surely and most mortally. Oh, he is a serpent, a venomous serpent; and he has just wounded me mortally and incurably. But no,” continued she, energetically, “I will not submit to this fraud; I will not be the slave of this injurious law! I will be free to love and to hate as my heart demands; I will not be shackled, nor be compelled to renounce this man, whom I perhaps love, and to marry that one, whom I perhaps abhor.”
With an expression of firm, energetic resolve, she took the roll of parchment and handed it back to Catharine. “Queen, take this parchment back again; return it to my father, and tell him that I thank him for his provident goodness, but will decline the brilliant lot which this act offers me. I love freedom so much, that even a royal crown cannot allure me when I am to receive it with my hands bound and my heart not free.”
“Poor child!” sighed Catharine, “you know not, then, that the royal crown always binds us in fetters and compresses our heart in iron clamps? Ah, you want to be free, and yet a queen! Oh, believe me, Elizabeth, none are less free than sovereigns! No one has less the right and the power to live according to the dictates of his heart than a prince.”
“Then,” exclaimed Elizabeth, with flashing eyes, “then I renounce the melancholy fortune of being, perchance, one day queen. Then I do not subscribe to this law, which wants to guide my heart and limit my will. What! shall the daughter of King Henry of England allow her ways to be traced out by a miserable strip of parchment? and shall a sheet of paper be able to intrude itself between me and my heart? I am a royal princess; and why will they compel me to give my hand only to a king’s son? Ay, you are right; it is not my father that has made this law, for my father’s proud soul has never been willing to submit to any such constraint of miserable etiquette. He has loved where he pleased; and no Parliament--no law--has been able to hinder him in this respect. I will be my father’s own daughter. I will not submit to this law!”
“Poor child!” said Catharine, “nevertheless you will be obliged to learn well how to submit; for one is not a princess without paying for it. No one asks whether our heart bleeds. They throw a purple robe over it, and though it be reddened with our heart’s blood, who then sees and suspects it? You are yet so young, Elizabeth; you yet hope so much!”
“I hope so much, because I have already suffered so much--my eyes have been already made to shed so many tears. I have already in my childhood had to take before-hand my share of the pain and sorrow of life; now I will demand my share of life’s pleasure and enjoyment also.”
“And who tells you that you shall not have it? This love forces on you no particular husband; it but gives you the proud right, once disputed, of seeking your husband among the princes of royal blood.”
“Oh,” cried Elizabeth, with flashing eyes, “if I should ever really be a queen, I should be prouder to choose a husband whom I might make a king, than such a one as would make me a queen. [Footnote: Elizabeth’s own words,--Leti, vol. ii, p. 62.] Oh, say yourself, Catharine, must it not be a high and noble pleasure to confer glory and greatness on one we love, to raise him in the omnipotence of our love high above all other men, and to lay our own greatness, our own glory, humbly at his feet, that he may be adorned therewith and make his own possession what is ours?”
“By Heaven, you are as proud and ambitious as a man!” said Catharine, smiling. “Your father’s own daughter! So thought Henry when he gave his hand to Anne Boleyn; so thought he when he exalted me to be his queen. But it behooves him thus to think and act, for he is a man.”
“He thought thus, because he loved--not because he was a man.”
“And you, too, Elizabeth--do you, too, think thus because you love?”
“Yes, I love!” exclaimed Elizabeth, as with an impulsive movement she threw herself into Catharine’s arms, and hid her blushing face in the queen’s bosom. “Yes, I love! I love like my father--regardless of my rank, of my birth; but feeling only that my lover is of equally high birth in the nobility of his sentiment, in his genius and noble mind; that he is my superior in all the great and fine qualities which should adorn a man, and yet are conferred on so few. Judge now, queen, whether that law there can make me happy. He whom I love is no prince--no son of a king.”
“Poor Elizabeth!” said Catharine, clasping the young girl fervently in her arms.
“And why do you bewail my fate, when it is in your power to make me happy?” asked Elizabeth, urgently.
“It was you who prevailed on the king to relieve me of the disgrace that rested on me; you will also have power over him to set aside this clause which contains my heart’s sentence of condemnation.”
Catharine shook her head with a sigh. “My power does not reach so far,” said she, sadly. “Ah, Elizabeth, why did you not put confidence in me? Why did you not let me know sooner that your heart cherished a love which is in opposition to this law? Why did you not tell your friend your dangerous secret?”
“Just because it is dangerous I concealed it from you; and just on that account I do not even now mention the name of the loved one. Queen, you shall not through me become a guilty traitoress against your husband; for you well know that he punishes every secret concealed from him as an act of high treason. No, queen; if I am a criminal, you shall not he my accomplice. Ah, it is always dangerous to be the confidant of such a secret. You see that in John Heywood. He alone was my confidant, and he betrayed me. I myself put the weapons into his hands, and he turned them against me.”
“No, no,” said Catharine, thoughtfully; “John Heywood is true and trusty, and incapable of treachery.”
“He has betrayed me!” exclaimed Elizabeth, impetuously. “He knew--he only--that I love, and that my beloved, though of noble, still is not of princely birth. Yet it was he, as you said yourself, who moved the king to introduce this paragraph into the act of succession.”
“Then, without doubt, he has wished to save you from an error of your heart.”
“No, he has been afraid of the danger of being privy to this secret, and at the cost of my heart and my happiness he wanted to escape this danger. But oh, Catharine, you are a noble, great and strong woman; you are incapable of such petty fear--such low calculation; therefore, stand by me; be my savior and protectress! By virtue of that oath which we have just now mutually taken--by virtue of that mutual clasp of the hands just given--I call you to my help and my assistance. Oh, Catharine, allow me this high pleasure, so full of blessing, of being at some time, perhaps, able to make him whom I love great and powerful by my will. Allow me this intoxicating delight of being able with my hand to offer to his ambition at once power and glory--it may be even a crown. Oh, Catharine, on my knees I conjure you--assist me to repeal this hated law, which wants to bind my heart and my hand!”
In passionate excitement she had fallen before the queen, and was holding up her hands imploringly to her.
Catharine, smiling, bent down and raised her up in her arms. “Enthusiast,” said she, “poor young enthusiast! Who knows whether you will thank me for it one day, if I accede to your wish; and whether you will not some time curse this hour which has brought you, perhaps, instead of the hoped-for pleasure, only a knowledge of your delusion and misery?”
“And were it even so,” cried Elizabeth, energetically, “still it is better to endure a wretchedness we ourselves have chosen, than to be forced to a happy lot. Say, Catharine--say, will you lend me your assistance? Will you induce the king to withdraw this hated clause? If you do it not, queen, I swear to you, by the soul of my mother, that I will not submit to this law; that I will solemnly, before all the world, renounce the privilege that is offered me; that I--” “You are a dear, foolish child,” interrupted Catharine--“a child, that in youthful presumption might dare wish to fetch the lightnings down from heaven, and borrow from Jupiter his thunderbolt. Oh, you are still too young and inexperienced to know that fate regards not our murmurs and our sighs, and, despite our reluctance and our refusal, still leads us in its own ways, not our own. You will have to learn that yet, poor child!”
“But I will not!” cried Elizabeth, stamping on the floor with all the pettishness of a child. “I will not ever and eternally be the victim of another’s will; and fate itself shall not have power to make me its slave!”
“Well, we will see now,” said Catharine, smiling. “We will try this time, at least, to contend against fate; and I will assist you if I can.”
“And I will love you for it as my mother and my sister at once,” cried Elizabeth, as with ardor she threw herself into Catharine’s arms. “Yes, I will love you for it; and I will pray God that He may one day give me the opportunity to show my gratitude, and to reward you for your magnanimity and goodness.”
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{
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28
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INTRIGUES.
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For a few days past the king’s gout had grown worse, and, to his wrath and grief, it confined him as a prisoner to his rolling chair.
The king was, therefore, very naturally gloomy and dejected, and hurled the lightnings of his wrath on all those who enjoyed the melancholy prerogative of being in his presence. His pains, instead of softening his disposition, seemed only to heighten still more his natural ferocity; and often might be heard through the palace of Whitehall the king’s angry growl, and his loud, thundering invectives, which no longer spared any one, nor showed respect for any rank or dignity.
Earl Douglas, Gardiner, and Wriothesley very well knew how to take advantage of this wrathful humor of the king for their purposes, and to afford the cruel monarch, tortured with pain, one satisfaction at least--the satisfaction of making others suffer also.
Never had there been seen in England so many burnt at the stake as in those days of the king’s sickness; never had the prisons been so crowded; never had so much blood flowed as King Henry now caused to be shed. [Footnote: During the king’s reign, and at the instigation of the clergy, twenty-eight hundred persons were burnt and executed, because they would not recognize the religious institutions established by the king as the only right and true ones. --Leti, vol. i, p. 34.] But all this did not yet suffice to appease the blood-thirstiness of the king, and his friends and counsellors, and his priests.
Still there remained untouched two mighty pillars of Protestantism that Gardiner and Wriothesley had to overthrow. These were the queen and Archbishop Cranmer.
Still there were two powerful and hated enemies whom the Seymours had to overcome; these were the Duke of Norfolk and his son, the Earl of Surrey.
But the various parties that in turn besieged the king’s ear and controlled it, were in singular and unheard-of opposition, and at the same time inflamed with bitterest enmity, and they strove to supplant each other in the favor of the king.
To the popish party of Gardiner and Earl Douglas, everything depended on dispossessing the Seymours of the king’s favor; and they, on the other hand, wanted above all things to continue in power the young queen, already inclined to them, and to destroy for the papists one of their most powerful leaders, the Duke of Norfolk.
The one party controlled the king’s ear through the queen; the other, through his favorite, Earl Douglas.
Never had the king been more gracious and affable to his consort--never had he required more Earl Douglas’s presence than in those days of his sickness and bodily anguish.
But there was yet a third party that occupied an important place in the king’s favor--a power which every one feared, and which seemed to keep itself perfectly independent and free from all foreign influences. This power was John Heywood, the king’s fool, the epigrammatist, who was dreaded by the whole court.
Only one person had influence with him. John Heywood was the friend of the queen. For the moment, then, it appeared as if the “heretical party,” of which the queen was regarded as the head, was the most powerful at court.
It was therefore very natural for the popish party to cherish an ardent hatred against the queen; very natural for them to be contriving new plots and machinations to ruin her and hurl her from the throne.
But Catharine knew very well the danger that threatened her, and she was on her guard. She watched her every look, her every word; and Gardiner and Douglas could not examine the queen’s manner of life each day and hour more suspiciously than she herself did.
She saw the sword that hung daily over her head; and, thanks to her prudence and presence of mind, thanks to the ever-thoughtful watchfulness and cunning of her friend Heywood! she had still known how to avoid the falling of that sword.
Since that fatal ride in the wood of Epping Forest, she had not again spoken to Thomas Seymour alone; for Catharine very well knew that everywhere, whithersoever she turned her steps, some spying eye might follow her, some listener’s ear might be concealed, which might hear her words, however softly whispered, and repeat them where they might be interpreted into a sentence of death against her.
She had, therefore, renounced the pleasure of speaking to her lover otherwise than before witnesses, and of seeing him otherwise than in the presence of her whole court.
What need had she either for secret meetings? What mattered it to her pure and innocent heart that she was not permitted to be alone with him? Still she might see him, and drink courage and delight from the sight of his haughty and handsome face; still she might be near him, and could listen to the music of his voice, and intoxicate her heart with his fine, euphonious and vigorous discourse.
Catharine, the woman of eight-and-twenty, had preserved the enthusiasm and innocence of a young girl of fourteen. Thomas Seymour was her first love; and she loved him with that purity and guileless warmth which is indeed peculiar to the first love only.
It sufficed her, therefore, to see him; to be near him; to know that he loved her; that he was true to her; that all his thoughts and wishes belonged to her, as hers to him.
And that she knew. For there ever remained to her the sweet enjoyment of his letters--of those passionately written avowals of his love. If she was not permitted to say also to him how warmly and ardently she returned this love, yet she could write it to him.
It was John Heywood, the true and discreet friend, that brought her these letters, and bore her answers to him, stipulating, as a reward for this dangerous commission, that they both should regard him as the sole confidant of their love; that both should burn up the letters which he brought them. He had not been able to hinder Catharine from this unhappy passion, but wanted at least to preserve her from the fatal consequences of it. Since he knew that this love needed a confidant, he assumed this role, that Catharine, in the vehemence of her passion and in the simplicity of her innocent heart, might not make others sharers of her dangerous secret.
John Heywood therefore watched over Catharine’s safety and happiness, as she watched over Thomas Seymour and her friends. He protected and guarded her with the king, as she guarded Cranmer, and protected him from the constantly renewed assaults of his enemies.
This it was that they could never forgive the queen--that she had delivered Cranmer, the noble and liberal-minded Archbishop of Canterbury, from their snares. More than once Catharine had succeeded in destroying their intriguing schemes, and in rending the nets that Gardiner and Earl Douglas, with so sly and skilful a hand, had spread for Cranmer.
If, therefore, they would overthrow Cranmer, they must first overthrow the queen. For this there was a real means--a means of destroying at once the queen and the hated Seymours, who stood in the way of the papists.
If they could prove to the king that Catharine entertained criminal intercourse with Thomas Seymour, then were they both lost; then were the power and glory of the papists secured.
But whence to fetch the proofs of this dangerous secret, which the crafty Douglas had read only in Catharine’s eyes, and for which he had no other support than his bare conviction? How should they begin to influence the queen to some inconsiderate step, to a speaking witness of her love?
Time hung so heavily on the king’s hands! It would have been so easy to persuade him to some cruel deed--to a hasty sentence of death!
But it was not the blood of the Seymours for which the king thirsted. Earl Douglas very well knew that. He who observed the king day and night--he who examined and sounded his every sigh, each of his softly murmured words, every twitch of his mouth, every wrinkle of his brow--he well knew what dark and bloody thoughts stirred the king’s soul, and whose blood it was for which he thirsted.
The royal tiger would drink the blood of the Howards; and that they still lived in health, and abundance, and glory, while he, their king and master, lonely and sad, was tossing on his couch in pain and agony--that was the worm which gnawed at the king’s heart, which made his pains yet more painful, his tortures yet keener.
The king was jealous--jealous of the power and greatness of the Howards. It filled him with gloomy hatred to think that the Duke of Norfolk, when he rode through the streets of London, was everywhere received with the acclamations and rejoicing of the people, while he, the king, was a prisoner in his palace. It was a gnawing pain for him to know that Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, was praised as the handsomest and greatest man of England; that he was called the noblest poet; the greatest scholar; while yet he, the king, had also composed his poems and written his learned treatises, aye, even a particular devout book, which he had printed for his people, and ordered them to read instead of the Bible. [Footnote: Burnet, vol. i, p. 95.]
It was the Howards who everywhere disputed his fame. The Howards supplanted him in the favor of his people, and usurped the love and admiration which were due to the king alone, and which should be directed toward no one but him. He lay on his bed of pain, and without doubt the people would have forgotten him, if he had not by the block, the stake, and the scaffold, daily reminded them of himself. He lay on his bed of pain, while the duke, splendid and magnificent, exhibited himself to the people and transported them with enthusiasm by the lavish and kingly generosity with which he scattered his money among the populace.
Yes, the Duke of Norfolk was the king’s dangerous rival. The crown was not secure upon his head so long as the Howards lived. And who could conjecture whether in time to come, when Henry closed his eyes, the exultant love of the people might not call to the throne the Duke of Norfolk, or his noble son, the Earl of Surrey, instead of the rightful heir--instead of the little boy Edward, Henry’s only son?
When the king thought of that, he had a feeling as though a stream of fire were whirling up to his brain; and he convulsively clenched his hands, and screamed and roared that he would take vengeance--vengeance on those hated Howards, who wanted to snatch the crown from his son.
Edward, the little boy of tender age--he alone was the divinely consecrated, legitimate heir to the king’s crown. It had cost his father so great a sacrifice to give his people this son and successor! In order to do it, he had sacrificed Jane Seymour, his own beloved wife; he had let the mother be put to death, in order to preserve the son, the heir of his crown.
And the people did not once thank the king for this sacrifice that Jane Seymour’s husband had made for them. The people received with shouts the Duke of Norfolk, the father of that adulterous queen whom Henry loved so much that her infidelity had struck him like the stab of a poisoned dagger.
These were the thoughts that occupied the king on his bed of pain, and upon which he dwelt with all the wilfulness and moodiness of a sick man.
“We shall have to sacrifice these Howards to him!” said Earl Douglas to Gardiner, as they had just again listened to a burst of rage from their royal master. “If we would at last succeed in ruining the queen, we must first destroy the Howards.”
The pious bishop looked at him inquiringly, and in astonishment.
Earl Douglas smiled. “Your highness is too exalted and noble to be always able to comprehend the things of this world. Your look, which seeks only God and heaven, does not always see the petty and pitiful things that happen here on the earth below.”
“Oh, but,” said Gardiner, with a cruel smile, “I see them, and it charms my eye when I see how God’s vengeance punishes the enemies of the Church here on earth. Set up then, by all means, a stake or a scaffold for these Howards, if their death can be to us a means to our pious and godly end. You are certain of my blessing and my assistance. Only I do not quite comprehend how the Howards can stand in the way of our plots which are formed against the queen, inasmuch as they are numbered among the queen’s enemies, and profess themselves of the Church in which alone is salvation.”
“The Earl of Surrey is an apostate, who has opened his ear and heart to the doctrines of Calvin!”
“Then let his head fall, for he is a criminal before God, and no one ought to have compassion on him! And what is there that we lay to the charge of the father?”
“The Duke of Norfolk is well-nigh yet more dangerous than his son; for although a Catholic, he has not nevertheless the right faith; and his soul is full of unholy sympathy and injurious mildness. He bewails those whose blood is shed because they were devoted to the false doctrine of the priests of Baal; and-he calls us both the king’s blood-hounds.”
“Well, then,” cried Gardiner with an uneasy, dismal smile, “we will show him that he has called us by the right name; we will rend him in pieces!”
“Besides, as we have said, the Howards stand in the way of our schemes in relation to the queen,” said Earl Douglas, earnestly. “The king’s mind is so completely filled with this one hatred and this one jealousy, that there is no room in it for any other feeling, for any other hate. It is true he signs often enough these death-warrants which we lay before him; but he does it, as the lion, with utter carelessness and without anger, crushes the little mouse that is by chance under his paws. But if the lion is to rend in pieces his equal, he must beforehand be put into a rage. When he is raging, then you must let him have his prey. The Howards shall be his first prey. But, then, we must exert ourselves, that when the lion again shakes his mane his wrath may fall upon Catharine Parr and the Seymours.”
“The Lord our God will be with us, and enlighten us, that we may find the right means to strike His enemies a sure blow!” exclaimed Gardiner, devoutly folding his hands.
“I believe the right means are already found,” said Earl Douglas, with a smile; “and even before this day descends to its close, the gates of the Tower will open to receive this haughty and soft-hearted Duke of Norfolk and this apostate Earl Surrey. Perchance we may even succeed in striking at one blow the queen together with the Howards. See! an equipage stops before the grand entrance, and I see the Duchess of Norfolk and her daughter, the Duchess of Richmond, getting out of the carriage. Only see! they are making signs to us. I have promised to conduct these two noble and pious ladies to the king, and I shall do so. Whilst we are there, pray for us, your highness, that our words, like well-aimed arrows, may strike the king’s heart, and then rebound upon the queen and the Seymours!”
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{
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29
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THE ACCUSATION.
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In vain had the king hoped to master his pains, or at least to forget them, while he tried to sleep. Sleep had fled from the king’s couch; and as he now sat in his rolling-chair, sad, weary, and harassed with pain, he thought, with gloomy spite, that the Duke of Norfolk told him but yesterday that sleep was a thing under his control, and he could summon it to him whenever it seemed good to him. This thought made him raving with anger; and grinding his teeth, he muttered: “He can sleep; and I, his lord and king--I am a beggar that in vain whines to God above for a little sleep, a little forgetfulness of his pains! But it is this traitorous Norfolk that prevents me from sleeping. Thoughts of him keep me awake and restless. And I cannot crush this traitor with these hands of mine; I am a king, and yet so powerless and weak, that I can find no means of accusing this traitor, and convicting him of his sinful and blasphemous deeds. Oh, where may I find him--that true friend, that devoted servant, who ventures to understand my unuttered thoughts, and fulfil the wishes to which I dare not give a name?”
Just as he was thus thinking, the door behind him opened and in walked Earl Douglas. His countenance was proud and triumphant, and so wild a joy gleamed from his eyes that even the king was surprised at it.
“Oh,” said he, peevishly, “you call yourself my friend; and you are cheerful, Douglas, while your king is a poor prisoner whom the gout has chained with brazen bands to this chair.”
“You will recover, my king, and go forth from this imprisonment as the conqueror, dazzling and bright, that by his appearance under God’s blessing treads all his enemies in the dust--that triumphs over all those who are against him, and would betray their king!”
“Are there, then, any such traitors, who threaten their king?” asked Henry, with a dark frown.
“Ay, there are such traitors!”
“Name them to me!” said the king, trembling with passionate impatience. “Name them to me, that my arm may crush them and my avenging justice overtake the heads of the guilty.”
“It is superfluous to mention them, for you, King Henry, the wise and all-knowing--you know their names.”
And bending down closer to the king’s ear, Earl Douglas continued: “King Henry, I certainly have a right to call myself your most faithful and devoted servant, for I have read your thoughts. I have understood the noble grief that disturbs your heart, and banishes sleep from your eyes and peace from your soul. You saw the foe that was creeping in the dark; you heard the low hiss of the serpent that was darting his venomous sting at your heel. But you were so much the noble and intrepid king, that you would not yourself become the accuser--nay, you would not once draw back the foot menaced by the serpent. Great and merciful, like God Himself, you smiled upon him whom you knew to be your enemy. But I, my king--I have other duties. I am like the faithful dog, that has eyes only for the safety of his master, and falls upon every one that comes to menace him. I have seen the serpent that would kill you, and I will bruise his head!”
“And what is the name of this serpent of which you speak?” asked the king; and his heart beat so boisterously that he felt it on his trembling lips.
“It is called,” said Earl Douglas, earnestly and solemnly--“it is called Howard!”
The king uttered a cry, and, forgetting his gout and his pains, arose from his chair.
“Howard!” said he, with a cruel smile. “Say you that a Howard threatens our life? Which one is it? Name me the traitor!”
“I name them both--father and son! I name the Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Surrey! I say that they both are traitors, who threaten the life and honor of my king, and with blasphemous arrogance dare stretch out their hands even to the crown!”
“Ah, I knew it, I knew it!” screamed the king. “And it was this that made me sleepless, and ate into my body like red-hot iron.”
And as he fastened on Douglas his eyes flashing with rage, he asked, with a grim smile: “Can you prove that these Howards are traitors? Can you prove that they aim at my crown?”
“I hope to be able to do so,” said Douglas. “To be sure, there are no great convincing facts--” “Oh,” said the king, interrupting him with a savage laugh, “there is no need of great facts. Give into my hand but a little thread, and I will make out of it a cord strong enough to haul the father and son up to the gallows at one time.”
“Oh, for the son there is proof enough,” said the earl, with a smile: “and as regards the father, I will produce your majesty some accusers against him, who will be important enough to bring the duke also to the block. Will you allow me to bring them to you immediately?”
“Yes, bring them, bring them!” cried the king. “Every minute is precious that may lead these traitors sooner to their punishment.”
Earl Douglas stepped to the door and opened it. Three veiled female figures entered and bowed reverentially.
“Ah,” whispered the king, with a cruel smile, as he sank back again into his chair, “they are the three Fates that spin the Howards’ thread of life, and will now, it is to be hoped, break it off. I will furnish them with the scissors for it; and if they are not sharp enough, I will, with my own royal hands, help them to break the thread.”
“Sire,” said Earl Douglas, as, at a sign from him, the three women unveiled themselves--“sire, the wife, the daughter, and the mistress of the Duke of Norfolk have come to accuse him of high treason. The mother and the sister of the Earl of Surrey are here to charge him with a crime equally worthy of death.”
“Now verily,” exclaimed the king, “it must be a grievous and blasphemous sin which so much exasperates the temper of these noble women, and makes them deaf to the voice of nature!”
“It is indeed such a sin,” said the Duchess of Norfolk, in a solemn tone; and, approaching a few paces nearer to the king, she continued: “Sire, I accuse the duke, my divorced husband, of high treason and disloyalty to his king. He has been so bold as to appropriate your own royal coat-of-arms; and on his seal and equipage, and over the entrance of his palace, are displayed the arms of the kings of England.”
“That is true,” said the king, who, now that he was certain of the destruction of the Howards, had regained his calmness and self-possession, and perfectly reassumed the air of a strict, impartial judge. “Yes, he bears the royal arms on his shield, but yet, if we remember rightly, the crown and paraph of our ancestor Edward the Third are wanting.”
“He has now added this crown and this paraph to his coat-of-arms,” said Miss Holland. “He says he is entitled to them; for that, like the king, he also is descended in direct line from Edward the Third; and, therefore, the royal arms belong likewise to him.”
“If he says that, he is a traitor who presumes to call his king and master his equal,” cried the king, coloring up with a grim joy at now at length having his enemy in his power.
“He is indeed a traitor,” continued Miss Holland. “Often have I heard him say he had the same right to the throne of England as Henry the Eighth; and that a day might come when he would contend with Henry’s son for that crown.”
“Ah,” cried the king, and his eyes darted flashes so fierce that even Earl Douglas shrank before them, “ah, he will contend with my son for the crown of England! It is well, now; for now it is my sacred duty, as a king and as a father, to crush this serpent that wants to bite me on the heel; and no compassion and no pity ought now to restrain me longer. And were there no other proofs of his guilt and his crime than these words that he has spoken to you, yet are they sufficient, and will rise up against him, like the hangman’s aids who are to conduct him to the block.”
“But there are yet other proofs,” said Miss Holland, laconically.
The king was obliged to unbutton his doublet. It seemed as though joy would suffocate him.
“Name them!” commanded he.
“He dares deny the king’s supremacy; he calls the Bishop of Rome the sole head and holy Father of the Church.”
“Ah, does he so?” exclaimed the king, laughing. “Well, we shall see now whether this holy Father will save this faithful son from the scaffold which we will erect for him. Yes, yes, we must give the world a new example of our incorruptible justice, which overtakes every one, however high and mighty he may be, and however near our throne he may stand. Really, really, it grieves our heart to lay low this oak which we had planted so near our throne, that we might lean upon it and support ourselves by it; but justice demands this sacrifice, and we will make it--not in wrath and spite, but only to meet the sacred and painful duty of our royalty. We have greatly loved this duke, and it grieves us to tear this love from our heart.”
And with his hand, glittering with jewels, the king wiped from his eyes the tears which were not there.
“But how?” asked the king, then, after a pause, “will you have the courage to repeat your accusation publicly before Parliament? Will you, his wife, and you, his mistress, publicly swear with a sacred oath to the truth of your declaration?”
“I will do so,” said the duchess, solemnly, “for he is no longer my husband, no longer the father of my children, but simply the enemy of my king; and to serve him is my most sacred duty.”
“I will do so,” cried Miss Holland, with a bewitching smile; “for he is no longer my lover, but only a traitor, an atheist, who is audacious enough to recognize as the holy head of Christendom that man at Rome who has dared to hurl his curse against the sublime head of our king. It is this, indeed, that has torn my heart from the duke, and that has made me now hate him as ardently as I once loved him.”
With a gracious smile, the king presented both his hands to the two women. “You have done me a great service to-day, my ladies,” said he, “and I will find a way to reward you for it. I will give you, duchess, the half of his estate, as though you were his rightful heir and lawful widow. And you, Miss Holland, I will leave in undisputed possession of all the goods and treasures that the enamored duke has given you.”
The two ladies broke out into loud expressions of thanks and into enthusiastic rapture over the liberal and generous king, who was so gracious as to give them what they already had, and to bestow on them what was already their own property.
“Well, and are you wholly mute, my little duchess,” asked the king after a pause, turning to the Duchess of Richmond, who had withdrawn to the embrasure of a window.
“Sire,” said the duchess, smiling, “I was only waiting for my cue.”
“And this cue is--” “Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey! As your majesty knows, I am a merry and harmless woman; and I understand better how to laugh and joke than to talk much seriously. The two noble and fair ladies have accused the duke, my father; and they have done so in a very dignified and solemn manner. I wish to accuse my brother, Henry Howard; but you must exercise forbearance, if my words sound less solemn and elevated. They have told you, sire, that the Duke of Norfolk is a traitor and a criminal who denominates the Pope of Rome, and not you, my exalted king, the head of the Church. Now, the Earl of Surrey is neither a traitor nor a papist; and he has neither devised criminal plots against the throne of England, nor has he denied the supremacy of the king. No, sire, the Earl of Surrey is no traitor and no papist!”
The duchess paused, and looked with a malicious and droll smile into the astonished faces of those present.
A dark frown gathered on the king’s brow, and his eyes, which just before had looked so cheerful, were now fixed with an angry expression on the young duchess.
“Why, then, my lady, have you made your appearance here?” asked he. “Why have you come here, if you have nothing further to say than what I already know--that the Earl of Surrey is a very loyal subject, and a man without any ambition, who neither courts the favor of my people nor thinks of laying his traitorous hands on my crown?”
The young duchess shook her head with a smile. “I know not whether he does all that,” said she. “I have indeed heard that he said, with bitter scorn, that you, my king, wanted to be the protector of religion, yet you yourself were entirely without religion and without belief. Also, he of late broke out into bitter curses against you, because you had robbed him of his field-marshal’s staff, and given it to Earl Hertford, that noble Seymour. Also, he meant to see whether the throne of England were so firm and steady that it had no need of his hand and his arm to prop it. All that I have of course heard from him; but you are right, sire, it is unimportant--it is not worth mentioning, and therefore I do not even make it as an accusation against him.”
“Ah, you are always a mad little witch, Rosabella!” cried the king, who had regained his cheerfulness. “You say you will not accuse him, and yet you make his head a plaything that you poise upon your crimson lips. But take care, my little duchess--take care, that this head does not fall from your lips with your laughing, and roll down to the ground; for I will not stop it--this head of the Earl of Surrey, of whom you say that he is no traitor.”
“But is it not monotonous and tiresome, if we accuse the father and son of the same crime?” asked the duchess, laughing. “Let us have a little variation. Let the duke be a traitor; the son, my king, is by far a worse criminal!”
“Is there, then, a still worse and more execrable crime than to be a traitor to his king and master, and to speak of the anointed of the Lord without reverence and love?”
“Yes, your majesty, there is a still worse crime; and of that I accuse the Earl of Surrey. He is an adulterer!”
“An adulterer!” repeated the king, with an expression of abhorrence. “Yes, my lady, you are right; that is a more execrable and unnatural crime, and we shall judge it strictly. For it shall not be said that modesty and virtue found no protector in the king of this land, and that he will not as a judge punish and crash all those who dare sin against decency and morals. Oh, the Earl of Surrey is an adulterer, is he?”
“That is to say, sire, he dares with his sinful love to pursue a virtuous and chaste wife. He dares to raise his wicked looks to a woman who stands as high above him as the sun above mortals, and who, at least by the greatness and high position of her husband, should be secure from all impure desires and lustful wishes.”
“Ah,” cried the king, indignantly, “I see already whither that tends. It is always the same accusation; and now I say, as you did just now, let us have a little variation! The accusation I have already often heard; but the proofs are always wanting.”
“Sire, this time, it may be, we can give the proofs,” said the duchess, earnestly. “Would you know, my noble king, who the Geraldine is to whom Henry Howard addresses his love-songs? Shall I tell you the real name of this woman to whom, in the presence of your sacred person and of your whole court, he uttered his passionate protestations of love and his oath of eternal faithfulness? Well, now, this Geraldine--so adored, so deified--is the queen!”
“That is not true!” cried the king, crimson with anger; and he clenched his hands so firmly about the arms of his chair that it cracked. “That is not true, my lady!”
“It is true!” said the duchess, haughtily and saucily. “It is true, sire, for the Earl of Surrey has confessed to me myself that it is the queen whom he loves, and that Geraldine is only a melodious appellation for Catharine.”
“He has confessed it to you yourself?” inquired the king, with gasping breath. “Ah, he dares love his king’s wife? Woe to him, woe!”
He raised his clenched fist threateningly to heaven, and his eyes darted lightning. “But how!” said he, after a pause--“has he not recently read before us a poem to his Geraldine, in which he thanks her for her love, and acknowledges himself eternally her debtor for the kiss she gave him?”
“He has read before your majesty such a poem to Geraldine.”
The king uttered a low cry, and raised himself in his seat. “Proofs,” said he, in a hoarse, hollow voice--“proofs--or, I tell you, your own head shall atone for this accusation!”
“This proof, your majesty, I will give you!” said Earl Douglas, solemnly. “It pleases your majesty, in the fulness of your gentleness and mercy, to want to doubt the accusation of the noble duchess. Well, now, I will furnish you infallible proof that Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, really loves the queen, and that he really dares to extol and adore the king’s wife as his Geraldine. You shall with your own ears, sire, hear how Earl Surrey swears his love to the queen.”
The scream which the king now uttered was so frightful, and gave evidence of so much inward agony and rage, that it struck the earl dumb, and made the cheeks of the ladies turn pale.
“Douglas, Douglas, beware how you rouse the lion!” gasped the king. “The lion might rend you yourself in pieces!”
“This very night I will give you the proof that you demand, sire. This very night you shall hear how Earl Surrey, sitting at the feet of his Geraldine, swears to her his love.”
“It is well!” said the king. “This night, then! Woe to you, Douglas, if you cannot redeem your word!”
“I will do so, your majesty. For this, it is only necessary that you will be graciously pleased to swear to me that you will not, by a sigh or a breath, betray yourself. The earl is suspicious; and the fear of an evil conscience has sharpened his ear. He would recognize you by your sigh, and his lips would not speak those words and avowals which you desire to hear.”
“I swear to you that I will not by any sigh or breath betray my presence!” said the king, solemnly. “I swear this to you by the holy mother of God! But now let that suffice. Air--air--I suffocate! Everything swims before my eyes. Open the window, that a little air may flow in! Ah! that is good! This air at least is pure, and not infected with sin and slander!”
And the king had Earl Douglas roll him to the opened window, and inspired in long draughts that pure fresh air. Then he turned to the ladies with an agreeable smile.
“My ladies,” said he, “I thank you! You have to-day shown yourselves my true and devoted friends! I shall ever remember it, and I beg of you, if at any time you need a friend and protector, to apply to us with all confidence. We shall never forget what great service you have to-day rendered us.”
He nodded to them in a friendly manner, whilst, with a majestic wave of the hand, he dismissed them, and concluded the audience.
“And now, Douglas,” exclaimed the king, vehemently, as soon as the ladies had retired--“now I have had enough of this dreadful torture! Oh, you say I am to punish the traitors--these Surreys--and you inflict on me the most frightful pains of the rack!”
“Sire, there was no other means of delivering up this Surrey to you. You were wishing that he were a criminal; and I shall prove to you that he is so.”
“Oh, I shall then be able at least to tread his hated head under my feet,” said the king, grinding his teeth. “I shall no more tremble before this malicious enemy, who goes about among my people with his hypocritical tongue, while I, tortured with pain, sit in the dungeon of my sickroom. Yes, yes, I thank you, Douglas, that you will hand him over to my arm of vengeance; and my soul is full of joy and serenity at it. Ah, why were you obliged to cloud this fair, this sublime hour? Why was it necessary to weave the queen into this gloomy web of guilt and crime? Her cheerful smile and her radiant looks have ever been an enjoyment so dear to my eyes.”
“Sire, I do not by any means say that the queen is guilty. Only there was no other means to prove to you Earl Surrey’s guilt than that you should hear for yourself his confession of love to the queen.”
“And I will hear it!” cried the king, who had now already overcome the sentimental emotion of his heart.
“Yes, I will have full conviction of Surrey’s guilt; and woe to the queen, should I find her also guilty! This night, then, earl! But till then, silence and secrecy! We will have father and son seized and imprisoned at the same hour; for otherwise the imprisonment of the one might easily serve as a warning to the other, and he might escape my just wrath. Ah, they are so sly--these Howards--and their hearts are so full of cunning and malice! But now they shall escape me no more; now they are ours! How it does me good to think that! And how briskly and lightly my heart leaps! It is as though a stream of new life were rushing through my veins, and a new power were infused into my blood. Oh, it was these Howards that made me sick. I shall be well again when I know that they are in the Tower. Yes, yes, my heart leaps with joy, and this is to be a happy and blessed day. Call the queen hither to me, that I may once more enjoy her rosy face before I make it turn pale with terror. Yes, let the queen come, and let her adorn herself; I want to see her once more in the full splendor of her youth and her royalty, before her star goes out in darkness. I will once more delight myself with her before I make her weep. Ah, know you, Douglas, that there is no enjoyment keener, more devilish, and more heavenly, than to see such a person who smiles and suspects nothing, while she is already condemned; who still adorns her head with roses, while the executioner is already sharpening the axe that is to lay that head low; who still has hopes of the future, and of joy and happiness, while her hour of life has already run out; while I have already bidden her stop and descend into the grave! So, call the queen to me; and tell her that we are in a merry mood, and want to jest and laugh with her! Call all the ladies and lords of our court; and have the royal saloons opened; and let them be radiant with the brilliancy of the lights; and let us have music--loud, crashing music--for we want at least to make this a merry day for us since it seems as though we should have a sad and unhappy night. Yes, yes, a merry day we will have; and after that, let come what come may! The saloons shall resound with laughter and joyfulness; and naught but rejoicing and fun shall be heard in the great royal saloons. And invite also the Duke of Norfolk, my noble cousin, who shares with me my royal coat-of-arms. Yes, invite him, that I may enjoy once more his haughty and imposing beauty and grandeur before this august sun is extinguished and leaves us again in night and darkness. Then invite also Wriothesley, the high chancellor, and let him bring with him a few gallant and brave soldiers of our body-guard. They are to be the noble duke’s suite, when he wishes to leave our feast and go homeward--homeward--if not to his palace, yet to the Tower, and to the grave. Go, go, Douglas, and attend to all this for me! And send me here directly my merry fool, John Heywood. He must pass away the time for me till the feast begins. He must make me laugh and be gay.”
“I will go and fulfil your orders, sire,” said Earl Douglas. “I will order the feast, and impart your commands to the queen and your court. And first of all, I will send John Heywood to you. But pardon me, your majesty, if I venture to remind you that you have given me your royal word not to betray our secret by a single syllable, or even by a sigh.”
“I gave my word, and I will keep it!” said the king. “Go now, Earl Douglas, and do what I have bidden you!”
Wholly exhausted by this paroxysm of cruel delight, the king sank back in his seat, and moaning and groaning he rubbed his leg, the piercing pains of which he had for a moment forgotten, but which now reminded him of their presence with so much the more cruel fury.
“Ah, ah!” moaned the king. “He boasts of being able to sleep when he pleases. Well, this time we will be the one to lull this haughty earl to sleep. But it will be a sleep out of which he is never to awake again!”
While the king thus wailed and suffered, Earl Douglas hastened with quick, firm step through the suite of royal apartments. A proud, triumphant smile played about his lips, and a joyful expression of victory flashed from his eyes.
“Triumph! triumph! we shall conquer!” said he, as he now entered his daughter’s chamber and extended his hand to Lady Jane. “Jane, we have at last reached the goal, and you will soon be King Henry’s seventh wife!”
A rosy shimmer flitted for a moment over Lady Jane’s pale, colorless cheeks, and a smile played about her lips--a smile, however, which was more sad than loud sobs could have been.
“Ah,” said she in a low tone, “I fear only that my poor head will be too weak to wear a royal crown.”
“Courage, courage, Jane, lift up your head, and be again my strong, proud daughter!”
“But, I suffer so much, my father,” sighed she. “It is hell that burns within me!”
“But soon, Jane, soon you shall feel again the bliss of heaven! I had forbidden you to grant Henry Howard a meeting, because it might bring us danger. Well, then, now your tender heart shall be satisfied. To-night you shall embrace your lover again!”
“Oh,” murmured she, “he will again call me his Geraldine, and it will not be I, but the queen, that he kisses in my arms!”
“Yes, to-day, it will still be so, Jane; but I swear to you that to-day is the last time that you are obliged to receive him thus.”
“The last time that I see him?” asked Jane, with an expression of alarm.
“No, Jane, only the last time that Henry Howard loves in you the queen, and not you yourself.”
“Oh, he will never love me!” murmured she, sadly.
“He will love you, for you it will be that will save his life. Hasten, then. Jane, haste! Write him quickly one of those tender notes that you indite with so masterly a hand. Invite him to a meeting to-night at the usual time and place.”
“Oh, I shall at last have him again!” whispered Lady Jane; and she stepped to the writing-table and with trembling hand began to write.
But suddenly she stopped, and looked at her father sharply and suspiciously.
“You swear to me, my father, that no danger threatens him if he comes?”
“I swear to you, Jane, that you shall be the one to save his life! I swear to you, Jane, that you shall take vengeance on the queen--vengeance for all the agony, the humiliation and despair that you have suffered by her. To-day she is yet Queen of England! To-morrow she will be nothing more than a criminal, who sighs in the confinement of the Tower for the hour of her execution. And you will be Henry’s seventh queen. Write, then, my daughter, write! And may love dictate to you the proper words!”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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30
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THE FEAST OF DEATH.
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For a long time the king had not appeared in such good spirits as on this festive evening. For a long time he had not been so completely the tender husband, the good-natured companion, the cheerful bon-vivant.
The pains of his leg seemed to have disappeared, and even the weight of his body seemed to be less burdensome than usual, for more than once he rose from his chair, and walked a few steps through the brilliantly lighted saloon, in which the ladies and lords of his court, in festive attire, were moving gently to and fro; in which music and laughter resounded. How tender he showed himself toward the queen to-day; with what extraordinary kindness he met the Duke of Norfolk; with what smiling attention, he listened to the Earl of Surrey, as he, at the king’s desire, recited some new sonnets to Geraldine!
This marked preference for the noble Howards enraptured the Roman Catholic party at court, and filled it with new hopes and new confidence.
But one there was who did not allow himself to be deceived by this mask which King Henry had to-day put on over his wrathful face.
John Heywood had faith neither in the king’s cheerfulness nor in his tenderness. He knew the king; he was aware that those to whom he was most friendly often had the most to fear from him. Therefore, he watched him; and he saw, beneath this mask of friendliness, the king’s real angry countenance sometimes flash out in a quick, hasty look.
The resounding music and the mad rejoicing no more deceived John Heywood. He beheld Death standing behind this dazzling life; he smelt the reek of corruption concealed beneath the perfume of these brilliant flowers.
John Heywood no longer laughed and no longer chatted. He watched.
For the first time in a long while the king did not need to-day the exciting jest and the stinging wit of his fool in order to be cheerful and in good humor.
So the fool had time and leisure to be a reasonable and observant man; and he improved the time.
He saw the looks of mutual understanding and secure triumph that Earl Douglas exchanged with Gardiner, and it made him mistrustful to notice that the favorites of the king, at other times so jealous, did not seem to be at all disturbed by the extraordinary marks of favor which the Howards were enjoying this evening.
Once he heard how Gardiner asked Wriothesley, as he passed by, “And the soldiers of the Tower?” and how he replied just as laconically, “They stand near the coach, and wait.”
It was, therefore, perfectly clear that somebody would be committed to prison this very day. There was, therefore, among the laughing, richly-attired, and jesting guests of this court, one who this very night, when he left these halls radiant with splendor and pleasure, was to behold the dark and gloomy chambers of the Tower.
The only question was, who that one was for whom the brilliant comedy of this evening was to be changed to so sad a drama.
John Heywood felt his heart oppressed with an unaccountable apprehension, and the king’s extraordinary tenderness toward the queen terrified him.
As now he smiled on Catharine, as he now stroked her cheeks, so had the king smiled on Anne Boleyn in the same hour that he ordered her arrest; so had he stroked Buckingham’s cheek on the same day that he signed his death-warrant.
The fool was alarmed at this brilliant feast, resounding music, and the mad merriment of the king. He was horrified at the laughing faces and frivolous jests, which came streaming from all those mirthful lips.
O Heaven! they laughed, and death was in the midst of them; they laughed, and the gates of the Tower were already opened to admit one of those merry guests of the king into that house which no one in those days of Henry the Eighth left again, save to go to the stake or to ascend the scaffold!
Who was the condemned? For whom were the soldiers below at the carriage waiting? John Heywood in vain racked his brain with this question.
Nowhere could he spy a trace that might lead him on the right track; nowhere a clew that might conduct him through this labyrinth of horrors.
“When you are afraid of the devil, you do well to put yourself under his immediate protection,” muttered John Heywood; and sad and despondent at heart, he crept behind the king’s throne and crouched down by it on the ground.
John Heywood had such a little, diminutive form, and the king’s throne was so large and broad, that it altogether concealed the little crouching fool.
No one had noticed that John Heywood was concealed there behind the king. Nobody saw his large, keen eyes peeping out from behind the throne and surveying and watching the whole hall.
John Heywood could see everything and hear everything going on in the vicinity of the king. He could observe every one who approached the queen.
He saw Lady Jane likewise, who was standing by the queen’s seat. He saw how Earl Douglas drew near his daughter, and how she turned deadly pale as he stepped up to her.
John Heywood held his breath and listened.
Earl Douglas stood near his daughter, and nodded to her with a peculiar smile. “Go, now, Jane, go and change your dress. It is time. Only see how impatiently and longingly Henry Howard is already looking this way, and with what languishing and enamored glances he seems to give a hint to the queen. Go then, Jane, and think of your promise.”
“And will you, my father, also think of your promise?” inquired Lady Jane, with trembling lips. “Will no danger threaten him?”
“I will, Jane. But now make haste, my daughter, and be prudent and adroit.”
Lady Jane bowed, and murmured a few unintelligible words. Then she approached the queen, and begged permission to retire from the feast, because a severe indisposition had suddenly overtaken her.
Lady Jane’s countenance was so pale and deathlike, that the queen might well believe in the indisposition of her first maid of honor, and she allowed her to retire. Lady Jane left the hall. The queen continued the conversation with Lord Hertford, who was standing by her. It was a very lively and warm conversation, and the queen therefore did not heed what was passing around her; and she heard nothing of the conversation between the king and Earl Douglas.
John Heywood, still crouching behind the king’s throne, observed everything and heard every word of this softly whispered conversation.
“Sire,” said Earl Douglas, “it is late and the hour of midnight is drawing nigh. Will your majesty be pleased to conclude the feast? For you well know that at mid-night we must be over there in the green summer-house, and it is a long way there.”
“Yes, yes, at midnight!” muttered the king. “At midnight the carnival is at an end; and we shall tear off our mask, and show our wrathful countenance to the criminals! At midnight we must be over in the green summer-house. Yes, Douglas, we must make haste; for it would be cruel to let the tender Surrey wait still longer. So we will give his Geraldine liberty to leave the feast; and we ourselves must begin our journey. Ah, Douglas, it is a hard path that we have to tread, and the furies and gods of vengeance bear our torches. To work, then--to work!”
The king arose from his seat, and stepped to the queen, to whom he presented his hand with a tender smile.
“My lady, it is late,” said he; “and we, who are king of so many subjects--we are, nevertheless, in turn, the subject of a king. This is the physician, and we must obey him. He has ordered me to seek my couch before midnight, and, as a loyal subject must do, I obey. We wish you, therefore, a good-night, Kate; and may your beautiful eyes on the morrow also shine as starlike as they do to-night.”
“They will shine to-morrow as to-night, if my lord and husband is still as gracious to me to-morrow as to-day,” said Catharine, with perfect artlessness and without embarrassment, as she gave her hand to the king. Henry cast on her a suspicious, searching look, and a peculiar, malicious expression was manifested in his face.
“Do you believe then, Kate, that we can ever be ungracious to you?” asked he.
“As to that, I think,” said she, with a smile, “that even the sun does not always shine; and that a gloomy night always succeeds his splendor.”
The king did not reply. He looked her steadily in the face, and his features suddenly assumed a gentler expression.
Perhaps he had compassion on his young wife. Perhaps he felt pity for her youth and her enchanting smile, which had so often revived and refreshed his heart.
Earl Douglas at least feared so.
“Sire,” said he, “it is late. The hour of midnight is drawing nigh.”
“Then let us go,” exclaimed the king, with a sigh. “Yes once again, good-night, Kate! Nay, do not accompany me! I will leave the hall quite unobserved; and I shall be pleased, if my guests will still prolong the fair feast till morning. All of you remain here! No one but Douglas accompanies me.”
“And your brother, the fool!” said John Heywood, who long before had come out of his hiding-place and was now standing by the king. “Yes, come, brother Henry; let us quit this feast. It is not becoming for wise men of our sort to grant our presence still longer to the feast of fools. Come to your couch, king, and I will lull your ear to sleep with the sayings of my wisdom, and enliven your soul with the manna of my learning.”
While John Heywood thus spoke, it did not escape him that the features of the earl suddenly clouded and a dark frown settled on his brow.
“Spare your wisdom for to-day, John,” said the king; “for you would indeed be preaching only to deaf ears. I am tired, and I require not your erudition, but sleep. Good-night, John.”
The king left the hall, leaning on Earl Douglas’s arm.
“Earl Douglas does not wish me to accompany the king,” whispered John Heywood. “He is afraid the king might blab out to me a little of that diabolical work which they will commence at midnight. Well, I call the devil, as well as the king, my brother, and with his help I too will be in the green-room at midnight. Ah, the queen is retiring; and there is the Duke of Norfolk leaving the hall. I have a slight longing to see whether the duke goes hence luckily and without danger, or if the soldiers who stand near the coach, as Wriothesley says, will perchance be the duke’s bodyguard for this night.”
Slipping out of the hall with the quickness of a cat, John Heywood passed the duke in the anteroom and hurried on to the outer gateway, before which the carriages were drawn up.
John Heywood leaned against a pillar and watched. A few minutes, and the duke’s tall and proud form appeared in the entrance-hall; and the footman, hurrying forward, called his carriage.
The carriage rolled up; the door was opened.
Two men wrapped in black mantles sat by the coachman; two others stood behind as footmen, while a fifth was by the open door of the carriage.
The duke first noticed him as his foot had already touched the step of the carriage.
“This is not my equipage! These are not my people!” said he; and he tried to step back. But the pretended servant forced him violently into the carriage and shut the door. “Forward!” ordered he. The carriage rolled on. A moment still, John Heywood saw the duke’s pale face appear at the open carriage window, and it seemed to him as though he were stretching out his arms, calling for help--then the carriage disappeared in the night. “Poor duke!” murmured John Heywood. “The gates of the Tower are heavy, and your arm will not be strong enough to open them again, when they have once closed behind you. But it avails nothing to think more about him now. The queen is also in danger. Away, then, to the queen!”
With fleet foot John Heywood hastened back into the castle. Through passages and corridors he slipped hurriedly along.
Now he stood in the corridor which led to the apartments of the queen.
“I will constitute her guard to-night,” muttered John Heywood, as he hid himself in one of the niches in the corridor. “The fool by his prayers will keep far from the door of his saint the tricks of the devil, and protect her from the snares which the pious Bishop Gardiner and the crafty courtier Douglas want to lay for her feet. My queen shall not fall and be ruined. The fool yet lives to protect her.”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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31
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THE QUEEN
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From the niche in which John Heywood had hid himself he could survey the entire corridor and all the doors opening into it--could see everything and hear everything without being himself seen, for the projecting pilaster completely shaded him.
So John Heywood stood and listened. All was quiet in the corridor. In the distance was now and then heard the deadened sound of the music; and the confused hum of many voices from the festive halls forced its way to the listener’s ear.
This was the only thing that John Heywood perceived. All else was still. But this stillness did not last long. The corridor was lighted up, and the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps was heard.
It was the gold-laced lackeys, who bore the large silver candelabra to light the queen, who, with her train of ladies, was passing through the corridor.
She looked wondrously beautiful. The glare of the candles borne before her illumined her countenance, which beamed with cheerfulness. As she passed the pillar behind which John Heywood was standing, she was talking in unrestrained gayety with her second maid of honor; and a clear and lively laugh rang from her lips, which disclosed both rows of her dazzling white teeth. Her eyes sparkled; her checks were flushed with a rich red; bright as stars glittered the diamonds in the diadem that encircled her lofty brow; like liquid gold shone her dress of gold brocade, the long trail of which, trimmed with black ermine, was borne by two lovely pages.
Arrived at the door of her bed-chamber, the queen dismissed her pages and lackeys, and permitted only the maid of honor to cross the threshold of her chamber with her.
In harmless gossip the pages glided down the corridor and the staircase. Then came the lackeys who bore the candelabra. They also left the corridor.
Now all was quiet again. Still John Heywood stood and listened, firmly resolved to speak to the queen yet that night, even should he be obliged to wake her from sleep. Only he wanted to wait till the maid of honor also had left the queen’s room.
Now the door opened, and the maid of honor came out. She crossed the corridor to that side where her own apartments were situated. John Heywood heard her open the door and then slide the bolt on the inside.
“Now but a brief time longer, and I will go to the queen,” muttered John Heywood.
He was just going to leave his lurking-place, when he perceived a noise as if a door were slowly and cautiously opened.
John Heywood cowered again close behind the pillar, and held his breath to listen.
A bright light fell over the corridor. A dress came rustling nearer and nearer.
John Heywood gazed astounded and amazed at the figure, which just brushed past without seeing him.
That figure was Lady Jane Douglas--Lady Jane, who, on account of indisposition, had retired from the feast in order to betake herself to rest. Now, when all rested, she watched--when all laid aside their festive garments, she had adorned herself with the same. Like the queen, she wore a dress of gold brocade, trimmed with ermine, and, like her, a diadem of diamonds adorned Lady Jane’s brow.
Now she stood before the queen’s door and listened. Then a fierce sneer flitted across her deathly pale face, and her dark eyes flashed still more.
“She sleeps,” muttered she. “Only sleep, queen--sleep till we shall come to wake you! Sleep, so that I can wake for you.”
She raised her arm threateningly toward the door, and wildly shook her head. Her long black ringlets encircled and danced around her sullen brow like the snakes of the furies; and pale and colorless, and with demon-like beauty, she resembled altogether the goddess of vengeance, in scornful triumph preparing to tread her victim beneath her feet.
With a low laugh she now glided adown the corridor, but not to that staircase yonder, but farther down to the end, where on the wall hung a life-size picture of Henry the Sixth. She pressed on a spring; the picture flew open, and through the door concealed behind it Lady Jane left the corridor.
“She is going to the green-room to a meeting with Henry Howard!” whispered John Heywood, who now stepped forth from behind the pillar. “Oh, now I comprehend it all; now the whole of this devilish plot is clear to me; Lady Jane is Earl Surrey’s lady-love, and they want to make the king believe that it is the queen. Doubtless this Surrey is with them in the conspiracy, and perhaps he will call Jane Douglas by the name of the queen. They will let the king see her but a moment. She wears a gold brocade dress and a diamond diadem like the queen; and thereby they hope to deceive Henry. She has the queen’s form precisely; and everybody knows the astonishing similarity and likeness of Lady Jane’s voice to that of the queen. Oh, oh, it is a tolerably cunning plot! But nevertheless you shall not succeed, and you shall not yet gain the victory. Patience, only patience! We likewise will be in the green-room, and face to face with this royal counterfeit we will place the genuine queen!”
With hurried step John Heywood also left the corridor, which was now lonely and still, for the queen had gone to rest.
Yes, the queen slept, and yet over yonder in the green-room everything was prepared for her reception.
It was to be a very brilliant and extraordinary reception; for the king, in his own person, had betaken himself to that wing of the castle, and the chief master of ceremonies, Earl Douglas, had accompanied him.
To the king, this excursion, which he had to make on foot, had been very troublesome; and this inconvenience had made him only still more furious and excited, and the last trace of compassion for his queen had disappeared from the king’s breast, for on Catharine’s account he had been obliged to make this long journey to the green-room; and with a grim joy Henry thought only how terrible was to be his punishment for Henry Howard and also for Catharine.
Now that Earl Douglas had brought him hither, the king no longer had any doubts at all of the queen’s guilt. It was no longer an accusation--it was proof. For never in the world would Earl Douglas have dared to bring him, the king, hither, if he were not certain that he would give him here infallible proofs.
The king, therefore, no longer doubted; at last Henry Howard was in his power, and he could no more escape him. So he was certain of being able to bring these two hated enemies to the block, and of feeling his sleep no longed disturbed by thoughts of his two powerful rivals.
The Duke of Norfolk had already passed the gates of the Tower, and his son must soon follow him thither.
At this thought the king felt an ecstasy so savage and bloodthirsty, that he wholly forgot that the same sword that was to strike Henry Howard’s head was drawn on his queen also.
They were now standing in the green-room, and the king leaned panting and moaning on Earl Douglas’s arm.
The large wide room, with its antique furniture and its faded glory, was only gloomily and scantily lighted in the middle by the two wax candles of the candelabrum that Earl Douglas had brought with him; while further away it was enveloped in deep gloom, and seemed to the eye through this gloom to stretch out to an interminable length.
“Through the door over there comes the queen,” said Douglas; and he himself shrank at the loud sound of his voice, which in the large, desolate room became of awful fulness. “And that, there, is Henry Howard’s entrance. Oh, he knows that path very thoroughly; for he has often enough already travelled it in the dark night, and his foot no longer stumbles on any stone of offence!”
“But he will perchance stumble on the headsman’s block!” muttered the king, with a cruel laugh.
“I now take the liberty of asking one question more,” said Douglas; and the king did not suspect how stormily the earl’s heart beat at this question. “Is your majesty satisfied to see the earl and the queen make their appearance at this meeting? Or, do you desire to listen to a little of the earl’s tender protestations?”
“I will hear not a little, but all!” said the king. “Ah, let us allow the earl yet to sing his swan-like song before he plunges into the sea of blood!”
“Then,” said Earl Douglas, “then we must put out this light, and your majesty must be content merely to hear the guilty ones, and not to see them also. We will then betake ourselves to the boudoir here, which I have opened for this purpose, and in which is an easy-chair for your majesty. We will place this chair near the open door, and then your majesty will be able to hear every word of their tender whisperings.”
“But how shall we, if we extinguish this our only light, at last attain to a sight of this dear loving pair, and be able to afford them the dramatic surprise of our presence?”
“Sire, as soon as the Earl of Surrey enters, twenty men of the king’s bodyguard will occupy the anteroom through which the earl must pass; and it needs but a call from you to have them enter the hall with their torches. I have taken care also that before the private backgate of the palace two coaches stand ready, the drivers of which know very well the street that leads to the Tower!”
“Two coaches?” said the king, laughing. “Ah, ah, Douglas, how cruel we are to separate the tender, loving pair on this journey which is yet to be their last! Well, perhaps we can compensate them for it, and allow these turtledoves to make the last trip--the trip to the stake--together. No, no, we will not separate them in death. Together they may lay their heads on the block.”
The king laughed, quite delighted with his jest, while, leaning on the earl’s arm, he crossed to the little boudoir on the other side, and took his place in the armchair set near the door.
“Now we must extinguish the light; and may it please your majesty to await in silence the things that are to come.”
The earl extinguished the light, and deep darkness and a grave-like stillness now followed.
But this did not last long. Now was heard quite distinctly the sound of footsteps. They came nearer and nearer--now a door was heard to open and shut again, and it was as though some one were creeping softly along on his toes in the hall.
“Henry Howard!” whispered Douglas.
The king could scarcely restrain the cry of savage, malicious delight that forced its way to his lips.
The hated enemy was then in his power; he was convicted of the crime; he was inevitably lost.
“Geraldine!” whispered a voice, “Geraldine!”
And as if his low call had already been sufficient to draw hither the loved one, the secret door here quite close to the boudoir opened. The rustling of a dress was very distinctly heard, and the sound of footsteps.
“Geraldine!” repeated Earl Surrey.
“Here I am, my Henry!”
With an exclamation of delight, the woman rushed forward toward the sound of the loved voice.
“The queen!” muttered Henry; and in spite of himself he felt his heart seized with bitter grief.
He saw with his inward eye how they held each other in their embrace. He heard their kisses and the low whisper of their tender vows, and all the agonies of jealousy and wrath filled his soul. But yet the king prevailed upon himself to be silent and swallow down his rage. He wanted to hear everything, to know everything.
He clenched his hands convulsively, and pressed his lips firmly together to hold in his panting breath. He wanted to hear.
How happy they both were! Henry had wholly forgotten that he had come to reproach her for her long silence; she did not think about this being the last time she might see her lover.
They were with each other, and this hour was theirs. What did the whole world matter to them? What cared they whether or not mischief and ruin threatened them hereafter?
They sat by each other on the divan, quite near the boudoir. They jested and laughed; and Henry Howard kissed away the tears that the happiness of the present caused his Geraldine to shed.
He swore to her eternal and unchanging love. In blissful silence she drank in the music of his words; and then she reiterated, with jubilant joy, his vows of love.
The king could scarcely restrain his fury.
The heart of Earl Douglas leaped with satisfaction and gratification. “A lucky thing that Jane has no suspicion of our presence,” thought he--“otherwise she would have been less unrestrained and ardent, and the king’s ear would have imbibed less poison.”
Lady Jane thought not at all of her father; she scarcely remembered that this very night would destroy her hated rival the queen.
Henry Howard had called her his Geraldine only. Jane had entirely forgot that it was not she to whom her lover had given this name.
But he himself finally reminded her of it.
“Do you know, Geraldine,” said Earl Surrey--and his voice, which had been hitherto so cheerful and sprightly, was now sad--“do you know, Geraldine, that I have had doubts of you? Oh, those were frightful, horrible hours; and in the agony of my heart I came at last to the resolution of going to the king and accusing myself of this love that was consuming my heart. Oh, fear naught! I would not have accused you. I would have even denied that love which you have so often and with such transporting reality sworn to me. I would have done it in order to see whether my Geraldine could at last gain courage and strength to lover. He saw how he pressed her hands to his lips; how he put his hand to her head to raise it from the floor.”
The king was speechless with rage. He could only lift his arm to beckon the soldiers to approach; to point to Henry Howard, who had not yet succeeded in raising the queen’s head from the floor.
“Arrest him!” said Earl Douglas, lending words to the king’s mute sign. “In the king’s name arrest him, and conduct him to the Tower!”
“Yes, arrest him!” said the king; and, as with youthful speed he walked up to Henry Howard and put his hand heavily on his shoulder, he with terrible calmness continued: “Henry Howard, your wish shall be fulfilled; you shall mount the scaffold for which you have so much longed!”
The earl’s noble countenance remained calm and unmoved; his bright beaming eye fearlessly encountered the eye of the king flashing with wrath.
“Sire,” said he, “my life is in your hand, and I very well know that you will not spare it. I do not even ask you to do so. But spare this noble and beautiful woman, whose only crime is that she has followed the voice of her heart. Sire, I alone am the guilty one. Punish me, then--torture me, if you like--but be merciful to her.”
The king broke out into a loud laugh. “Ah, he begs for her!” said he. “This little Earl Surrey presumes to think that his sentimental love-plaint can exercise an influence on the heart of his judge! No, no, Henry Howard; you know me better. You say, indeed, that I am a cruel man, and that blood cleaves to my crown. Well, now, it is our pleasure to set in our crown a new blood-red ruby; and if we want to take it from Geraldine’s heart’s blood, your sonnets will not hinder us from doing so, my good little earl. That is all the reply I have to make to you; and I think it will be the last time that we shall meet on earth!”
“There above we shall see each other again, King Henry of England!” said Earl Surrey, solemnly. “There. But still this hour was hers, and she would enjoy it. She clung fast to his breast; she drew him with irresistible force to her heart, which now trembled no longer for love, but from a nameless anxiety.
“Let us fly! Let us fly!” repeated she, breathlessly. “See! This hour is yet ours. Let us avail ourselves of it; for who knows whether the next will still belong to us?”
“No! it is no longer yours,” yelled the king, as he sprang like a roused lion from his seat. “Your hours are numbered, and the next already belongs to the hangman!”
A piercing shriek burst from Geraldine’s lips. Then was heard a dull fall.
“She has fainted,” muttered Earl Douglas.
“Geraldine, Geraldine, my loved one!” cried Henry Howard. “My God, my God! she is dying! You have killed her! Woe to you!”
“Woe to yourself!” said the king, solemnly. “Here with the light! Here, you folks!”
The door of the anteroom opened, and in it appeared four soldiers with torches in their hands.
“Light the candles, and guard the door!” said the king, whose dazzled eyes were not yet able to bear this bright glare of light which now suddenly streamed through the room.
The soldiers obeyed his orders. A pause ensued. The king had put his hand before his eyes, and was struggling for breath and self-control.
When at length he let his hand glide down, his features had assumed a perfectly calm, almost a serene expression.
With a hasty glance he surveyed the room. He saw the queen in her dress glistening with gold; he saw how she lay on the floor, stretched at full length, her face turned to the ground, motionless and rigid.
He saw Henry Howard, who knelt by his beloved and was busy about her with all the anxiety and agony of an acknowledge of her love openly and frankly; whether her heart had the power to burst that iron band which the deceitful rules of the world had placed around it; whether she would acknowledge her lover when he was willing to die for her. “Yes, Geraldine, I wanted to do it, that I might finally know which feeling is stronger in you--love or pride--and whether you could then still preserve the mask of indifference, when death was hovering over your lover’s head. Oh, Geraldine, I should deem it a fairer fate to die united with you, than to be obliged to still longer endure this life of constraint and hateful etiquette.”
“No, no,” said she, trembling, “we will not die. My God, life is indeed so beautiful when you are by my side! And who knows whether a felicitous and blissful future may not still await us?”
“Oh, should we die, then should we be certain of this blissful future, my Geraldine. There, above, there is no more separation--no more renunciation for us. There above, you are mine, and the bloody image of your husband no longer stands between us.”
“It shall no longer do so, even here on earth,” whispered Geraldine. “Come, my beloved; let us fly far, far hence, where no one knows us--where we can cast from us all this hated splendor, to live for each other and for love.”
She threw her arms about her lover, and in the ecstasy of her love she had wholly forgotten that she could never indeed think to flee with him, that he belonged to her only so long as he saw her not.
An inexplicable anxiety overpowered her heart; and in this anxiety she forgot everything--even the queen and the vengeance she had vowed.
She now remembered her father’s words, and she trembled for her lover’s life.
If now her father had not told her the truth--if now he had notwithstanding sacrificed Henry Howard in order to ruin the queen--if she was not able to save him, and through her fault he were to perish on the scaffold--above Henry the Eighth will no more be the judge, but the condemned criminal; “and your bloody and accursed deeds will witness against you!”
The king laughed. “You avail yourself of your advantage,” said he. “Because you have nothing more to lose and the scaffold is sure of you, you do not stick at heaping up the measure of your sins a little more, and you revile your legitimate, God-appointed king! But you should bear in mind, earl, that before the scaffold there is yet the rack, and that it is very possible indeed that a painful question might there be put to the noble Earl Surrey, to which his agonies might prevent him from returning an answer. Now, away with you! We have nothing more to say to each other on earth!”
He motioned to the soldiers, who approached the Earl of Surrey. As they reached their hands toward him, he turned on them a look so proud and commanding that they involuntarily recoiled a step.
“Follow me!” said Henry Howard, calmly; and, without even deigning the king a single look more, with head proudly erect, he walked to the door.
Geraldine still lay on the ground--her face turned to the floor. She stirred not. She seemed to have fallen into a deep swoon.
Only as the door with a sullen sound closed behind Earl Surrey, a low wail and moan was perceived--such as is wont to struggle forth at the last hour from the breast of the dying.
The king did not heed it. He still gazed, with eyes stern and flashing with anger, toward the door through which Earl Surrey had passed.
“He is unyielding,” muttered he. “Not even the rack affrights him; and in his blasphemous haughtiness he moves along in the midst of the soldiers, not as a prisoner, but as a commander. Oh, these Howards are destined to torment me; and even their death will scarcely be a full satisfaction to me.”
“Sire,” said Earl Douglas, who had observed the king with a keen, penetrating eye, and knew that he had now reached the height of his wrath, at which he shrank from no deed of violence and no cruelty--“sire, you have sent Earl Surrey to the Tower. But what shall be done with the queen, who lies there on the floor in a swoon?”
The king roused himself from his reverie; and his bloodshot eyes were fixed on Geraldine’s motionless form with so dark an expression of hate and rage, that Earl Douglas exultingly said to himself: “The queen is lost! He will be inexorable!”
“Ah, the queen!” cried Henry, with a savage laugh. “Yea, verily, I forgot the queen. I did not think of this charming Geraldine! But you are right, Douglas; we must think of her and occupy ourselves a little with her! Did you not say that a second coach was ready? Well, then, we will not hinder Geraldine from accompanying her beloved. She shall be where he is--in the Tower, and on the scaffold! We will therefore wake this sentimental lady and show her the last duty of a cavalier by conducting her to her carriage!”
He was about to approach the figure of the queen lying on the floor. Earl Douglas held him back.
“Sire,” said he, “it is my duty--as your faithful subject, who loves you and trembles for your welfare--it is my duty to implore you to spare yourself and preserve your precious and adored person from the venomous sting of anger and grief. I conjure you, therefore, do not deign to look again on this woman, who has so deeply injured you. Give me your orders--what am I to do with her--and allow me first of all to accompany you to your apartments.”
“You are right,” said the king, “she is not worthy of having my eyes rest on her again; and she is even too contemptible for my anger! We will call the soldiers that they may conduct this traitoress and adulteress to the tower, as they have done her paramour.”
“Yet for that there is needed still a formality. The queen will not be admitted into the Tower without the king’s written and sealed order.”
“Then I will draw up that order.”
“Sire, in that cabinet yonder may be found the necessary writing-materials, if it please your majesty.”
The king leaned in silence on the earl’s arm, and allowed himself to be led again into the cabinet.
With officious haste Earl Douglas made the necessary arrangements. He rolled the writing-table up to the king; he placed the large sheet of white paper in order, and slipped the pen into the king’s hand.
“What shall I write?” asked the king, who, by the exertion of his night’s excursion, and of his anger and vexation, began at length to be exhausted.
“An order for the queen’s imprisonment, sire.”
The king wrote. Earl Douglas stood behind him, with eager attention, in breathless expectation, his look steadily fixed on the paper over which the king’s hand, white, fleshy, and sparkling with diamonds, glided along in hasty characters.
He had at length reached his goal. When at last he should hold in his hand the paper which the king was then writing--when he had induced Henry to return to his apartments before the imprisonment of the queen had taken place--then was he victorious. Not that woman there would he then imprison; but, with the warrant in his hand, he would go to the real queen, and take her to the Tower.
Once in the Tower, the queen could no longer defend herself; for the king would see her no more; and if before the Parliament she protested her innocence in ever so sacred oaths, still the king’s testimony must convict her; for he had himself surprised her with her paramour.
No, there was no escape for the queen. She had once succeeded in clearing herself of an accusation, and proving her innocence, by a rebutting alibi. But this time she was irretrievably lost, and no alibi could deliver her.
The king completed his work and arose, whilst Douglas, at his command, was employed in setting the king’s seal to the fatal paper.
From the hall was heard a slight noise, as though some person were cautiously moving about there.
Earl Douglas did not notice it; he was just in the act of pressing the signet hard on the melted sealing-wax.
The king heard it, and supposed that it was Geraldine, and that she was just waking from her swoon and rising.
He stepped to the door of the hall, and looked toward the place where she was lying. But no--she had not yet risen; she still lay stretched at full length on the floor.
“She has come to; but she still pretends to be in a swoon,” thought the king; and he turned to Douglas.
“We are done,” said he; “the warrant for imprisonment is prepared, and the sentence of the adulterous queen is spoken. We have done with her forever; and never shall she again behold our face, or again hear our voice. She is sentenced and damned, and the royal mercy has nothing more to do with this sinner. A curse on the adulteress! A curse on the shameless woman who deceived her husband, and gave herself up to a traitorous paramour! Woe to her, and may shame and disgrace forever mark her name, which--” Suddenly the king stopped and listened. The noise that he had heard just, before was now repeated louder and quicker; it came nearer and nearer.
And now the door opened and a figure entered--a figure which made the king stare with astonishment and admiration. It came nearer and nearer, light, graceful, and with the freshness of youth; a gold-brocade dress enveloped it; a diadem of diamonds sparkled on the brow; and brighter yet than the diamonds beamed the eyes.
No, the king was not mistaken. It was the queen, She was standing before him--and yet she still lay motionless and stiff upon the floor yonder.
The king uttered a cry, and, turning pale, reeled a step backward.
“The queen!” exclaimed Douglas, in terror; and he trembled so violently that the paper in his hand rattled and fluttered.
“Yes, the queen!” said Catharine, with a haughty smile. “The queen, who comes to scold her husband, that, contrary to his physician’s orders, he still refrains from his slumbers at so late an hour of the night.”
“And the fool!” said John Heywood, as with humorous pathos he stepped forward from behind the queen--“the fool, who comes to ask Earl Douglas how he dared deprive John Heywood of his office, and usurp the place of king’s fool to Henry, and deceive his most gracious majesty with all manner of silly pranks and carnival tricks.”
“And who”--asked the king, in a voice quivering with rage, fastening his flashing looks on Douglas with an annihilating expression--“who, then, is that woman there? Who has dared with such cursed mummery to deceive the king, and calumniate the queen?”
“Sire,” said Earl Douglas, who very well knew that his future and that of his daughter depended on the present moment, and whom this consciousness had speedily restored to his self-possession and calmness--“sire, I beseech your majesty for a moment of private explanation; and I shall be entirely successful in vindicating myself.”
“Do not grant it him, brother Henry,” said John Heywood; “he is a dangerous juggler; and who knows whether he may not yet, in his private conversation, convince you that he is king, and you nothing more than his lickspittle, fawning, hypocritical servant Earl Archibald Douglas.”
“My lord and husband, I beg you to hear the earl’s justification,” said Catharine, as she extended her hand to the king with a bewitching smile.
“It would be cruel to condemn him unheard, I will hear him, but it shall be done in your presence, Kate, and you yourself shall decide whether or not his justification is sufficient.”
“No indeed, my husband; let me remain an entire stranger to this night’s conspiracy, so that spite and anger may not fill my heart and rob me of the supreme confidence which I need, to be able to walk on at your side happy and smiling in the midst of my enemies.”
“You are right, Kate,” said the king, thoughtfully. “You have many enemies at our court; and we have to accuse ourselves that we have not always succeeded in stopping our ear to their malicious whisperings, and in keeping ourselves pure from the poisonous breath of their calumny. Our heart is still too artless, and we cannot even yet comprehend that men are a disgusting, corrupt race, which one should tread beneath his feet, but never take to his heart. Come, Earl Douglas, I will hear you; but woe to you, if you are unable to justify yourself!”
He retired to the embrasure of the large window of the boudoir. Earl Douglas followed him thither, and let the heavy velvet curtain drop behind them.
“Sire,” said he, hardily and resolutely, “the question now is this: Whose head would you rather give over to the executioner, mine or the Earl of Surrey’s? You have the choice between the two. You are aware that I have ventured for a moment to deceive you. Well, send me to the Tower then, and set free the noble Henry Howard, that he may henceforth disturb your sleep and poison your days; that he may further court the love of the people, and perhaps some day rob your son of the throne that belongs to him. Here is my head, sire; it is forfeited to the headsman’s axe, and Earl Surrey is free!”
“No, he is not free, and never shall be!” said the king, grinding his teeth.
“Then, my king, I am justified; and instead of being angry with me, you will thank me? It is true I have played a hazardous game, but I did so in the service of my king. I did it because I loved him, and because I read on your lofty clouded brow the thoughts that begirt with darkness my master’s soul, and disturbed the sleep of his nights. You wanted to have Henry Howard in your power; and this crafty and hypocritical earl knew how to conceal his guilt so securely under the mask of virtue and loftiness of soul! But I knew him, and behind this mask I had seen his face distorted with passion and crime. I wanted to unmask him; but for this, it was necessary that I should deceive first him, and then for the hour even yourself. I knew that he burned with an adulterous love for the queen, and I wanted to avail myself of the madness of this passion, in order to bring him surely and unavoidably to a richly-deserved punishment. But I would not draw the pure and exalted person of the queen into this net with which we wanted to surround Earl Surrey. I was obliged, then, to seek a substitute for her; and I did so. There was at your court a woman whose whole heart belongs, after God, to the king alone; and who so much adores him, that she would be ready at any hour gladly to sacrifice for the king her heart’s blood, her whole being--ay, if need be, even her honor itself--a woman, sire, who lives by your smile, and worships you as her redeemer and savior--a woman whom you might, as you pleased, make a saint or a strumpet; and who, to please you, would be a shameless Phyrne or a chaste veiled nun.”
“Tell me her name, Douglas,” said the king, “tell me it! It is a rare and precious stroke of fortune to be so loved; and it would be a sin not to want to enjoy this good fortune.”
“Sire, I will tell you her name when you have first forgiven me,” said Douglas, whose heart leaped for joy, and who well understood that the king’s anger was already mollified and the danger now almost overcome. “I said to this woman: ‘You are to do the king a great service; you are to deliver him from a powerful and dangerous foe! You are to save him from Henry Howard!’ ‘Tell me what I must do!’ cried she, her looks beaming with joy. ‘Henry Howard loves the queen. You must be the queen to him. You must receive his letters, and answer them in the queen’s name. You must grant him interviews by night, and, favored by the darkness of the night, make him believe that it is the queen whom he holds in his arms. He must be convinced that the queen is his lady-love; and in his thoughts, as in his deeds, he must be placed before the king as a traitor and criminal whose head is forfeited to the headsman’s axe. One day we will let the king be a witness of a meeting that Henry Howard believes he has with the queen; it will then be in his power to punish his enemy for his criminal passion, which is worthy of death!’ And as I thus spoke to the woman, sire, she said with a sad smile: ‘It is a disgraceful and dishonorable part that you assign me; but I undertake it, for you say I may thereby render a service to the king. I shall disgrace myself for him; but he will perhaps bestow upon me in return a gracious smile; and then I shall be abundantly rewarded. ’” “But this woman is an angel!” cried the king, ardently--“an angel whom we should kneel to and adore. Tell me her name, Douglas!”
“Sire, as soon as you have forgiven me! You know now all my guilt and all my crime. For, as I bade that noble woman, so it came to pass, and Henry Howard has gone to the Tower in the firm belief that it was the queen whom he just now held in his arms.”
“But why did you leave me in this belief, Douglas? Why did you fill my heart with wrath against the noble and virtuous queen also?”
“Sire, I dared not reveal the deception to you before you had sentenced Surrey, for your noble and just moral sense would have been reluctant to punish him on account of a crime that he had not committed; and in your first wrath you would also have blamed this noble woman who has sacrificed herself for her king.”
“It is true,” said the king, “I should have misjudged this noble woman, and, instead of thanking her, I should have destroyed her.”
“Therefore, my king, I quietly allowed you to make out an order for the queen’s incarceration. But you remember well, sire, I begged you to return to your apartments before the queen was arrested. Well, now, there I should have disclosed to you the whole secret, which I could not tell you in the presence of that woman. For she would die of shame if she suspected that you knew of her love for the king, so pure and self-sacrificing, and cherished in such heroic silence.”
“She shall never know it, Douglas! But now at length satisfy my desire. Tell me her name.”
“Sire, you have forgiven me, then? You are no longer angry with me that I dared to deceive you?”
“I am no longer angry with you, Douglas; for you have acted rightly. The plan, which you have contrived and carried out with such happy results, was as crafty as it was daring.”
“I thank you, sire; and I will now tell you the name. That woman, sire, who at my wish gave herself up a sacrifice to this adulterous earl, who endured his kisses, his embraces, his vows of love, in order to render a service to her king--that woman was my daughter, Lady Jane Douglas!”
“Lady Jane!” cried the king. “No, no, this is a new deception. That haughty, chaste, and unapproachable Lady Jane--that wonderfully beautiful marble statue really has then a heart in her breast, and that heart belongs to me? Lady Jane, the pure and chaste virgin, has made for me this prodigious sacrifice, of receiving this hated Surrey as her lover, in order, like a second Delilah, to deliver him into my hand? No, Douglas, you are lying to me. Lady Jane has not done that!”
“May it please your majesty to go yourself and take a look at that fainting woman, who was to Henry Howard the queen.”
The king did not reply to him; but he drew back the curtain and reentered the cabinet, in which the queen was waiting with John Heywood.
Henry did not notice them. With youthful precipitation he crossed the cabinet and the hall. Now he stood by the figure of Geraldine still lying on the floor.
She was no longer in a swoon. She had long since regained her consciousness; and terrible were the agonies and tortures that rent her heart. Henry Howard had incurred the penalty of the headsman’s axe, and it was she that had betrayed him.
But her father had sworn to her that she should save her lover.
She durst not die then. She must live to deliver Henry Howard.
There were burning, as it were, the fires of hell in her poor heart; but she was not at liberty to heed these pains. She could not think of herself--only of him--of Henry Howard, whom she must deliver, whom she must save from an ignominious death.
For him she sent up her fervent prayers to God; for him her heart trembled with anxiety and agony, as the king now advanced to her, and, bending down, gazed into her eyes with a strange expression, at once scrutinizing and smiling.
“Lady Jane,” said he then, as he presented her his hand, “arise from the ground and allow your king to express to you his thanks for your sublime and wonderful sacrifice! Verily, it is a fair lot to be a king; for then one has at least the power of punishing traitors, and of rewarding those that serve us. I have to-day done the one, and I will not neglect to do the other also. Stand up, then, Lady Jane; it does not become you to lie on your knees before me.”
“Oh, let me kneel, my king,” said she, passionately; “let me beseech you for mercy, for pity! Have compassion, King Henry--compassion on the anxiety and agony which I endure. It is not possible that this is all a reality! that this juggling is to be changed into such terrible earnest! Tell me, King Henry--I conjure you by the agonies which I suffer for your sake--tell me, what will you do with Henry Howard? Why have you sent him to the Tower?”
“To punish the traitor as he deserves,” said the king, as he cast a dark and angry look across at Douglas, who had also approached his daughter, and was now standing close by her.
Lady Jane uttered a heartrending cry, and sank down again, senseless and completely exhausted.
The king frowned. “It is possible,” said he--“and I almost believe it--that I have been deceived in many ways this evening, and that now again my guilelessness has been played upon in order to impose upon me a charming story. However, I have given my word to pardon; and it shall not be said that Henry the Eighth, who calls himself God’s vicegerent, has ever broken his word; nor even that he has punished those whom he has assured of exemption from punishment. My Lord Douglas, I will fulfil my promise. I forgive you.”
He extended his hand to Douglas, who kissed it fervently. The king bent down closer to him. “Douglas,” whispered he, “you are as cunning as a serpent; and I now see through your artfully-woven web! You wanted to destroy Surrey, but the queen was to sink into the abyss with him. Because I am indebted to you for Surrey, I forgive you what you have done to the queen. But take heed to yourself, take heed that I do not meet you again on the same track; do not ever try again, by a look, a word, ay, even by a smile, to cast suspicion on the queen. The slightest attempt would cost you your life! That I swear to you by the holy mother of God; and you know that I have never yet broken that oath. As regards Lady Jane, we do not want to consider that she has misused the name of our illustrious and virtuous consort in order to draw this lustful and adulterous earl into the net which you had set for him; she obeyed your orders, Douglas; and we will not now decide what other motives besides have urged her to this deed. She may settle that with God and her own conscience, and it does not behoove us to decide about it.”
“But it behooves me, perhaps, my husband, to ask by what right Lady Jane has dared to appear here in this attire, and to present to a certain degree a counterfeit of her queen?” asked Catharine in a sharp tone. “I may well be allowed to ask what has made my maid of honor, who left the festive hall sick, now all at once so well that she goes roaming about the castle in the night time, and in a dress which seems likely to be mistaken for mine? Sire, was this dress perchance a craftily-devised stratagem, in order to really confound us with one another? You are silent, my lord and king. It is true, then, they have wanted to carry out a terrible plot against me; and, without the assistance of my faithful and honest friend, John Heywood, who brought me here, I should without doubt be now condemned and lost, as the Earl of Surrey is.”
“Ah, John, it was you then that brought a little light into this darkness?” cried the king, with a cheerful laugh, as he laid his hand on Heywood’s shoulder. “Now, verily, what the wise and prudent did not see, that the fool has seen through!”
“King Henry of England,” said John Heywood, solemnly, “many call themselves wise, and yet they are fools; and many assume the mask of folly, because fools are allowed to be wise.”
“Kate,” said the king, “you are right; this was a bad night for you, but God and the fool have saved you and me. We will both be thankful for it. But it is well if you do as you before wished, and ask and inquire nothing more concerning the mysteries of this night. It was brave in you to come here, and I will be mindful of it. Come, my little queen, give me your arm and conduct me to my apartments. I tell you, child, it gives me joy to be able to lean on your arm, and see your dear sprightly face blanched by no fear or terrors of conscience. Come, Kate, you alone shall lead me, and to you alone will I trust myself.”
“Sire, you are too heavy for the queen,” said the fool, as he put his neck under the other arm. “Let me share with her the burden of royalty.”
“But before we go,” said Catharine, “I have, my husband, one request. Will you grant it?”
“I will grant you everything that you may ask, provided you will not require me to send you to the Tower.”
“Sire, I wish to dismiss my maid of honor, Lady Jane Douglas, from my service--that is all,” said the queen, as her eyes glanced with an expression of contempt, and yet at the same time of pain, at the form of her friend of other days, prostrate on the floor.
“She is dismissed!” said the king. “You will choose another maid of honor to-morrow. Come, Kate!”
And the king, supported by his consort and John Heywood, left the room with slow and heavy steps.
Earl Douglas watched them with a sullen, hateful expression. As the door closed after them he raised his arm threateningly toward heaven, and his trembling lips uttered a fierce curse and execration.
“Vanquished! vanquished again!” muttered he, gnashing his teeth. “Humbled by this woman whom I hate, and whom I will yet destroy! Yes, she has conquered this time; but we will commence the struggle anew, and our envenomed weapon shall nevertheless strike her at last!”
Suddenly he felt a hand laid heavily on his shoulder, and a pair of glaring, flaming eyes gazed at him.
“Father,” said Lady Jane, as she threw her right hand threateningly toward heaven--“father, as true as there is a God above us, I will accuse you yourself to the king as a traitor--I will betray to him all your accursed plots--if you do not help me to deliver Henry Howard!”
Her father looked with an expression almost melancholy in her face, painfully convulsed and pale as marble. “I will help you!” said he. “I will do it, if you will help me also, and further my plans.”
“Oh, only save Henry Howard, and I will sign myself away to the devil with my heart’s blood!” said Jane Douglas, with a horrible smile. “Save his life, or, if you have not the power to do that, then at least procure me the happiness of being able to die with him.”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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32
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UNDECEIVED.
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Parliament, which had not for a long time now ventured to offer any further opposition to the king’s will--Parliament had acquiesced in his decree. It had accused Earl Surrey of high treason; and, on the sole testimony of his mother and his sister, he had been declared guilty of lese majeste and high treason. A few words of discontent at his removal from office, some complaining remarks about the numerous executions that drenched England’s soil with blood--that was all that the Duchess of Richmond had been able to bring against him. That he, like his father, bore the arms of the Kings of England--that was the only evidence of high treason of which his mother the Duchess of Norfolk could charge him. [Footnote: Tytler, p. 402. Burnet, vol. i, p. 95.]
These accusations were of so trivial a character, that the Parliament well knew they were not the ground of his arrest, but only a pretext for it--only a pretext, by which the king said to his pliant and trembling Parliament: “This man is innocent; but I will that you condemn him, and therefore you will account the accusation sufficient.”
Parliament had not the courage to oppose the king’s will. These members of Parliament were nothing more than a flock of sheep, who, in trembling dread of the sharp teeth of the dog, go straight along the path which the dog shows them.
The king wanted them to condemn the Earl of Surrey, and they condemned him.
They summoned him before their judgment-seat, and it was in vain that he proved his innocence in a speech spirited and glowing with eloquence. These noble members of Parliament would not see that he was innocent.
It is true, indeed, there were a few who were ashamed to bow their heads so unreservedly beneath the king’s sceptre, which dripped with blood like a headsman’s axe. There were still a few to whom the accusation appeared insufficient; but they were outvoted; and in order to give Parliament a warning example, the king, on the very same day, had these obstinate ones arrested and accused of some pretended crime. For this people, enslaved by the king’s cruelty and savage barbarity, were already so degenerate and debased in self-consciousness, that men were always and without trouble found, who, in order to please the king and his bloodthirstiness and sanctimonious hypocrisy, degraded themselves to informers, and accused of crime those whom the king’s dark frown had indicated to them as offenders.
So Parliament had doomed the Earl of Surrey to die, and the king had signed his death-warrant.
Early next morning he was to be executed; and in the Tower-yard the workmen were already busy in erecting the scaffold on which the noble earl was to be beheaded.
Henry Howard was alone in his cell. He had done with life and earthly things. He had set his house in order and made his will; he had written to his mother and sister, and forgiven them for their treachery and accusation; he had addressed a letter to his father, in which he exhorted him, in words as noble as they were touching, to steadfastness and calmness, and bade him not to weep for him, for death was his desire, and the grave the only refuge for which he longed.
He had then, as we have said, done with life; and earthly things no longer disturbed him. He felt no regret and no fear. Life had left him nothing more to wish; and he almost thanked the king that he would so soon deliver him from the burden of existence.
The future had nothing more to offer him; why then should he desire it? Why long for a life which could be for him now only an isolated, desolate, and gloomy one? For Geraldine was lost to him! He knew not her fate; and no tidings of her had penetrated to him through the solitary prison walls. Did the queen still live? Or had the king in his wrath murdered her on that very night when Henry was carried to the Tower, and his last look beheld his beloved lying at her husband’s feet, swooning and rigid.
What had become of the queen--of Henry Howard’s beloved Geraldine? He knew nothing of her. He had hoped in vain for some note, some message from her; but he had not dared to ask any one as to her fate. Perhaps the king desisted from punishing her likewise. Perhaps his murderous inclination had been satisfied by putting Henry Howard to death; and Catharine escaped the scaffold. It might, therefore, have been ruinous to her, had he, the condemned, inquired after her. Or, if she had gone before him, then he was certain of finding her again, and of being united with her forevermore beyond the grave.
He believed in a hereafter, for he loved; and death did not affright him, for after death came the reunion with her, with Geraldine, who either was already waiting for him there above, or would soon follow him.
Life had nothing more to offer him. Death united him to his beloved. He hailed death as his friend and savior, as the priest who was to unite him to his Geraldine. He heard the great Tower clock of the prison which with threatening stroke made known the hour; and each passing hour he hailed with a joyous throb of the heart. The evening came and deep night descended upon him--the last night that was allotted to him-the last night that separated him from his Geraldine.
The turnkey opened the door to bring the earl a light, and to ask whether he had any orders to give. Heretofore it had been the king’s special command not to allow him a light in his cell; and he had spent these six long evenings and nights of his imprisonment in darkness. But to-day they were willing to give him a light; to-day they were willing to allow him everything that he might still desire. The life which he must leave in a few hours was to be once more adorned for him with all charms and enjoyments which he might ask for. Henry Howard had but to wish, and the jailer was ready to furnish him everything.
But Henry Howard wished for nothing; he demanded nothing, save that they would leave him alone-save that they would remove from his prison this light which dazzled him, and which opposed to his enrapturing dreams the disenchanting reality.
The king, who had wanted to impose a special punishment in condemning him to darkness--the king had, contrary to his intention, become thereby his benefactor. For with darkness came dreams and fantasies. With the darkness came Geraldine.
When night and silence were all around him, then there was light within; and an enchanting whisper and a sweet, enticing voice resounded within him. The gates of his prison sprang open, and on the wings of thought Henry Howard soared away from that dismal and desolate place. On the wings of thought he came to her--to his Geraldine.
Again she was by him, in the large, silent hall. Again night lay upon them, like a veil concealing, blessing, and enveloping them;--and threw its protection over their embraces and their kisses. Solitude allowed him to hear again the dear music of her voice, which sang for him so enchanting a melody of love and ecstasy.
Henry Howard must be alone, so that he can hear his Geraldine. Deep darkness must surround him, so that his Geraldine can come to him.
He demanded, therefore, for his last night, nothing further than to be left alone, and without a light. The jailer extinguished the light and left the cell. But he did not shove the great iron bolt across the door. He did not put the large padlock on it, but he only left the door slightly ajar, and did not lock it at all.
Henry Howard took no notice of this. What cared he, whether this gate was locked or no-he who no longer had a desire for life and freedom!
He leaned back on his seat, and dreamed with eyes open. There below in the yard they were working on the scaffold which Henry Howard was to ascend as soon as day dawned. The dull monotony of the strokes of the hammers fell on his ear. Now and then the torches, which lighted the workmen at their melancholy task, allowed to shine up into his cell a pale glimmer of light, which danced on the walls in ghost-like shapes.
“There are the ghosts of all those that Henry has put to death,” thought Henry Howard; “they gather around me; like will-o’-the-wisps, they dance with me the dance of death, and in a few hours I shall be forever theirs.”
The dull noise of hammers and saws continued steadily on, and Henry Howard sank deeper and deeper in reverie.
He thought, he felt, and desired nothing but Geraldine. His whole soul was concentrated in that single thought of her. It seemed to him he could bid his spirit see her, as though he could command his senses to perceive her. Yes, she was there; he felt-he was conscious of her presence. Again he lay at her feet, and leaned his head on her knee, and listened again to those charming revelations of her love.
Completely borne away from the present, and from existence, he saw, he felt, only her. The mystery of love was perfected, and, under the veil of night, Geraldine had again winged her way to him, and he to her.
A happy smile played about his lips, which faltered forth rapturous words of greeting. Overcome by a wonderful hallucination, he saw his beloved approaching him; he stretched out his arms to clasp her; and it did not arouse him when he felt instead of her only the empty air.
“Why do you float away from me again, Geraldine?” asked he, in a low tone. “Wherefore do you withdraw from my arms, to whirl with the will-o’-the-wisps in the death-dance? Come, Geraldine, come; my soul burns for you. My heart calls you with its last faltering throb. Come, Geraldine, oh, come!”
What was that? It was as though the door were gently opened, and the latch again gently fastened. It was as though a foot were moving softly over the floor-as though the shape of a human form shaded for a moment the flickering light which danced around the walls.
Henry Howard saw it not.
He saw naught but his Geraldine, whom he with so much fervency and longing wished by his side. He spread his arms; he called her with all the ardor, all the enthusiasm of a lover.
Now he uttered a cry of ecstasy. His prayer of love was answered. The dream had become a reality. His arms no longer clasped the empty air; they pressed to his breast the woman whom he loved, and for whom he was to die.
He pressed his lips to her mouth and she returned his kisses. He threw his arms around her form, and she pressed him fast, fast to her bosom.
Was this a reality? Or was it madness that was creeping upon him and seizing upon his brain, and deceiving him with fantasies so enchanting?
Henry Howard shuddered as he thought this, and, falling upon his knees, he cried in a voice trembling with agony and love: “Geraldine, have pity on me! Tell me that this is no dream, that I am not mad--that you are really--you are Geraldine--you--the king’s consort, whose knees I now clasp! Speak, oh speak, my Geraldine!”
“I am she!” softly whispered she. “I am Geraldine--am the woman whom you love, and to whom you have sworn eternal truth and eternal love! Henry Howard, my beloved, I now remind you of your oath! Your life belongs to me. This you have vowed, and I now come to demand of you that which is my own!”
“Ay, my life belongs to you, Geraldine! But it is a miserable, melancholy possession, which you will call yours only a few hours longer.”
She threw her arms closely around his neck; she raised him to her heart; she kissed his mouth, his eyes. He felt her tears, which trickled like hot fountains over his face; he heard her sighs, which struggled from her breast like death-groans.
“You must not die!” murmured she, amid her tears. “No, Henry, you must live, so that I too can live; so that I shall not become mad from agony and sorrow for you! My God, my God, do you not then feel how I love you? Know you not, then, that your life is my life, and your death my death?”
He leaned his head on her shoulder, and, wholly intoxicated with happiness, he scarcely heard what she was speaking.
She was again there! What cared he for all the rest?
“Geraldine,” softly whispered he, “do you recollect still how we first met each other? how our hearts were united in one throb, how our lips clung to each other in one kiss? Geraldine, my life, my loved one, we then swore that naught could separate us, that our love should survive the grave! Geraldine, do you remember that still?”
“I remember it, my Henry! But you shall not die yet; and not in death, but in life, shall your love for me be proved! Ay, we will live, live! And your life shall be my life, and where you are, there will I be also! Henry, do you remember that you vowed this to me with a solemn oath!”
“I remember it, but I cannot keep my word, my Geraldine! Hear you how they are sawing and hammering there below? Know you what that indicates, dearest?”
“I know it, Henry! It is the scaffold that they are building there below. The scaffold for you and me. For I too will die if you will not live; and the axe that seeks your neck shall find mine also, if you wish not that we both live!”
“Do I wish it! But how can we, beloved?”
“We can, Henry, we can! All is ready for the flight! It is all arranged, everything prepared! The king’s signet-ring has opened to me the gates of the prison; the omnipotence of gold has won over your jailer. He will not see it, when two persons instead of one leave this dungeon. Unmolested and without hinderance, we will both leave the Tower by ways known only to him, over secret corridors and staircases, and will go aboard a boat which is ready to take us to a ship, which lies in the harbor prepared to sail, and which as soon as we are aboard weighs anchor and puts to sea with us. Come, Henry, come! Lay your arm in mine, and let us leave this prison!”
She threw both her arms around his neck, and drew him forward. He pressed her fast to his heart and whispered: “Yes, come, come, my beloved! Let us fly! To you belongs my life, you alone!”
He raised her up in his arms, and hastened with her to the door. He pushed it hastily open with his foot and hurried forward down the corridor; but having arrived just at the first turn he reeled back in horror.
Before the door wore standing soldiers with shouldered arms. There stood also the lieutenant of the Tower, and two servants behind him with lighted candles. Geraldine gave a scream, and with anxious haste rearranged the thick veil that had slipped from her head.
Henry Howard also had uttered a cry, but not on account of the soldiers and the frustrated flight.
His eyes, stretched wide open, stared at this figure at his side, now so closely veiled.
It seemed to him as though like a spectre a strange face had risen up close by him--as though it were not the beloved head of the queen that rested there on his shoulder. He had seen this face only as a vision, as the fantasy of a dream; but he knew with perfect certainty that it was not her countenance, not the countenance of his Geraldine.
The lieutenant of the Tower motioned to his servants, and they carried the lighted candles into the earl’s cell.
Then he gave Henry Howard his hand and silently led him back into the prison.
Henry Howard exhibited no reluctance to follow him; but his hand had seized Geraldine’s arm, and he drew her along with him; his eye rested on her with a penetrating expression, and seemed to threaten her.
They were now again in the room which they had before left with such blessed hopes.
The lieutenant of the Tower motioned to the servants to retire, then turned with solemn earnestness to Earl Surrey.
“My lord,” said he, “it is at the king’s command that I bring you these lights. His majesty knows all that has happened here this night. He knew that a plot was formed to rescue you; and while they believed they were deceiving him, the plotters themselves were deceived. They had succeeded under various artful false pretences in influencing the king to give his signet-ring to one of his lords. But his majesty was already warned, and he already knew that it was not a man, as they wanted to make him believe, but a woman, who came, not to take leave of you, but to deliver you from prison. --My lady, the jailer whom you imagined that you had bribed was a faithful servant of the king. He betrayed your plot to me; and it was I who ordered him to make a show of favoring your deed. You will not be able to release Earl Surrey; but if such is your command, I will myself see you to the ship that lies in the harbor for you ready to sail. No one will hinder you, my lady, from embarking on it; Earl Surrey is not permitted to accompany you! --My lord, soon the night is at an end, and you know that it will be your last night. The king has ordered that I am not to prevent this lady, if she wishes to spend this night with you in your room. But she is allowed to do so only on the condition that the lights in your room remain burning. That is the king’s express will, and these are his own words: ‘Tell Earl Surrey that I allow him to love his Geraldine, but that he is to open his eyes to see her! That he may see, you will give him a light; and I command him not to extinguish it so long as Geraldine is with him. Otherwise he may confound her with another woman; for in the dark one cannot distinguish even a harlequin from a queen!’ --You have now to decide, my lord, whether this lady remains with you, or whether she goes, and the light shall be put out!”
“She shall remain with me, and I very much need the light!” said Earl Surrey; and his penetrating look rested steadily on the veiled figure, which shook at his words, as if in an ague.
“Have you any other wish besides this, my lord?”
“None, save that I may be left alone with her.”
The lieutenant bowed and left the room.
They wore now alone again, and stood confronting each other in silence. Naught was heard but the beating of their hearts, and the sighs of anguish that burst from Geraldine’s trembling lips.
It was an awful, a terrible pause. Geraldine would gladly have given her life could she thereby have extinguished the light and veiled herself in impenetrable darkness.
But the earl would see. With an angry, haughty look, he stepped up to her, and, as with commanding gesture lie raised his arm, Geraldine shuddered and submissively bowed her head.
“Unveil your face!” said he, in a tone of command. She did not stir. She murmured a prayer, then raised her clasped hands to Henry and in a low moan, said: “Mercy! mercy!”
He extended his hand and seized the veil.
“Mercy!” repeated she, in a voice of still deeper supplication--of still greater distress.
But he was inexorable. He tore the veil from her face and stared at her. Then with a wild shriek he reeled back and covered his face with his hands.
Jane Douglas durst not breathe or stir. She was pale as marble; her large, burning eyes were fastened with an unutterable expression of entreaty upon her lover, who stood before her with covered head, and crushed with anguish. She loved him more than her life, more than her eternal salvation; and yet she it was that had brought him to this hour of agony.
At length Earl Surrey let his hands fall from his face, and with a fierce movement dashed the tears from his eyes.
As he looked at her, Jane Douglas wholly involuntarily sank upon her knees, and raised her hands imploringly to him. “Henry Howard,” said she, in a low whisper, “I am Geraldine! Me have you loved; my letters have you read with ecstasy, and to me have you often sworn that you loved my mind yet more than my appearance. And often has my heart been filled with rapture, when you told me you would love me however my face might change, however old age or sickness might alter my features. You remember, Henry, how I once asked you whether you would cease to love me, if now God suddenly put a mask before my face, so that you could not recognize my features. You replied to me: ‘Nevertheless, I should love and adore you; for what in you ravishes me, is not your face, but you yourself--yourself with your glorious being and nature. It is your soul and your heart which can never change, which lie before me like a holy book, clear and bright!’ That was your reply to me then, as you swore to love me eternally. Henry Howard, I now remind you of your oath! I am your Geraldine. It is the same soul, the same heart; only God has put a mask upon my face!”
Earl Surrey had listened to her with eager attention, with increasing amazement.
“It is she! It is really!” cried he, as she ceased. “It is Geraldine!”
And wholly overcome, wholly speechless with anguish, he sank into a seat.
Geraldine flew to him; she crouched at his feet; she seized his drooping hand and covered it with kisses. And amid streaming tears, often interrupted by her sighs and her sobs, she recounted to him the sad and unhappy history of her love; she unveiled before him the whole web of cunning and deceit, that her father had drawn around them both. She laid her whole heart open and unveiled before him. She told him of her love, of her agonies, of her ambition, and her remorse. She accused herself; but she pleaded her love as an excuse, and with streaming tears, clinging to his knees, she implored him for pity, for forgiveness.
He thrust her violently from him, and stood up in order to escape her touch. His noble countenance glowed with anger: his eyes darted lightning; his long flowing hair shaded his lofty brow and his face like a sombre veil. He was beautiful in his wrath, beautiful as the archangel Michael trampling the dragon beneath his feet. And thus he bent down his head toward her; thus he gazed at her with flashing and contemptuous looks.
“I forgive you?” said he. “Never will that be! Ha, shall I forgive you? --you, who have made my entire life a ridiculous lie, and transformed the tragedy of my love into a disgusting farce? Oh, Geraldine, how I have loved you; and now you have become to me a loathsome spectre, before which my soul shudders, and which I must execrate! You have crushed my life, and even robbed my death of its sanctity; for now it is no longer the martyrdom of my love, but only the savage mockery of my credulous heart. Oh, Geraldine, how beautiful it would have been to die for you! --to go to death with your name upon my lips! --to bless you! --to thank you for my happy lot, as the axe was already uplifted to smite off my head! How beautiful to think that death does not separate us, but is only the way to an eternal union; that we should lose each other but a brief moment here, to find each other again forevermore!”
Geraldine writhed at his feet like a worm trodden upon; and her groans of distress and her smothered moans were the heartrending accompaniment of his melancholy words.
“But that is now all over!” cried Henry Howard; and his face, which was before convulsed with grief and agony, now glowed again with wrath. “You have poisoned my life and my death; and I shall curse you for it, and my last word will be a malediction on the harlequin Geraldine!”
“Have pity!” groaned Jane. “Kill me, Henry; stamp my head beneath your feet; only let this torture end!”
“Nay, no pity!” yelled he, wildly; “no pity for this impostor, who has stolen my heart and crept like a thief into my love! Arise, and leave this room; for you fill me with horror; and when I behold you, I feel only that I must curse you! Ay, a curse on you and shame, Geraldine! Curse on the kisses that I have impressed on your lips--on the tears of rapture that I have wept on your bosom. When I ascend the scaffold, I will curse you, and my last words shall be: ‘Woe to Geraldine! --for she is my murderess! ’” He stood there before her with arm raised on high, proud and great in his wrath. She felt the destroying lightning of his eyes, though she durst not look up at him, but lay at his feet moaning and convulsed, and concealing her face in her veil, as she shuddered at her own picture.
“And this be my last word to you Geraldine,” said Henry Howard, panting for breath: “Go hence under the burden of my curse, and live--if you can!”
She unveiled her head, and raised her countenance toward him. A contemptuous smile writhed about her deathly pale lips. “Live!” said she. “Have we not sworn to die with each other? Your curse does not release me from my oath, and when you descend into the grave, Jane Douglas will stand upon its brink, to wail and weep until you make a little place for her there below; until she has softened your heart and you take her again, as your Geraldine, into your grave. Oh, Henry! in the grave, I no longer wear the face of Jane Douglas--that hated face, which I would tear with my nails. In the grave, I am Geraldine again. There I may again lie close to your heart, and again you will say to me: ‘I love not your face and your external form! I love you yourself; I love your heart and mind; and that can never change; and can never be otherwise! ’” “Silence!” said he, roughly; “silence, if you do not want me to run mad! Cast not my own words in my face. They defile me, for falsehood has desecrated and trodden them in the mire. No! I will not make room for you in my grave. I will not again call you Geraldine. You are Jane Douglas, and I hate you, and I hurl my curse upon your criminal head! I tell you--” He suddenly paused, and a slight convulsion ran through his whole frame.
Jane Douglas uttered a piercing scream, and sprang from her knees.
Day had broken; and from the prison-tower sounded the dismal, plaintive stroke of the death-bell.
“Do you hear, Jane Douglas?” said Surrey. “That bell summons me to death. You it is that has poisoned my last hour. I was happy when I loved you. I die in despair, for I despise and hate you.”
“No, no, you dare not die!” cried she, clinging to him with passionate anguish. “You dare not go to the grave with that fierce curse upon your lips. I cannot be your murderess. Oh, it is not possible that they will put you to death--you, the beautiful, the noble and the virtuous Earl Surrey. My God, what have you done to excite their wrath? You are innocent; and they know it. They cannot execute you; for it would be murder! You have committed no offence; you have been guilty of nothing; no crime attaches to your noble person. It is indeed no crime to love Jane Douglas, and me have you loved--me alone.”
“No, not you,” said he proudly; “I have nothing to do with Lady Jane Douglas. I loved the queen, and I believed she returned my love. That is my crime.”
The door opened: and in solemn silence the lieutenant of the Tower entered with the priests and his assistants. In the door was seen the bright-red dress of the headsman, who was standing upon the threshold with face calm and unmoved.
“It is time!” solemnly said the lieutenant.
The priest muttered his prayers, and the assistants swung their censers. Without, the death-bell kept up its wail; and from the court was heard the hum of the mob, which, curious and bloodthirsty as it ever is, had streamed hither to behold with laughing mouth the blood of the man who but yesterday was its favorite.
Earl Surrey stood there a moment in silence. His features worked and were convulsed, and a deathlike pallor covered his cheeks.
He trembled, not at death, but at dying. It seemed to him that he already felt on his neck the cold broad-axe which that frightful man there held in his hand. Oh, to die on the battle-field--what a boon it would have been! To come to an end on the scaffold--what a disgrace was this!
“Henry Howard, my son, are you prepared to die?” asked the priest. “Have you made your peace with God? Do you repent of your sins, and do you acknowledge death as a righteous expiation and punishment? Do you forgive your enemies, and depart hence at peace with yourself and with mankind?”
“I am prepared to die,” said Surrey, with a proud smile; “the other questions, my father, I will answer to my God.”
“Do you confess that you were a wicked traitor? And do you beg the forgiveness of your noble and righteous, your exalted and good king, for the blasphemous injury to his sacred majesty?”
Earl Surrey looked him steadily in the eye. “Do you know what crime I am accused of?”
The priest cast down his eyes, and muttered a few unintelligible words.
With a haughty movement of the head, Henry Howard turned from the priest to the lieutenant of the Tower.
“Do you know my crime, my lord?” said he.
But the lord lieutenant also dropped his eyes, and remained silent.
Henry Howard smiled. “Well, now, I will tell you. I have, as it becomes me, my father’s son, borne the arms of our house on my shield and over the entrance of my palace, and it has been discovered that the king bears the same arms that we do. That is my high treason! I have said that the king is deceived in many of his servants, and often promotes his favorites to high honors which they do not deserve. That is my offence against his majesty; and it is that for which I shall lay my head upon the block. [Footnote: These two insignificant accusations were the only points that could be made out against the Earl of Surrey. Upon these charges, brought by his mother and sister, he was executed. --Tytler, p. 492; Burnet, vol. I, p. 75; Leti, vol. I, p. 108.] But make yourself easy; I shall myself add to my crimes one more, so that they may be grievous enough to make the conscience of the righteous and generous king quiet. I have given up my heart to a wretched and criminal love, and the Geraldine whom I have sung in many a poem, and have celebrated even before the king, was nothing but a miserable coquettish strumpet!”
Jane Douglas gave a scream, and sank upon the ground as if struck by lightning.
“Do you repent of this sin, my son?” asked the priest. “Do you turn your heart away from this sinful love, in order to turn it to God?”
“I not only repent of this love, but I execrate it! and now, my father, let us go; for you see, indeed, my lord is becoming impatient. He bears in mind that the king will find no rest until the Howards also have gone to rest. Ah, King Henry! King Henry! Thou callest thyself the mighty king of the world, and yet thou tremblest before the arms of thy subject! My lord, if you go to the king to-day, give him Henry Howard’s greeting; and tell him, I wish his bed may be as easy to him as the grave will be to me. Now, come, my lords! It is time.”
With head proudly erect and calm step, he turned to the door. But now Jane Douglas sprang from the ground; now she rushed to Henry Howard and clung to him with all the might of her passion and agony. “I leave you not!” cried she, breathless and pale as death. “You dare not repulse me, for you have sworn that we shall live and die together.”
He hurled her from him in fierce wrath, and drew himself up before her, lofty and threatening.
“I forbid you to follow me!” cried he, in a tone of command. She reeled back against the wall and looked at him, trembling and breathless.
He was still lord over her soul; she was still subject to him in love and obedience. She could not therefore summon up courage to defy his command.
She beheld him as he left the room and passed down the corridor with his dreadful train; she heard their footsteps gradually die away; and then suddenly in the yard sounded the hollow roll of the drum.
Jane Douglas fell on her knees to pray, but her lips trembled so much that she could find no words for her prayer.
The roll of the drum ceased in the court below, and only the death-bell still continued to wail and wail. She heard a voice speaking loud and powerful words.
It was his voice; it was Henry Howard that was speaking. And now again the hollow roll of the drums drowned his voice.
“He dies! He dies, and I am not with him!” cried she, with a shriek; and she gathered herself up, and as if borne by a whirlwind she dashed out of the room, through the corridor, and down the stairs.
There she stood in the court. That dreadful black pile above there, in the midst of this square crowded with men--that was the scaffold. Yonder she beheld him prostrate on his knees. She beheld the axe in the headsman’s hand; she saw him raise it for the fatal stroke.
She was a woman no longer, but a lioness! Not a drop of blood was in her cheeks. Her nostrils were expanded and her eyes darted lightning.
She drew out a dagger that she had concealed in her bosom, and made a path through the amazed, frightened, yielding crowd.
With one spring she had rushed up the steps of the scaffold. She now stood by him on the top of it--close by that kneeling figure.
There was a flash through the air. She heard a peculiar whiz--then a hollow blow. A red vapor-like streak of blood spurted up, and covered Jane Douglas with its crimson flood.
“I come, Henry, I come!” cried she, with a wild shout. “I shall be with thee in death!” And again there was a flash through the air. It was the dagger that Jane Douglas plunged into her heart.
She had struck well. No sound--no groan burst from her lips. With a proud smile she sank by her lover’s headless corpse, and with a last dying effort she said to the horrified headsman: “Let me share his grave! Henry Howard, in life and in death I am with thee!”
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{
"id": "3476"
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33
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NEW INTRIGUES.
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Henry Howard was dead; and now one would have thought the king might be satisfied and quiet, and that sleep would no longer flee from his eyelids, since Henry Howard, his great rival, had closed his eyes forever; since Henry Howard was no longer there, to steal away his crown, to fill the world with the glory of his deeds, to dim the genius of the king by his own fame as a poet.
But the king was still dissatisfied. Sleep still fled from his couch.
The cause of this was that his work was only just half done. Henry Howard’s father, the Duke of Norfolk, still lived. The cause of this was, that the king was always obliged to think of this powerful rival; and these thoughts chased sleep from his eyelids. His soul was sick of the Howards; therefore his body suffered such terrible pains. If the Duke of Norfolk would close his eyes in death, then would the king also be able to close his again in refreshing sleep! But this court of peers--and only by such a court could the duke be judged--this court of peers was so slow and deliberate! It worked far less rapidly, and was not near so serviceable, as the Parliament which had so quickly condemned Henry Howard. Why must the old Howard bear a ducal title? Why was he not like his son, only an earl, so that the obedient Parliament might condemn him?
That was the king’s inextinguishable grief, his gnawing pain, which made him raving with fury and heated his blood, and thereby increased the pains of his body.
He raved and roared with impatience. Through the halls of his palace resounded his savage vituperation. It made every one tremble and quake, for no one was sure that it was not he that was to fall that day a victim to the king’s fury. No one could know whether the king’s ever-increasing thirst for blood would not that day doom him.
With the most jealous strictness the king, from his sick-couch, watched over his royal dignity; and the least fault against that might arouse his wrath and bloodthirstiness. Woe to those who wanted still to maintain that the pope was the head of the Church! Woe to those who ventured to call God the only Lord of the Church, and honored not the king as the Church’s holy protector! The one, like the other, were traitors and sinners, and he had Protestants and Roman Catholics alike executed, however near they stood to his own person, and however closely he was otherwise bound to them.
Whoever, therefore, could avoid it, kept himself far from the dreaded person of the king; and whoever was constrained by duty to be near him, trembled for his life, and commended his soul to God.
There were only four persons who did not fear the king, and who seemed to be safe from his destroying wrath. There was the queen, who nursed him with devoted attention, and John Heywood, who with untiring zeal sustained Catharine in her difficult task, and who still sometimes succeeded in winning a smile from the king. There were, furthermore, Gardiner, bishop of Winchester, and Earl Douglas.
Lady Jane Douglas was dead. The king had therefore forgiven her father, and again shown himself gracious and friendly to the deeply-bowed earl. Besides, it was such an agreeable and refreshing feeling to the suffering king to have some one about him who suffered yet more than he himself! It comforted him to know that there could be agonies yet more horrible than those pains of the body under which he languished. Earl Douglas suffered these agonies; and the king saw with a kind of delight how his hair turned daily more gray, and his features became more relaxed and feeble. Douglas was younger than the king, and yet how old and gray his face was beside the king’s well-fed and blooming countenance!
Could the king have seen the bottom of his soul, he would have had less sympathy with Earl Douglas’s sorrow.
He considered him only as a tender father mourning the death of his only child. He did not suspect that it was less the father that Jane’s painful death had smitten, than the ambitious man, the fanatical Roman Catholic, the enthusiastic disciple of Loyola, who with dismay saw all his plans frustrated, and the moment drawing nigh when he would be divested of that power and consideration which he enjoyed in the secret league of the disciples of Jesus. With him, therefore, it was less the daughter, for whom he mourned, than the king’s seventh wife. And that Catharine wore the crown, and not his daughter--not Jane Douglas--his it was that he could never forgive the queen.
He wanted to take vengeance on the queen for Jane’s death; he wanted to punish Catharine for his frustrated hopes, for his desires that she had trampled upon. But Earl Douglas durst not himself venture to make another attempt to prejudice the king’s mind against his consort. Henry had interdicted him from it under the penalty of his wrath. With words of threatening, he had warned him from such an attempt; and Earl Douglas very well knew that King Henry was inflexible in his determination, when the matter under consideration was the execution of a threatened punishment, Yet what Douglas durst not venture, that Gardiner could venture--Gardiner, who, thanks to the capriciousness of the sick king, had for the few days past enjoyed again the royal favor so unreservedly that the noble Archbishop Cranmer had received orders to leave the court and retire to his episcopal residence at Lambeth.
Catharine had seen him depart with anxious forebodings; for Cranmer had ever been her friend and her support. His mild and serene countenance had ever been to her like a star of peace in the midst of this tempest-tossed and passion-lashed court life; and his gentle and noble words had always fallen like a soothing balm on her poor trembling heart.
She felt that with his departure she lost her noblest support, her strengthening aid, and that she was now surrounded only by enemies and opponents. True, she still had John Heywood, the faithful friend, the indefatigable servant; but since Gardiner had exercised his sinister influence over the king’s mind, John Heywood durst scarcely risk himself in Henry’s presence. True, she had also Thomas Seymour, her lover; but she knew and felt that she was everywhere surrounded by spies and eavesdroppers, and that now it required nothing more than an interview with Thomas Seymour--a few tender words--perchance even only a look full of mutual understanding and love, in order to send him and her to the scaffold.
She trembled not for herself, but for her lover. That made her cautious and thoughtful. That gave her courage never to show Thomas Seymour other than a cold, serious face; never to meet him otherwise than in the circle of her court; never to smile on him; never to give him her hand.
She was, however, certain of her future. She knew that a day would come on which the king’s death would deliver her from her burdensome grandeur and her painful royal crown; when she should be free--free to give her hand to the man whom alone on earth she loved, and to become his wife.
She waited for that day, as the prisoner does for the hour of his release; but like him she knew that a premature attempt to escape from her dungeon would bring her only ruin and death, and not freedom.
She must be patient and wait. She must give up all personal intercourse with her lover; and even his letters John Heywood could bring her but very seldom, and only with the greatest caution. How often already had not John Heywood conjured her to give up this correspondence also! how often had he not with tears in his eyes besought her to renounce this love, which might one day be her ruin and her death! Catharine laughed at his gloomy forebodings, and opposed to his dark prophecies a bravery reliant on the future, the joyous courage of her love.
She would not die, for happiness and love were awaiting her; she would not renounce happiness and love, for the sake of which she could endure this life in other respects--this life of peril, of resignation, of enmity, and of hatred.
But she wanted to live in order to be happy hereafter. This thought made her brave and resolute; it gave her courage to defy her enemies with serene brow and smiling lip; it enabled her to sit with bright eye and rosy cheeks at the side of her dreaded and severe husband, and, with cheerful wit and inexhaustible good-humor, jest away the frown from his brow, and vexation from his soul.
But just because she could do this, she was a dangerous antagonist to Douglas and Gardiner. Just on that account, it was to be their highest effort to destroy this beautiful young woman, who durst defy them and weaken their influence with the king. If they could but succeed in rendering the king’s mind more and more gloomy; if they could but completely fill him again with fanatical religious zeal; then, and then only, could they hope to attain their end; which end was this: to bring back the king as a contrite, penitent, and humble son of the only saving mother Church, and to make him again, from a proud, vain, and imperious prince, an obedient and submissive son of the pope.
The king was to renounce this vain and blasphemous arrogance of wishing to be himself head of his Church. He was to turn away from the spirit of novelty and heresy, and again become a faithful and devout Catholic.
But in order that they might attain this end, Catharine must be removed from him; he must no longer behold her rosy and beautiful face, and no longer allow himself to be diverted by her sensible discourse and her keen wit.
“We shall not be able to overthrow the queen,” said Earl Douglas to Gardiner, as the two stood in the king’s anteroom, and as Catharine’s cheerful chit-chat and the king’s merry laugh came pealing to them from the adjoining room. “No, no, Gardiner, she is too powerful and too crafty. The king loves her very much; and she is such an agreeable and refreshing recreation to him.”
“Just on that account we must withdraw her from him,” said Gardiner, with a dark frown. “He must turn away his heart from this earthly love; and after we shall have mortified this love in him, this savage and arrogant man will return to us and to God, contrite and humble.” But we shall not be able to mortify it, friend. It is so ardent and selfish a love.
“So much the greater will be the triumph, if our holy admonitions are successful in touching his heart, Douglas. It is true he will suffer very much if he is obliged to give up this woman. But he needs precisely this suffering in order to become contrite and penitent. His mind must first be entirely darkened, so that we can illuminate it with the light of faith. He must first be rendered perfectly isolated and comfortless in order to bring him back to the holy communion of the Church, and to, find him again accessible to the consolations of that faith which alone can save.”
“Ah,” sighed Douglas, “I fear that this will be a useless struggle. The king is so vain of his self-constituted high-priesthood!”
“But he is such a weak man, and such a great sinner!” said Gardiner, with a cold smile. “He trembles so much at death and God’s judgment, and our holy mother the Church can give him absolution, and by her holy sacraments render death easy to him. He is a wicked sinner and has stings of conscience. This it is that will bring him back again to the bosom of the Catholic Church.”
“But when will that come to pass? The king is sick, and any day may put an end to his life. Woe to us, if he die before he has given the power into our hands, and nominated us his executors! Woe to us, if the queen is appointed regent, and the king selects the Seymours as her ministers! Oh, my wise and pious father, the work that you wish to do must be done soon, or it must remain forever unaccomplished.”
“It shall be done this very day,” said Gardiner, solemnly; and bending down closer to the earl’s ear, he continued: “we have lulled the queen into assurance and self-confidence, and by this means she shall be ruined this very day. She relies so strongly on her power over the king’s disposition, that she often summons up courage even to contradict him, and to set her own will in opposition to his. That shall be her ruin this very day! For mark well, earl; the king is now again like a tiger that has been long fasting. He thirsts for blood! The queen has an aversion to human blood, and she is horrified when she hears of executions. So we must manage that these opposing inclinations may come into contact, and contend with each other.”
“Oh, I understand now,” whispered Douglas; “and I bow in reverence before the wisdom of your highness. You will let them both contend with their own weapons.”
“I will point out a welcome prey to his appetite for blood, and give her silly compassion an opportunity to contend with the king for his prey. Do you not think, earl, that this will be an amusing spectacle, and one refreshing to the heart, to see how the tiger and dove struggle with each other? And I tell you the tiger thirsts so much for blood! Blood is the only balm that he applies to his aching limbs, and by which alone he imagines that he can restore peace and courage to his tortured conscience and his dread of death. Ah, ha! we have told him that, with each new execution of a heretic, one of his great sins would be blotted out, and that the blood of the Calvinists serves to wash out of his account-book some of his evil deeds. He would be so glad to be able to appear pure and guiltless before the tribunal of his God! Therefore he needs very much heretical blood. But hark--the hour strikes which summons me to the royal chamber! There has been enough of the queen’s laughing and chit-chat. We will now endeavor to banish the smile forever from her face. She is a heretic; and it is a pious work, well pleasing to God, if we plunge her headlong into ruin!”
“May God be with your highness, and assist you by His grace, that you may accomplish this sublime work!”
“God will be with us, my son, since for Him it is that we labor and harass ourselves. To His honor and praise we bring these misbelieving heretics to the stake, and make the air re-echo with the agonizing shrieks of those who are racked and tortured. That is music well pleasing to God; and the angels in heaven will triumph and be glad when the heretical and infidel Queen Catharine also has to strike up this music of the damned. Now I go to the holy labor of love and godly wrath. Pray for me, my son, that I may succeed. Remain here in the anteroom, and await my call; perhaps we shall need you. Pray for us, and with us. Ah, we still owe this heretical queen a grudge for Anne Askew. To-day we will pay her. Then she accused us, to-day we will accuse her, and God and His host of saints and angels are with us.”
And the pious and godly priest crossed himself, and with head humbly bowed and a soft smile about his thin, bloodless lips, strode through the hall in order to betake himself to the king’s chamber.
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{
"id": "3476"
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34
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THE KING AND THE PRIEST.
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“God bless and preserve your majesty!” said Gardiner as he entered, to the king, who just then was sitting with the queen at the chess-board. With frowning brow and compressed lips he looked over the game, which stood unfavorable for him, and threatened him with a speedy checkmate.
It was not wise in the queen not to let the king win; for his superstitious and jealous temper looked upon such a won game of chess as withal an assault on his own person. And he who ventured to conquer him at chess was always to Henry a sort of traitor that threatened his kingdom, and was rash enough to attempt to seize the crown.
The queen very well knew that, but--Gardiner was right--she was too self-confident. She trusted a little to her power over the king; she imagined he would make an exception in her favor. And it was so dull to be obliged ever to be the losing and conquered party at this game; to permit the king always to appear as the triumphant victor, and to bestow on his game praise which he did not deserve. Catharine wanted to allow herself for once the triumph of having beaten her husband. She fought him man to man; she irritated him by the ever-approaching danger. The king, who at the beginning had been cheerful, and laughed when Catharine took up one of his pieces--the king now no longer laughed. It was no more a game. It was a serious struggle; and he contended with his consort for the victory with impassioned eagerness. Catharine did not even see the clouds which were gathering on the king’s brow. Her looks were directed only to the chess-board; and, breathless with expectation and glowing with eagerness, she considered the move she was about to make.
But Gardiner was very well aware of the king’s secret anger; and he comprehended that the situation was favorable for him.
With soft, sneaking step he approached the king, and, standing behind him, looked over the game.
“You are checkmated in four moves, my husband!” said the queen with a cheerful laugh, as she made her move.
A still darker frown gathered on the king’s brow, and his lips were violently compressed.
“It is true, your majesty,” said Gardiner. “You will soon have to succumb. Danger threatens you from the queen.”
Henry gave a start, and turned his face to Gardiner with an expression of inquiry. In his exasperated mood against the queen, the crafty priest’s ambiguous remark struck him with double keenness.
Gardiner was a very skilful hunter; the very first arrow that he shot had hit. But Catharine, too, had heard it whiz. Gardiner’s slow, ambiguous words had startled her from her artless security; and as she now looked into the king’s glowing, excited face, she comprehended her want of prudence.
But it was too late to remedy it. The king’s checkmate was unavoidable; and Henry himself had already noticed his defeat.
“It is all right!” said the king, impetuously. “You have won, Catharine, and, by the holy mother of God! you can boast of the rare good fortune of having vanquished Henry of England!”
“I will not boast of it, my noble husband!” said she, with a smile. “You have played with me as the lion does with the puppy, which he does not crush only because he has compassion on him, and he pities the poor little creature. Lion, I thank you. You have been magnanimous to-day. You have let me win.”
The king’s face brightened a little. Gardiner saw it. He must prevent Catharine from following up her advantage further.
“Magnanimity is an exalted, but a very dangerous virtue,” said he, gravely; “and kings above all things dare not exercise it; for magnanimity pardons crimes committed, and kings are not here to pardon, but to punish.”
“Oh, no, indeed,” said Catharine; “to be able to be magnanimous is the noblest prerogative of kings; and since they are God’s representatives on earth, they too must exercise pity and mercy, like God himself.”
The king’s brow again grew dark, and his sullen looks stared at the chess-board.
Gardiner shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply. He drew a roll of papers out of his gown and handed it to the king.
“Sire,” said he, “I hope you do not share the queen’s views; else it would be bad for the quiet and peace of the country. Mankind cannot be governed by mercy, but only through fear. Your majesty holds the sword in his hands. If you hesitate to let it fall on evil-doers, they will soon wrest it from your hands, and you will be powerless!”
“Those are very cruel words, your highness!” exclaimed Catharine, who allowed herself to be carried away by her magnanimous heart, and suspected that Gardiner had come to move the king to some harsh and bloody decision.
She wanted to anticipate his design; she wanted to move the king to mildness. But the moment was unpropitious for her.
The king, whom she had just before irritated by her victory over him, felt his vexation heightened by the opposition which she offered to the bishop; for this opposition was at the same time directed against himself. The king was not at all inclined to exercise mercy; it was, therefore, a very wicked notion of the queen’s to praise mercy as the highest privilege of princes.
With a silent nod of the head, he took the papers from Gardiner’s hands, and opened them.
“Ah,” said he, running over the pages, “your highness is right; men do not deserve to be treated with mercy, for they are always ready to abuse it. Because we have for a few weeks lighted no fagot-piles and erected no scaffolds, they imagine that we are asleep; and they begin their treasonable and mischievous doings with redoubled violence, and raise their sinful fists against us, in order to mock us. I see here an accusation against one who has presumed to say that there is no king by the grace of God; and that the king is a miserable and sinful mortal, just as well as the lowest beggar. Well, we will concede this man his point--we will not be to him a king by the grace of God, but a king by the wrath of God! We will show him that we are not yet quite like the lowest beggar, for we still possess at least wood enough to build a pile of fagots for him.”
And as the king thus spoke, he broke out into a loud laugh, in which Gardiner heartily chimed.
“Here I behold the indictment of two others who deny the king’s supremacy,” continued Henry, still turning over the leaves of the papers. “They revile me as a blasphemer, because I dare call myself God’s representative--the visible head of His holy Church; they say that God alone is Lord of His Church, and that Luther and Calvin are more exalted representatives of God than the king himself. Verily we must hold our royalty and our God-granted dignity very cheap, if we should not punish these transgressors, who blaspheme in our sacred person God Himself.”
He continued turning over the leaves. Suddenly a deep flush of anger suffused his countenance, and a fierce curse burst from his lips. He threw the paper on the table, and struck it with his clenched fist. “Are all the devils let loose, then?” yelled he, in wrath. “Does sedition blaze so wildly in my land, that we have no longer the power to subdue it? Here a fanatical heretic on the public street has warned the people not to read that holy book which I myself, like a well-intentioned and provident father and guardian, wrote for my people, and gave it them that they might be edified and exalted thereby. And this book that felon has shown to the people, and said to them: ‘You call that the king’s book; and you are right; for it is a wicked book, a work of hell, and the devil is the king’s sponsor!’ Ah, I see well we must again show our earnest and angry face to this miserable, traitorous rabble, that it may again have faith in the king. It is a wretched, disgusting, and contemptible mob--this people! They are obedient and humble only when they tremble and feel the lash. Only when they are trampled in the dust, do they acknowledge that we are their master; and when we have racked them and burnt, they have respect for our excellency. We must, however, brand royalty on their bodies so that they may be sensible of it as a reality. And by the eternal God, we will do that! Give me the pen here that I may sign and ratify these warrants. But dip the pen well, your highness, for there are eight warrants, and I must write my name eight times. Ah, ah, it is a hard and fatiguing occupation to be a king, and no day passes without trouble and toil!”
“The Lord our God will bless this toil to you!” said Gardiner, solemnly, as he handed the king the pen.
Henry was preparing to write, as Catharine laid her hand on his, and checked him.
“Do not sign them, my husband,” said she, in a voice of entreaty. “Oh, by all that is sacred to you, I conjure you not to let yourself be carried away by your momentary vexation; let not the injured man be mightier in you than the righteous king. Let the sun set and rise on your wrath; and then, when you are perfectly calm, perfectly composed--then pronounce judgment on these accused. For consider it well, my husband, these are eight death-warrants that you are here about to sign; and with these few strokes of the pen, you will tear eight human beings from life, from family, and from the world; you will take from the mother, her son; from the wife, her husband; and from the infant children, their father. Consider it, Henry; it is so weighty a responsibility that God has placed in your hand, and it is presumptuous not to meet it in holy earnestness and undisturbed tranquillity of mind.”
“Now, by the holy mother!” cried the king, striking vehemently upon the table, “I believe, forsooth, you dare excuse traitors and blasphemers of their king! You have not heard then of what they are accused?”
“I have heard it,” said Catharine, more and more warmly; “I have heard, and I say, nevertheless, sign not those death-warrants, my husband. It is true these poor creatures have grievously erred, but they erred as human beings. Then let your punishment also be human. It is not wise, O king, to want to avenge so bitterly a trifling injury to your majesty. A king must be exalted above reviling and calumny. Like the sun, he must shine upon the just and the unjust, no one of whom is so mighty that he can cloud his splendor and dim his glory. Punish evil-doers and criminals, but be noble and magnanimous toward those who have injured your person.”
“The king is no person that can be injured!” said Gardiner. “The king is a sublime idea, a mighty, world-embracing thought. Whoever injures the king, has not injured a person, but a divinely instituted royalty--the universal thought that holds together the whole world!”
“Whoever injures the king has injured God!” yelled the king; “and whoever seizes our crown and reviles us, shall have his hand struck off, and his tongue torn out, as is done to atheists and patricides!”
“Well, strike off their hand then, mutilate them; but do not kill them!” cried Catharine, passionately. “Ascertain at least whether their crime is so grievous as they want to make you believe, my husband. Oh, it is so easy now to be accused as a traitor and atheist! All that is needed for it is an inconsiderate word, a doubt, not as to God, but to his priests and this Church which you, my king, have established; and of which the lofty and peculiar structure is to many so new and unusual that they ask themselves in doubt whether that is a Church of God or a palace of the king, and that they lose themselves in its labyrinthine passages, and wander about without being able to find the exit.”
“Had they faith,” said Gardiner, solemnly, “they would not lose their way; and were God with them, the entrance would not be closed to them.”
“Oh, I well know that YOU are always inexorable!” cried Catharine, angrily. “But it is not to you either that I intercede for mercy, but to the king; and I tell you, sir bishop, it would be better for you, and more worthy of a priest of Christian love, if you united your prayers with mine, instead of wanting to dispose the king’s noble heart to severity. You are a priest; and you have learned in your own life that there are many paths that lead to God, and that we, one and all, doubt and are perplexed which of them is right.”
“How!” screamed the king, as he rose from his seat and gazed at Catharine with angry looks. “You mean, then, that the heretics also may find themselves on a path that leads to God?”
“I mean,” cried she, passionately, “that Jesus Christ, too, was called an atheist, and executed. I mean that Stephen was stoned by Paul, and that, nevertheless, both are now honored as saints and prayed to as such. I mean, that Socrates was not damned because he lived before Christ, and so could not be acquainted with his religion; and that Horace and Julius Caesar, Phidias and Plato, must yet be called great and noble spirits, even though they were heathen. Yes, my lord and husband, I mean that it behooves us well to exercise gentleness in matters of religion, and that faith is not to be obtruded on men by main force as a burden, but is to be bestowed upon them as a benefit through their own conviction.”
“So you do not hold these eight accused to be criminals worthy of death?” asked Henry with studied calmness, and a composure maintained with difficulty.
“No, my husband! I hold that they are poor, erring mortals, who seek the right path, and would willingly travel it; and who, therefore, ask in doubt all along, ‘Is this the right way? ’” “It is enough!” said the king, as he beckoned Gardiner to him, and, leaning on his arm, took a few steps across the room. “We will speak no more of these matters. They are too grave for us to wish to decide them in the presence of our gay young queen. The heart of woman is always inclined to gentleness and forgiveness. You should have borne that in mind, Gardiner, and not have spoken of these matters in the queen’s presence.”
“Sire, it was, however, the hour that you appointed for consultation on these matters.”
“Was it the hour!” exclaimed the king, quickly. “Well, then we did wrong to devote it to anything else than grave employments; and you will pardon me, queen, if I beg you to leave me alone with the bishop. Affairs of state must not be postponed.”
He presented Catharine his hand, and with difficulty, and yet with a smiling countenance, conducted her to the door. As she stopped, and, looking him in the eye with an expression inquiring and anxious, opened her lips to speak to him, he made an impatient gesture with his hand, and a dark frown gathered on his brow.
“It is late,” said he, hastily, “and we have business of state.”
Catharine did not venture to speak; she bowed in silence and left the room. The king watched her with sullen brow and angry looks. Then he turned round to Gardiner.
“Now,” asked he, “what do you think of the queen?”
“I think,” said Gardiner, so slowly and so deliberately that each word had time to penetrate the king’s sensitive heart like the prick of a needle--“I think that she does not deem them criminals that call the holy book which you have written a work of hell; and that she has a great deal of sympathy for those heretics who will not acknowledge your supremacy.”
“By the holy mother, I believe she herself would speak thus, and avow herself among my enemies, if she were not my wife!” cried the king, in whose heart rage began already to seethe like lava in a volcano.
“She does it already, although she is your wife, sire! She imagines her exalted position renders her unamenable, and protects her from your righteous wrath; therefore she does what no one else dares do, and speaks what in the mouth of any other would be the blackest treason.”
“What does she? and what says she?” cried the king. “Do not hesitate to tell me, your highness. It behooves me well to know what my wife does and says.”
“Sire, she is not merely the secret patroness of heretics and reformers, but she is also a professor of their faith. She listens to their false doctrine with eager mind, and receives the cursed priests of this sect into her apartments, in order to hear their fanatical discourse and hellish inspiration. She speaks of these heretics as true believers and Christians; and denominates Luther the light that God has sent into the world to illuminate the gloom and falsehood of the Church with the splendor of truth and love--that Luther, sire, who dared write you such shameful and insulting letters, and ridiculed in such a brutal manner your royalty and your wisdom.”
“She is a heretic; and when you say that, you say everything!” screamed the king. The volcano was ripe for an eruption, and the seething lava must at last have an outlet. “Yes, she is a heretic!” repeated the king; “and yet we have sworn to exterminate these atheists from our land.”
“She very well knows that she is secure from your wrath,” said Gardiner, with a shrug of his shoulders. “She relies on the fact that she is the queen, and that in the heart of her exalted husband love is mightier than the faith.”
“Nobody shall suppose that he is secure from my wrath, and no one shall rely on the security afforded him by my love. She is a proud, arrogant, and audacious woman!” cried the king, whose looks were just then fixed again on the chess-board, and whose spite was heightened by the remembrance of the lost game. “She ventures to brave us, and to have a will other than ours. By the holy mother, we will endeavor to break her stubbornness, and bend her proud neck beneath our will! Yes, I will show the world that Henry of England is still the immovable and incorruptible. I will give the heretics an evidence that I am in reality the defender and protector of the faith and of religion in my land, and that nobody stands too high to be struck by my wrath, and to feel the sword of justice on his neck. She is a heretic; and we have sworn to destroy heretics with fire and sword. We shall keep our oath.”
“And God will bless you with His blessing. He will surround your head with a halo of fame; and the Church will praise you as her most glorious pastor, her exalted head.”
“Be it so!” said the king, as with youthful alacrity he strode across the room; and, stepping to his writing-table, with a vigorous and fleet hand he wrote down a few lines. Gardiner stood in the middle of the room with his hands folded; and his lips murmured in an undertone a prayer, while his large flashing eyes were fastened on the king with a curious and penetrating expression.
“Here, your highness,” the king then said, “take this paper--take it and order everything necessary. It is an arrest-warrant; and before the night draws on, the queen shall be in the Tower.”
“Verily, the Lord is mighty in you!” cried Gardiner, as he took the paper; “the heavenly hosts sing their hallelujah and look down with rapture on the hero who subdues his own heart to serve God and the Church.”
“Take it and speed you!” said the king, hastily. “In a few hours everything must be done. Give Earl Douglas the paper, and bid him go with it to the lord-lieutenant of the Tower, so that he himself may repair hither with the yeomen of the guard. For this woman is yet a queen, and even in the criminal I will still recognize the queen. The lord-lieutenant himself must conduct her to the Tower. Hasten then, say I! But, hark you, keep all this a secret, and let nobody know anything of it till the decisive moment arrives. Otherwise her friends might take a notion to implore my mercy for this sinner; and I abhor this whining and crying. Silence, then, for I am tired and need rest and sleep. I have, as you say, just done a work well pleasing to God; perhaps He may send me, as a reward for it, invigorating and strengthening sleep, which I have now so long desired in vain.”
And the king threw back the curtains of his couch, and, supported by Gardiner, laid himself on the downy cushion.
Gardiner drew the curtains again, and thrust the fatal paper into his pocket. Even in his hands it did not seem to him secure enough. What! might not some curious eye fasten on it, and divine its contents? Might not some impertinent and shameless friend of the queen snatch this paper from him, and carry it to her and give her warning? No, no, it was not secure enough in his hands. He must hide it in the pocket of his gown. There, no one could find it, no one discover it.
So there he hid it. In the gown with its large folds it was safe; and, after he had thus concealed the precious paper, he left the room with rapid strides, in order to acquaint Earl Douglas with the glorious result of his plans.
Not a single time did he look back. Had he done so, he would have sprung back into that room as a tiger pounces on his prey. He would have plunged, as the hawk stoops at the dove, at that piece of white paper that lay there on the floor, exactly on the spot where Gardiner was before standing when he placed into his pocket the arrest-warrant written by the king.
Ah, even the gown of a priest is not always close enough to conceal a dangerous secret; and even the pocket of a bishop may sometimes have holes in it.
Gardiner went away with the proud consciousness of having the order of arrest in his pocket; and that fatal paper lay on the floor in the middle of the king’s chamber.
Who will come to pick it up? Who will become the sharer of this dangerous secret? To whom will this mute paper proclaim the shocking news that the queen has fallen into disgrace, and is this very day to be dragged to the Tower as a prisoner?
All is still and lonely in the king’s apartment. Nothing is stirring, not even the heavy damask curtains of the royal couch.
The king sleeps. Even vexation and anger are a good lullaby; they have so agitated and prostrated the king, that he has actually fallen asleep from weariness.
Ah, the king should have been thankful to his wife for his vexation at the lost game of chess, and his wrath at Catharine’s heretical sentiments. These had fatigued him; these had lulled him to sleep.
The warrant of arrest still lay on the floor. Now, quite softly, quite cautiously, the door opens. Who is it that dares venture to enter the king’s room unsummoned and unannounced?
There are only three persons who dare venture that: the queen, Princess Elizabeth, and John Heywood the fool. Which of the three is it?
It is Princess Elizabeth, who comes to salute her royal father. Every forenoon at this hour she had found the king in his room. Where was he then to-day? As she looked around the room with an inquiring and surprised air, her eye fell on that paper which lay there on the floor. She picked it up, and examined it with childish curiosity. What could this paper contain? Surely it was no secret--else, it would not lie here on the floor.
She opened it and read. Her fine countenance expressed horror and amazement; a low exclamation escaped her lips. But Elizabeth had a strong and resolute soul; and the unexpected and the surprising did not dull her clear vision, nor cloud her sharp wit. The queen was in danger. The queen was to be imprisoned. THAT, this dreadful paper shrieked in her ear; but she durst not allow herself to be stunned by it. She must act; she must warn the queen.
She hid the paper in her bosom, and light as a zephyr she floated away again out of the chamber.
With flashing eyes and cheeks reddened by her rapid race Elizabeth entered the queen’s chamber; with passionate vehemence she clasped her in her arms and tenderly kissed her.
“Catharine, my queen, and my mother,” said she, “we have sworn to stand by and protect each other when danger threatens us. Fate is gracious to me, for it has given into my hand the means of making good my oath this very day. Take that paper and read! It is an order for your imprisonment, made out by the king himself. When you have read it, then let us consider what is to be done, and how we can avert the danger from you.”
“An order of imprisonment!” said Catharine, with a shudder, as she read it. “An order of imprisonment--that is to say, a death-warrant! For when once the threshold of that frightful Tower is crossed, it denotes that it is never to be left again; and if a queen is arrested and accused, then is she also already condemned. Oh, my God, princess, do you comprehend that--to have to die while life still throbs so fresh and warm in our veins? To be obliged to go to death, while the future still allures us with a thousand hopes, a thousand wishes? My God, to have to descend into the desolate prison and into the gloomy grave, while the world greets us with alluring voices, and spring-tide has scarcely awoke in our heart!”
Streams of tears burst from her eyes, and she hid her face in her trembling hands.
“Weep not, queen,” whispered Elizabeth, herself trembling and pale as death. “Weep not; but consider what is to be done. Each minute, and the danger increases; each minute brings the evil nearer to us.”
“You are right,” said Catharine, as she again raised her head, and shook the tears from her eyes. “Yes, you are right; it is not time to weep and wail. Death is creeping upon me; but I--I will not die. I live still; and so long as there is a breath in me I will fight against death. God will assist me; God will help me to overcome this danger also, as I have already done so many others.”
“But what will you do? where can you begin? You know not the accusation. You know not who accuses you, nor with what you are charged.”
“Yet I suspect it!” said the queen, musingly. “When I now recall to mind the king’s angry countenance, and the malicious smile of that malignant priest, I believe I know the accusation. Yes--everything is now clear to me. Ah, it is the heretic that they would sentence to death. Well, now, my lord bishop, I still live; and--we will see which of us two will gain the victory!”
With proud step and glowing cheeks she hurried to the door. Elizabeth held her hack. “Whither are you going?” cried she, in astonishment.
“To the king!” said she, with a proud smile. “He has heard the bishop; now he shall hear me also. The king’s disposition is fickle and easily changed. We will now see which cunning is the stronger--the cunning of the priest or the cunning of the woman. Elizabeth, pray for me. I go to the king; and you will either see me free and happy, or never again.”
She imprinted a passionate kiss on Elizabeth’s lips, and hurriedly left the chamber.
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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35
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CHESS-PLAY.
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It was many days since the king had been as well as he was to-day. For a long time he had not enjoyed such refreshing sleep as on the day when he signed the warrant for the queen’s imprisonment. But he thought nothing at all about it. Sleep seemed to have obliterated all recollection of it from his memory. Like an anecdote which you listen to, and smile at for the moment, but soon forget, so had the whole occurrence vanished again from him. It was an anecdote of the moment--a transient interlude--nothing further.
The king had slept well, and he had no care for anything else. He stretched himself, and lay lounging on his couch, thinking with rapture how fine it would be if he could enjoy such sweet and refreshing repose every day, and if no bad dreams and no fear would frighten away sleep from his eyes. He felt very serene and very good-humored; and had any one now come to beg a favor of the king, he would have granted it in the first joy after such invigorating sleep. But he was alone; no one was with him; he must repress his gracious desires. But no. Was it not as though something were stirring and breathing behind the curtains? The king threw back the curtains, and a soft smile flitted over his features; for before his bed sat the queen. There she sat with rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, and greeted him with a roguish smile.
“Ah, Kate, it is you!” cried the king. “Well, now, I understand how it happened that I have had such a sound and refreshing sleep! You stood by as my good angel, and scared the pains and bad dreams away from my couch.”
And as he said this, he reached out his hand and tenderly stroked her velvet cheek. He did not at all recollect that he had already, as it were, devoted that charming head to the scaffold, and that in a few hours more those bright eyes were to behold naught but the night of the dungeon. Sleep, as we have said, had lulled to rest also the recollection of this; and the evil thoughts had not yet awoke again in him. To sign an order of arrest or a death-warrant was with the king such a usual and every-day matter, that it constituted no epoch in his life, and neither burdened him with troubles of conscience nor made his heart shudder and tremble.
But Catharine thought of it, and as the king’s hand stroked her cheek, it was as though death were just then touching her, never again to release her. However, she overcame this momentary horror, and had the courage to preserve her serene and innocent air.
“You call me your good angel, my husband,” said she, with a smile; “but yet I am nothing more than your little Puck, who bustles about you, and now and then makes you laugh with his drolleries.”
“And a dear little Puck you are, Katie,” cried the king, who always gazed upon his wife’s rosy and fresh countenance with real satisfaction.
“Then I will prove myself this very day your Puck, and allow you no more repose on your couch,” said she, as she made a mock effort to raise him up. “Do you know, my husband, why I came here? A butterfly has tapped at my window. Only think now, a butterfly in winter! That betokens that this time winter is spring; and the clerk of the weather above there has confounded January with March. The butterfly has invited us, king; and only see! the sun is winking into the window to us, and says we have but to come out, as he has already dried the walks in the garden below, and called forth a little grass on the plat. And your rolling chair stands all ready, my lord and husband, and your Puck, as you see, has already put on her furs, and clad herself in armor against the winter, which, however, is not there!”
“Well, then, help me, my dearest Puck, so that I can arise, and obey the command of the butterfly and the sun and my lovely wife,” cried the king, as he put his arm around Catharine’s neck, and slowly raised himself from the couch.
She busied herself about him with officious haste; she put her arm tenderly on his shoulder and supported him, and properly arranged for him the gold chain, which had slipped out of place on his doublet, and playfully plaited the lace ruff which was about his neck.
“Is it your order, my husband, that your servants come? --the master of ceremonies, who, without doubt, awaits your back in the anteroom--the lord bishop--who a while ago made such a black-looking face at me? But how! my husband, your face, too, is now in an eclipse? How? Has your Puck perchance said something to put you out of tune?”
“No, indeed!” said the king, gloomily; but he avoided meeting her smiling glance and looking in her rosy face.
The evil thoughts had again awoke in him; and he now remembered the warrant of arrest that he had given Gardiner. He remembered it, and he regretted it. For she was so fair and lovely--his young queen; she understood so well by her jests to smooth away care from his brow, and affright vexation from his soul--she was such an agreeable and sprightly pastime, such a refreshing means of driving away ennui.
Not for her sake did he regret what he had done, but only on his own account. From selfishness alone, he repented having issued that order for the queen’s imprisonment. Catharine observed him. Her glance, sharpened by inward fear, read his thoughts on his brow, and understood the sigh which involuntarily arose from his breast.
She again seized courage; she might succeed in turning away by a smile the sword that hung over her head.
“Come, my lord and husband,” said she, cheerfully, “the sun beckons to us, and the trees shake their heads indignantly because we are not yet there.”
“Yes, come, Kate,” said the king, rousing himself with an effort from his brown study; “come, we will go down into God’s free air. Perhaps He is nearer to us there, and may illuminate us with good thoughts and wholesome resolutions. Come, Kate.”
The queen gave him her arm, and, supported on it, the king advanced a few steps. But suddenly Catharine stood still; and as the king fastened on her his inquiring look, she blushed and cast down her eyes.
“Well!” asked the king, “why do you linger?”
“Sire, I was considering your words; and what you say about the sun and wholesome resolutions has touched my heart and startled my conscience. My husband, you are right; God is there without, and I dare not venture to behold the sun, which is God’s eye, before I have made my confession and received absolution. Sire, I am a great sinner, and my conscience gives me no rest. Will you be my confessor, and listen to me?”
The king sighed. “Ah,” thought he, “she is hurrying to destruction, and by her own confession of guilt she will make it impossible for me to hold her guiltless!”
“Speak!” said he aloud.
“First,” said she, with downcast eyes--“first, I must confess to you that I have to-day deceived you, my lord and king. Vanity and sinful pride enticed me to this; and childish anger made me consummate what vanity whispered to me. But I repent, my king; I repent from the bottom of my soul, and I swear to you, my husband--yes, I swear to you by all that is sacred to me, that it is the first and only time that I have deceived you. And never will I venture to do it again, for it is a dismal and awful feeling to stand before you with a guilty conscience.”
“And in what have you deceived us, Kate?” asked the king; and his voice trembled.
Catharine drew from her dress a small roll of paper, and, humbly bowing, handed it to the king. “Take and see for yourself, my husband,” said she.
With hurried hand the king opened the paper, and then looked in utter astonishment, now at its contents, and now at the blushing face of the queen.
“What!” said he, “you give me a pawn from the chess-board! What does that mean?”
“That means,” said she, in a tone of utter contrition--“that means, that I stole it from you, and thereby cheated you out of your victory. Oh, pardon me, my husband! but I could no longer endure to lose always, and I was afraid you would no more allow me the pleasure of playing with you, when you perceived what a weak and contemptible antagonist I am. And behold, this little pawn was my enemy! It stood near my queen and threatened her with check, while it discovered check to my king from your bishop. You were just going to make this move, which was to ruin me, when Bishop Gardiner entered. You turned away your eyes and saluted him. You were not looking on the game. Oh, my lord and husband, the temptation was too alluring and seductive; and I yielded to it. Softly I took the pawn from the board, and slipped it into my pocket. When you looked again at the game, you seemed surprised at first; but your magnanimous and lofty spirit had no suspicion of my base act; so you innocently played on; and so I won the game of chess. Oh, my king, will you pardon me, and not be angry with me?” The king broke out into a loud laugh, and looked with an expression of tenderness at Catharine, who stood before him with downcast eyes, abashed and blushing. This sight only redoubled his merriment, and made him again and again roar out with laughter.
“And is that all your crime, Kate?” asked he, at length, drying his eyes. “You have stolen a pawn from me--this is your first and only deception?”
“Is it not indeed great enough, sire? Did I not purloin it because I was so high-minded as to want to win a game of chess from you? Is not the whole court even now acquainted with my splendid luck? And does it not know that I have been the victor to-day, whilst yet I was not entitled to be so--whilst I deceived you so shamefully?”
“Now, verily,” said the king, solemnly, “happy are the men who are not worse deceived by their wives than you have deceived me to-day; and happy are the women whose confessions are so pure and innocent as yours have been to-day! Do but lift up your eyes again, my Katie; that sin is forgiven you; and by God and by your king it shall be accounted to you as a virtue.”
He laid his hand on her head, as if in blessing, and gazed at her long and silently. Then, said he, laughingly: “According to this, then, my Kate, I should have been the victor of to-day, and not have lost that game of chess.”
“No,” said she, dolefully, “I must have lost it, if I had not stolen the pawn.”
Again the king laughed. Catharine said, earnestly: “Do but believe me, my husband, Bishop Gardiner alone was the cause of my fall. Because he was by, I did not want to lose. My pride revolted to think that this haughty and arrogant priest was to be witness of my defeat. In mind, I already saw the cold and contemptuous smile with which he would look down on me, the vanquished; and my heart rose in rebellion at the thought of being humbled before him. And now I have arrived at the second part of my fault which I want to confess to you to-day. Sire, I must acknowledge another great fault to you. I have grievously offended against you to-day, in that I contradicted you, and withstood your wise and pious words. Ah, my husband, it was not done to spite you, but only to vex and annoy the haughty priest. For I must confess to you, my king, I hate this Bishop of Winchester--ay, yet more--I have a dread of him; for my foreboding heart tells me that he is my enemy, that he is watching each of my looks, each of my words, so that he can make from them a noose to strangle me. He is the evil destiny that creeps up behind me and would one day certainly destroy me, if your beneficent hand and your almighty arm did not protect me.
“Oh, when I behold him, my husband, I would always gladly fly to your heart, and say to you: ‘Protect me, my king, and have compassion on me! Have faith in me and love me; for if you do not, I am lost! The evil fiend is there to destroy me. ’” And, as she thus spoke, she clung affectionately to the king’s side, and, leaning her head on his breast, looked up to him with a glance of tender entreaty and touching devotion.
The king bent down and kissed her brow. “Oh, sancta simplicitas,” softly murmured he--“she knows not how nigh she is to the truth, and how much reason she has for her evil forebodings!” Then he asked aloud: “So, Kate, you believe that Gardiner hates you?”
“I do not believe it, I know it!” said she. “He wounds me whenever he can; and though his wounds are made only with pins, that comes only from this, that he is afraid that you might discover it if he drew a dagger on me, whilst you might not notice the pin with which he secretly wounds me. And what was his coming here to-day other than a new assault on me? He knows very well--and I have never made a secret of it--that I am an enemy to this Roman Catholic religion the pope of which has dared to hurl his ban against my lord and husband; and that I seek with lively interest to be instructed as to the doctrine and religion of the so-called reformers.”
“They say that you are a heretic,” said the king, gravely.
“Gardiner says that! But if I am so, you are so too, my king; for your belief is mine. If I am so, so too is Cranmer, the noble Archbishop of Canterbury; for he is my spiritual adviser and helper. But Gardiner wishes that I were a heretic, and he wants me likewise to appear so to you. See, my husband, why it was that he laid those eight death-warrants before you awhile ago. There were eight, all heretics, whom you were to condemn--not a single papist among them; and yet I know that the prisons are full of papists, who, in the fanaticism of their persecuted faith, have spoken words just as worthy of punishment as those unfortunate ones whom you were to-day to send from life to death by a stroke of your pen. Sire, I should have prayed you just as fervently, just as suppliantly, had they been papists whom you were to sentence to death! But Gardiner wanted a proof of my heresy; and therefore he selected eight heretics, for whom I was to oppose your hard decree.”
“It is true,” said the king, thoughtfully; “there was not a single papist among them! But tell me, Kate--are you really a heretic, and an adversary of your king?”
With a sweet smile she looked deep into his eyes, and humbly crossed her arms over her beautiful breast.
“Your adversary!” whispered she. “Are you not my husband and my lord? Was not the woman made to be subject to the man? The man was created after the likeness of God, and the woman after the likeness of man. So the woman is only the man’s second self; and he must have compassion on her in love; and he must give her of his spirit, and influence her understanding from his understanding. Therefore your duty is to instruct me, my husband; and mine is, to learn of you. And of all the women in the world, to no one is this duty made so easy as to me; for God has been gracious to me and given me as my husband a king whose prudence, wisdom, and learning are the wonder of all the world.” [Footnote: The queen’s own words, as they have been given by all historical writers. See on this point Burnet, vol. I, p. 84; Tytler, p. 413; Larrey’s “Histoire d’Angleterre,” vol. II, p. 201; Leti, vol. I, p. 154, (death-sign) Historical. The king’s own words.] “What a sweet little flatterer you are, Kate!” said the king, with a smile; “and with what a charming voice you want to conceal the truth from us! The truth is, that you yourself are a very learned little body, who has no need at all to learn anything from others, but who would be well able to instruct others.”
“Oh, if it is so, as you say,” cried Catharine, “well, then would I teach the whole world to love my king as I do, and to be subject to him in humility, faithfulness, and obedience, as I am.”
And as she thus spoke, she threw both her arms about the king’s neck, and leaned her head with a languishing expression upon his breast.
The king kissed her, and pressed her fast to his heart. He thought no longer of the danger that was hovering over Catharine’s head; he thought only that he loved her, and that life would be very desolate, very tedious and sad without her.
“And now, my husband,” said Catharine, gently disengaging herself from him--“now, since I have confessed to you and received absolution from you--now let us go down into the garden, so that God’s bright sun may shine into our hearts fresh and glad. Come, my husband, your chair is ready; and the bees and the butterflies, the gnats and the flies, have already practised a hymn, with which they are going to greet you, my husband.”
Laughing and jesting, she drew him along to the adjoining room, where the courtiers and the rolling-chair were standing ready; and the king mounted his triumphal car, and allowed himself to be rolled through the carpeted corridors, and down the staircases, transformed into broad inclined planes of marble, into the garden.
The air had the freshness of winter and the warmth of spring. The grass like a diligent weaver was already beginning to weave a carpet over the black level of the square; and already here and there a tiny blossom, curious and bashful, was peeping out and appeared to be smiling in astonishment at its own premature existence. The sun seemed so warm and bright; the heavens were so blue!
At the king’s side went Catharine, with such rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes. Those eyes were always directed to her husband; and her charming prattle was to the king like the melodious song of birds, and made his heart leap for pleasure and delight. But how? What noise all at once drowned Catharine’s sweet prattle? And what was it that flashed up there at the end of that large alley which the royal pair with their suite had just entered?
It was the noise of soldiers advancing; and shining helmets and coats-of-mail flashed in the sunlight.
One band of soldiers held the outlet from the alley; another advanced up it in close order. At their head were seen striding along Gardiner and Earl Douglas, and at their side the lieutenant of the Tower.
The king’s countenance assumed a lowering and angry expression and his cheeks were suffused with crimson. With the quickness of youth he rose from his chair, and, raised to his full height, he looked with flaming eyes at the procession.
The queen seized his hand and pressed it to her breast.
“Ah,” said she, with a low whisper, “protect me, my husband, for fear already overpowers me again! It is my enemy--it is Gardiner--that comes, and I tremble.”
“You shall no longer tremble before him, Kate!” said the king. “Woe to them, that dare make King Henry’s consort tremble! I will speak with Gardiner.”
And almost roughly pushing aside the queen, the king, utterly heedless in his violent excitement of the pain of his foot, went in a quick pace to meet the advancing troop.
He ordered them by his gesture to halt, and called Gardiner and Douglas to him. “What want you here? And what means this strange array?” asked he, in a rough tone.
The two courtiers stared at him with looks of amazement, and durst not answer him.
“Well!” asked the king, with ever-rising wrath, “will you at length tell me by what right you intrude into my garden with an armed host--specially at the same hour that I am here with my consort? Verily, there is no sufficient excuse for such a gross violation of the reverence which you owe your king and master; and I marvel, my lord master of ceremonies, that you did not seek to prevent this indecorum!”
Earl Douglas muttered a few words of apology, which the king did not understand, or did not want to understand.
“The duty of a master of ceremonies is to protect his king from every annoyance, and you, Earl Douglas, offer it to me yourself. Perchance you want thereby to show that you are weary of your office. Well, then, my lord, I dismiss you from it, and that your presence may not remind me of this morning’s transaction, you will leave the court and London! Farewell, my lord!”
Earl Douglas, turning pale and trembling, staggered a few steps backward, and gazed at the king with astonishment. He wanted to speak, but Henry, with a commanding wave of the hand, bade him be silent.
“And now for you, my lord bishop!” said the king, and his eyes were turned on Gardiner with an expression so wrathful and contemptuous, that he turned pale and looked down to the ground. “What means this strange train with which the priest of God approaches his royal master to-day? And under what impulse of Christian love are you going to hold to-day a heretic hunt in the garden of your king?”
“Sire,” said Gardiner, completely beside himself, “your majesty well knows why I come; it was at your majesty’s command that I with Earl Douglas and the lieutenant of the Tower came, in order to--” “Dare not to speak further!” yelled the king, who became still more angry because Gardiner would not understand him and comprehend the altered state of his mind. “How dare you make a pretence of my commands, whilst I, full of just amazement, question you as to the cause of your appearance? That is to say, you want to charge your king with falsehood. You want to excuse yourself by accusing me. Ah, my worthy lord bishop, this time you are thwarted in your plan, and I disavow you and your foolish attempt. No! there is nobody here whom you shall arrest; and, by the holy mother of God, were your eyes not blind, you would have seen that here, where the king is taking an airing with his consort, there could be no one whom these catchpolls had to look for! The presence of the royal majesty is like the presence of God; it dispenses happiness and peace about it; and whoever is touched by his glory, is graced and sanctified thereby.”
“But, your majesty,” screamed Gardiner, whom anger and disappointed hope had made forgetful of all considerations, “you wanted me to arrest the queen; you yourself gave me the order for it; and now when I come to execute your will--now you repudiate me.”
The king uttered a yell of rage, and with lifted arm moved some steps toward Gardiner.
But suddenly he felt his arm held back. It was Catharine, who had hurried up to the king. “Oh, my husband,” said she, in a low whisper, “whatever he may have done, spare him! Still he is a priest of the Lord; and so let his sacred robe protect him, though perchance his deeds condemn him!”
“Ah, do you plead for him?” cried the king. “Really, my poor wife, you suspect not how little ground you have to pity him, and to beg my mercy for him. [Footnote: The king’s own words,--See Leti, vol. I, p. 133,] But you are right. We will respect his cassock, and think no more of what a haughty and intriguing man is wrapped in it. --But beware, priest, that you do not again remind me of that. My wrath would then inevitably strike you; and I should have as little mercy for you as you say I ought to show to other evil-doers. And in as much as you are a priest, be penetrated with a sense of the gravity of your office and the sacredness of your calling. Your episcopal see is at Winchester, and I think your duties call you thither. We no longer need you, for the noble Archbishop of Canterbury is coming back to us, and will have to fulfil the duties of his office near us and the queen. Farewell!”
He turned his back on Gardiner, and, supported on Catharine’s arm, returned to his rolling-chair.
“Kate,” said he, “just now a lowering cloud stood in your sky, but, thanks to your smile and your innocent face, it has passed harmlessly over. We thinks we still owe you special thanks for this; and we would like to show you that by some office of love. Is there nothing that would give you special delight, Kate?”
“Oh, yes,” said she, with fervor. “Two great desires burn in my heart.”
“Then name them, Kate; and, by the mother of God, if it is in the power of a king to fulfil them, I will do it.”
Catharine seized his hand and pressed it to her heart.
“Sire,” said she, “they wanted to have you sign eight death-warrants to-day. Oh, my husband, make of these eight criminals eight happy, thankful subjects; teach them to love that king whom they have reviled--teach their children, their wives and mothers to pray for you, whilst you restore life and freedom to these fathers, these sons and husbands, and while you, great and merciful, like Deity, pardon them.”
“So shall it be!” cried the king, cheerfully. “Our hand shall have to-day no other work than to rest in yours; and we will spare it from making these eight strokes of the pen. The eight evil-doers are pardoned; and they shall be free this very day.”
With an exclamation of rapturous delight Catharine pressed Henry’s hand to her lips, and her face shone with pure happiness.
“And your second wish?” asked the king.
“My second wish,” said she, with a smile, “pleads for the freedom of a poor prisoner--for the freedom of a human heart, sire.”
The king laughed. “A human heart? Does that then run about on the street, so that it can be caught and made a prisoner of?”
“Sire, you have found it, and incarcerated it in your daughter’s bosom. You want to put Elizabeth’s heart in fetters, and by an unnatural law compel her to renounce her freedom of choice. Only think--to want to bid a woman’s heart, before she can love, to inquire first about the genealogical tree, and to look at the coat-of-arms before she notices the man!”
“Oh, women, women, what foolish children you are, though!” cried the king, laughingly. “The question is about thrones, and you think about your hearts! But come, Kate, you shall still further explain that to me; and we will not take back our word, for we have given it you from a free and glad heart.”
He took the queen’s arm, and, supported on it, walked slowly up the alley with her. The lords and ladies of the court followed them in silence and at a respectful distance; and no one suspected that this woman, who was stepping along so proud and magnificent, had but just now escaped an imminent peril of her life; that this man, who was leaning on her arm with such devoted tenderness, had but a few hours before resolved on her destruction. [Footnote: All this plot instigated by Gardiner against the queen is, in minutest details, historically true, and is found substantially the same in all historical works.] And whilst chatting confidentially together they both wandered through the avenues, two others with drooping head and pale face left the royal castle, which was to be to them henceforth a lost paradise. Sullen spite and raging hate were in their hearts, but yet they were obliged to endure in silence; they were obliged to smile and to seem harmless, in order not to prepare a welcome feast for the malice of the court. They felt the spiteful looks of all these courtiers, although they passed by them with down-cast eyes. They imagined they heard their malicious whispers, their derisive laughter; and it pierced their hearts like the stab of a dagger.
At length they had surmounted it--at length the palace lay behind them, and they were at least free to pour out in words the agony that consumed them--free to be able to break out into bitter execrations, into curses and lamentations.
“Lost! all is lost!” said Earl Douglas to himself in a hollow voice. “I am thwarted in all my plans. I have sacrificed to the Church my life, my means, ay, even my daughter, and it has all been in vain. And, like a beggar, I now stand on the street forsaken and without comfort; and our holy mother the Church will no longer heed the son who loved her and sacrificed himself for her, since he was so unfortunate, and his sacrifice unavailing.”
“Despair not!” said Gardiner, solemnly. “Clouds gather above us; but they are dispersed again. And after the day of storm, comes again the day of light. Our day also will come, my friend. Now, we go hence, our heads strewn with ashes, and bowed at heart; but, believe me, we shall one day come again with shining face and exultant heart; and the flaming sword of godly wrath will glitter in our hands, and a purple robe will enfold us, dyed in the blood of heretics whom we offer up to the Lord our God as a well-pleasing sacrifice. God spares us for a better time; and our banishment, believe me, friend, is but a refuge that God has prepared for us this evil time which we are approaching.”
“You speak of an evil time, and nevertheless you hope, your highness?” asked Douglas, gloomily.
“And nevertheless I hope!” said Gardiner, with a strange and horrible smile, and, bending down closer to Douglas, he whispered: “the king has only a few days more to live. He does not suspect how near he is to his death, and nobody has the courage to tell him. But his physician has confided it to me. His vital forces are consumed, and death stands already before his door to throttle him.”
“And when he is dead,” said Earl Douglas, shrugging his shoulders, “his son Edward will be king, and those heretical Seymours will control the helm of state! Call you that hope, your highness?”
“I call it so.”
“Do you not know that Edward, young as he is, is nevertheless a fanatical adherent of the heretical doctrine, and at the same time a furious opponent of the Church in which alone is salvation?”
“I know it, but I know also that Edward is a feeble boy; and there is current in our Church a holy prophecy which predicts that his reign is only of short duration. God only knows what his death will be, but the Church has often before seen her enemies die a sudden death. Death has been often before this the most effective ally of our holy mother the Church. Believe me, then, my son and hope, for I tell you Edward’s rule will be of short duration. And after him she will ascend the throne, the noble and devout Mary, the rigid Catholic, who hates heretics as much as Edward loves them. Oh, friend, when Mary ascends the throne, we shall rise from our humiliation, and the dominion will be ours. Then will all England become, as it were, a single great temple, and the fagot-piles about the stake are the altars on which we will consume the heretics, and their shrieks of agony are the holy psalms which we will make them strike up to the honor of God and His holy Church. Hope for this time, for I tell you it will soon come.”
“If you say so, your highness, then it will come to pass,” said Douglas, significantly. “I will then hope and wait. I will save myself from evil days in Scotland, and wait for the good.”
“And I go, as this king by the wrath of God has commanded, to my episcopal seat. The wrath of God will soon call Henry hence. May his dying hour be full of torment, and may the Holy Father’s curse be realized and fulfilled in him! Farewell! We go with palms of peace forced on us; but we will return with the naming sword, and our hands will be dripping with heretic blood.”
They once more shook hands and silently departed, and before evening came on they had both left London. [Footnote: Gardiner’s prophecy was soon fulfilled. A few days after Gardiner had fallen into disgrace Henry, the Eighth died, and his son Edward, yet a minor, ascended the throne. But his rule was of brief duration. After a reign of scarcely six years, he died a youth of the age of sixteen years, and his sister Mary, called the Catholic, ascended the throne. Her first act was to release Gardiner, who under Edward’s reign had been confined as a prisoner in the Tower, and to appoint him her minister, and later, to the place of lord chancellor. He was one of the most furious persecutors of the Reformers. Once he said at a council in the presence of the bigoted queen; “These heretics have a soul so black that it can be washed clean only in their own blood.” He it was, too, who urged the queen to such severe and odious measures against the Princess Elizabeth, and caused her to be a second time declared a bastard and unworthy of succeeding to the throne. When Mary died, Gardiner performed, in Westminster Abbey, where she was entombed, the service for the dead in the presence of her successor, Queen Elizabeth. Gardiner’s discourse was an enthusiastic eulogium of the deceased queen, and he set forth, as her special merit, that she hated the heretics so ardently and had so many of them executed. He closed with an invective against the Protestants, in which he so little spared the young queen, and spoke of her in such injurious terms, that he was that very day committed to prison. --Leti. vol. I, p. 314.] A short time after this eventful walk in the garden of Whitehall, the queen entered the apartments of the Princess Elizabeth, who hastened to meet her with a burst of joy, and clasped her wildly in her arms.
“Saved!” whispered she. “The danger is overcome, and again you are the mighty queen, the adored wife!”
“And I have you to thank that I am so, princess! Without that warrant of arrest which you brought me, I was lost. Oh, Elizabeth, but what a martyrdom it was! To smile and jest, whilst my heart trembled with dread and horror; to appear innocent and unembarrassed, whilst it seemed to me as if I heard already the whiz of the axe that was about to strike my neck! Oh, my God, I passed through the agonies and the dread of a whole lifetime in that one hour! My soul has been harassed till it is wearied to death, and my strength is exhausted. I could weep, weep continually over this wretched, deceitful world, in which to wish right and to do good avail nothing; but in which you must dissemble and lie, deceive and disguise yourself, if you do not want to fall a victim to wickedness and mischief. But ah, Elizabeth, even my tears I dare shed only in secret, for a queen has no right to be melancholy. She must seem ever cheerful, ever happy and contented; and only God and the still, silent night know her sighs and her tears.”
“And you may let me also see them, queen,” said Elizabeth, heartily; “for you well know you may trust and rely on me.”
Catharine kissed her fervently. “You have done me a great service to-day, and I have come,” said she, “to thank you, not with sounding words only, but by deeds. Elizabeth, your wish will be fulfilled. The king will repeal the law which was to compel you to give your hand only to a husband of equal birth.”
“Oh,” cried Elizabeth, with flashing eyes, “then I shall, perhaps, some day be able to make him whom I love a king.” Catharine smiled. “You have a proud and ambitious heart,” said she. “God has endowed you with extraordinary ability. Cultivate it and seek to increase it; for my prophetic heart tells me that you are destined to become, one day, Queen of England. [Footnote: Catharine’s own words. --See Leti, vol. I, p. 172.] But who knows whether then you will still wish to elevate him whom you now love, to be your husband? A queen, as you will be, sees with other eyes than those of a young, inexperienced maiden. Perchance I may not have done right in moving the king to alter this law; for I am not acquainted with the man that you love; and who knows whether he is worthy that you should bestow on him your heart, so innocent and pure?”
Elizabeth threw both her arms about Catharine’s neck, and clung tenderly to her. “Oh,” said she, “he would be worthy to be loved even by you, Catharine; for he is the noblest and handsomest cavalier in the whole world; and though he is no king, yet he is a king’s brother-in-law, and will some day be a king’s uncle.”
Catharine felt her heart, as it were, convulsed, and a slight tremor ran through her frame. “And am I not to learn his name?” asked she.
“Yes, I will tell you it now; for now there is no longer danger in knowing it. The name of him whom I love, queen, is Thomas Seymour.”
Catharine uttered a scream, and pushed Elizabeth passionately away from her heart. “Thomas Seymour?” cried she, in a menacing tone. “What! do you dare love Thomas Seymour?”
“And why should I not dare?” asked the young girl in astonishment. “Why should I not give him my heart, since, thanks to your intercession, I am no longer bound to choose a husband of equal birth? Is not Thomas Seymour one of the first of this land? Does not all England look on him with pride and tenderness? Does not every woman to whom he deigns a look, feel herself honored? Does not the king himself smile and feel more pleased at heart, when Thomas Seymour, that young, bold, and spirited hero, stands by his side?”
“You are right!” said Catharine, whose heart every one of these enthusiastic words, lacerated like the stab of a dagger--“yes, you are right. He is worthy of being loved by you--and you could hit upon no better choice. It was only the first surprise that made me see things otherwise than they are. Thomas Seymour is the brother of a queen: why then should he not also be the husband of a royal princess?”
With a bashful blush, Elizabeth hid her smiling face in Catharine’s bosom. She did not see with what an expression of alarm and agony the queen observed her; how her lips were convulsively compressed, and her cheeks covered with a death-like pallor.
“And he?” asked she, in a low tone. “Does Thomas Seymour love you?”
Elizabeth raised her head and looked at the questioner in amazement “How!” said she. “Is it possible, then, to love, if you are not loved?”
“You are right,” sighed Catharine. “One must be very humble and silly to be able to do that.”
“My God! how pale you are, queen!” cried Elizabeth, who just now noticed Catharine’s pale face. “Your features are distorted; your lips tremble. My God! what does this mean?”
“It is nothing!” said Catharine, with a smile full of agony. “The excitement and alarm of to-day have exhausted my strength. That is all. Besides, a new grief threatens us, of which you as yet know nothing. The king is ill. A sudden dizziness seized him, and made him fall almost lifeless at my side. I came to bring you the king’s message; now duty calls me to my husband’s sickbed. Farewell, Elizabeth.”
She waved a good-by to her with her hand, and with hurried step left the room. She summoned up courage to conceal the agonies of her soul, and to pass proud and stately through the halls. To the courtiers bowing before her, she would still be the queen, and no one should suspect what agony was torturing her within like flames of fire. But at last arrived at her boudoir--at last sure of being overheard and observed by no one--she was no longer the queen, but only the agonized, passionate woman.
She sank on her knees, and cried, with a heart-rending wail of anguish: “My God, my God, grant that I may become mad, so that I may no longer know that he has forsaken me!”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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36
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THE CATASTROPHE.
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After days of secret torture and hidden tears, after nights of sobbing anguish and wailing sorrow, Catharine had at last attained to inward peace; she had at last taken a firm and decisive resolution.
The king was sick unto death; and however much she had suffered and endured from him, still he was her husband; and she would not stand by his deathbed as a perjured and deceitful woman; she would not be constrained to cast down her eyes before the failing gaze of the dying king. She would renounce her love--that love, which, however, had been as pure and chaste as a maiden’s prayer--that love, which was as unapproachably distant as the blush of morn, and yet had stood above her so vast and brilliant, and had irradiated the gloomy pathway of her life with celestial light.
She would make the greatest of sacrifices; she would give her lover to another. Elizabeth loved him. Catharine would not investigate and thoroughly examine the point, whether Thomas Seymour returned her love, and whether the oath he had taken to her, the queen, was really nothing more than a fancy of the brain, or a falsehood. No, she did not believe it; she did not believe that Thomas Seymour was capable of treachery, of double-dealing. But Elizabeth loved him; and she was young and beautiful, and a great future lay before her. Catharine loved Thomas Seymour strongly enough not to want to deprive him of this future, but gladly to present herself a sacrifice to the happiness of her lover. What was she--the woman matured in grief and suffering--in comparison with this youthful and fresh blossom, Elizabeth? What had she to offer her beloved further than a life of retirement, of love, and of quiet happiness? When once the king is dead and sets her free, Edward the Sixth ascends the throne; and Catharine then is nothing more than the forgotten and disregarded widow of a king; while Elizabeth, the king’s sister, may perhaps bring a crown as her dower to him whom she loves.
Thomas Seymour was ambitious. Catharine knew that. A day might come when he would repent of having chosen the widow of a king instead of the heiress to a throne.
Catharine would anticipate that day. She would of her own free-will resign her lover to Princess Elizabeth. She had by a struggle brought her mind to this sacrifice; she had pressed her hands firmly on her heart, so as not to hear how it wailed and wept.
She went to Elizabeth, and said to her with a sweet smile: “To-day I will bring your lover to you, princess. The king has fulfilled his promise. He has to-day with his last dying strength signed this act, which gives you liberty to choose your husband, not from the ranks of princes alone, but to follow your own heart in your choice. I will give this act to your lover, and assure him of my assistance and aid. The king is suffering very much to-day, and his consciousness fails more and more. But be certain, if he is in a condition to hear me, I will spend all my powers of persuasion in inclining him to your wish, and in moving him to give his consent to your marriage with Earl Sudley. I now go to receive the earl. So tarry in your room, princess, for Seymour will soon come to bring you the act.”
Whilst she thus spoke, it seemed to her as though her heart were pierced by red-hot daggers; as though a two-edged sword were cleaving her breast. But Catharine had a strong and courageous soul. She had sworn to herself to endure this torture to the end; and she endured it. No writhing of her lips, no sigh, no outcry, betrayed the pain that she was suffering. And if, indeed, her cheeks were pale, and her eye dim, they were so because she had spent nights watching by her husband’s sick-bed, and because she was mourning for the dying king.
She had the heroism to embrace tenderly this young maiden to whom she was just going to present her love as a sacrifice, and to listen with a smile to the enthusiastic words of gratitude, of rapture and expectant happiness which Elizabeth addressed to her.
With tearless eyes and firm step she returned to her own apartments; and her voice did not at all tremble, as she bade the chamberlain in attendance to summon to her the master of horse, Earl Sudley. Only she had a feeling as though her heart was broken and crushed; and quite softly, quite humbly, she whispered: “I shall die when he is gone. But so long as he is here, I will live; and he shall not have a suspicion of what I suffer!”
And while Catharine suffered so dreadfully, Elizabeth was jubilant with delight and rapture; for at last she stood at the goal of her wishes, and this very day she was to become the betrothed of her lover. Oh, how slow and sluggish crept those minutes along! How many eternities had she still to wait before he would come--he, her lover, and soon her husband! Was he already with the queen? Could she expect him already? She stood as if spellbound at the window, and looked down into the courtyard. Through that great gateway over there he must come; through that door yonder he must go, in order to reach the queen’s apartments.
She uttered an exclamation, and a glowing blush flitted across her face. There, there, he was. Yonder drew up his equipage; his gold-laced lackeys opened the door and he alighted. How handsome he was, and how magnificent to look upon! How noble and proud his tall figure! How regularly beautiful his fresh, youthful face! How saucy the haughty smile about his mouth; and how his eyes flamed and flashed and shone in wantonness and youthful happiness. His look glanced for a moment at Elizabeth’s window. He saluted her, and then entered the door leading to the wing of the palace of Whitehall occupied by the queen. Elizabeth’s heart beat so violently that she felt almost suffocated. Now he must have reached the great staircase--now he was above it--now he was entering the queen’s apartments--he traverses the first, the second, the third chamber. In the fourth Catharine was waiting for him.
Elizabeth would have given a year of her life to hear what Catharine would say to him, and what reply he would make to the surprising intelligence--a year of her life to be able to see his rapture, his astonishment, and his delight. He was so handsome when he smiled, so bewitching when his eyes blazed with love and pleasure.
Elizabeth was a young, impulsive child. She had a feeling as if she must suffocate in the agony of expectation; her heart leaped into her mouth; her breath was stifled in her breast, she was so impatient for happiness.
“Oh, if he does not come soon I shall die!” murmured she. “Oh, if I could only at least see him, or only hear him!” All at once she stopped; her eyes flashed up, and a bewitching smile flitted across her features. “Yes,” said she, “I will see him, and I will hear him. I can do it, and I will do it. I have the key which the queen gave me, and which opens the door that separates my rooms from hers. With that key I may reach her bed-chamber, and next to the bed-chamber is her boudoir, in which, without doubt, she will receive the earl. I will enter quite softly, and, hiding myself behind the hanging which separates the bed-chamber from the boudoir, I shall be able to see him, and hear everything that he says!”
She laughed out loud and merrily, like a child, and sprang for the key, which lay on her writing-table. Like a trophy of victory she swung it high above her on her hand and cried, “I will see him!” Then light, joyful, and with beaming eye, she left the room.
She had conjectured rightly. Catharine received the earl in her boudoir. She sat on the divan standing opposite the door which led into the reception-room. That door was open, and so Catharine had a perfect view of the whole of that large space. She could see the earl as he traversed it. She could once more enjoy, with a rapture painfully sweet, his proud beauty, and let her looks rest on him with love and adoration. But at length he crossed the threshold of the boudoir; and now there was an end of her happiness, of her sweet dream, and of her hopes and her rapture. She was nothing more than the queen, the wife of a dying king; no longer Earl Seymour’s beloved, no longer his future and his happiness.
She had courage to greet him with a smile; and her voice did not tremble when she bade him shut the door leading into the hall, and drop the hanging. He did so, gazing at her with looks of surprise. He did not comprehend that she dared give him an interview; for the king was still alive, and even with his tongue faltering in death he might destroy them both.
Why did she not wait till the morrow? On the morrow the king might be already dead; and then they could see each other without constraint and without danger. Then was she his, and naught could longer stand in the way between them and happiness. Now, when the king was near his death--now he loved her only--he loved but Catharine. His ambition had decided his heart. Death had become the judge over Seymour’s double affection and divided heart, and with King Henry’s death Elizabeth’s star had also paled.
Catharine was the widow of a king; and without doubt this tender husband had appointed his young and adored wife Regent during the minority of the Prince of Wales. Catharine then would have still five years of unlimited sway, of royal authority and sovereign power. If Catharine were his wife, then would he, Thomas Seymour, share this power; and the purple robes of royalty, which rested on her shoulders, would cover him also; and he would help her bear that crown which doubtless might sometimes press heavily on her tender brow. He would, in reality, be the regent, and Catharine would be so only in name. She, the Queen of England, and he, king of this queen. What a proud, intoxicating thought was that! And what plans, what hopes might not be twined with it! Five years of sway--was not that a time long enough to undermine the throne of the royal boy and to sap his authority? Who could conjecture whether the people, once accustomed to the regency of the queen, might not prefer to remain under her sceptre, instead of committing themselves to this feeble youth? The people must be constrained so to think, and to make Catharine, Thomas Seymour’s wife, their reigning queen.
The king was sick unto death, and Catharine was, without doubt, the regent--perchance some day the sovereign queen.
Princess Elizabeth was only a poor princess, entirely without a prospect of the throne; for before her came Catharine, came Edward, and finally Mary, Elizabeth’s eldest sister. Elizabeth had not the least prospect of the throne, and Catharine the nearest and best founded.
Thomas Seymour pondered this as he traversed the apartments of the queen; and when he entered her presence, he had convinced himself that he loved the queen only, and that it was she alone whom he had always loved. Elizabeth was forgotten and despised. She had no prospect of the throne--why, then, should he love her?
The queen, as we have said, ordered him to shut the door of the boudoir and to drop the hanging. At the same moment that he did this, the hanging of the opposite door, leading into the sleeping apartment, moved--perhaps only the draught of the closing door had done it. Neither the queen nor Seymour noticed it. They were both too much occupied with themselves. They saw not how the hanging again and again gently shook and trembled. They saw not how it was gently opened a little in the middle; nor did they see the sparkling eyes which suddenly peeped through the opening in the hanging; nor suspected they that it was the Princess Elizabeth who had stepped behind the curtain, the better to see and hear what was taking place in the boudoir.
The queen had arisen and advanced a few steps to meet the earl. As she now stood before him--as their eyes met, she felt her courage sink and her heart fail.
She was compelled to look down at the floor to prevent him from seeing the tears which involuntarily came into her eyes. With a silent salutation she offered him her hand. Thomas Seymour pressed it impulsively to his lips, and looked with passionate tenderness into her face. She struggled to collect all her strength, that her heart might not betray itself. With a hurried movement she withdrew her hand from him, and took from the table a roll of paper containing the new act of succession signed by the king.
“My lord,” said she, “I have called you hither, because I would like to intrust a commission to you. I beg you to carry this parchment to the Princess Elizabeth, and be pleased to deliver it to her. But before you do that, I will make you acquainted with its contents. This parchment contains a new law relative to the succession, which has already received the sanction of the king. By virtue of this, the royal princesses are no longer under the necessity of uniting themselves with a husband who is a sovereign prince, if they wish to preserve their hereditary claim on the throne unimpaired. The king gives the princesses the right to follow their own hearts; and their claim to the succession is not to suffer thereby, if the husband chosen is neither a king nor a prince. That, my lord, is the contents of this parchment which you are to carry to the princess, and without doubt you will thank me for making you the messenger of these glad tidings.”
“And why,” asked he, in astonishment--“why does your majesty believe that this intelligence should fill me with special thankfulness?”
She collected all her powers; she prayed to her own heart for strength and self-control.
“Because the princess has made me the confidante of her love, and because I am consequently aware of the tender tie which binds you to her,” said she, gently; and she felt that all the blood had fled from her cheeks.
The earl looked into her face in mute astonishment. Then his inquiring and searching glance swept all around the room.
“We are overheard, then?” asked he, in a low voice.
“We are not alone?”
“We are alone,” said Catharine, aloud. “Nobody can hear us, and God alone is witness of our conversation.”
Elizabeth, who stood behind the hanging, felt her cheeks glow with shame, and she began to repent what she had done. But she was nevertheless, as it were, spellbound to that spot. It was certainly mean and unworthy of a princess to eavesdrop, but she was at that time but a young girl who loved, and who wanted to observe her lover. So she stayed; she laid her hand on her anxiously-throbbing heart, and murmured to herself: “What will he say? What means this anxious dread that comes over me?”
“Well,” said Thomas Seymour, in an entirely altered tone, “if we are alone, then this mask which hides my face may fall; then the cuirass which binds my heart may be loosened. Hail, Catharine, my star and my hope! No one, you say, hears us, save God alone; and God knows our love, and He knows with what longing, and what ecstasy, I have sighed for this hour--for this hour, which at length again unites me to you. My God, it is an eternity since I have seen you, Catharine; and my heart thirsted for you as a famishing man for a refreshing draught. Catharine, my beloved, blessed be you, that you have at last called me to you!”
He opened his arms for her, but she repulsed him sharply. “You are mistaken in the name, earl,” said she, bitterly. “You say Catharine, and mean Elizabeth! It is the princess that you love: to Elizabeth belongs your heart, and she has devoted her heart to you. Oh, earl, I will favor this love, and be certain I will not cease from prayer and supplication till I have inclined the king to your wishes, till he has given his consent to your marriage with the Princess Elizabeth.”
Thomas Seymour laughed. “This is a masquerade, Catharine; and you still wear a mask over your beautiful and charming face. Oh, away with that mask, queen! I want to behold you as you are. I want to see again your own beautiful self; I want to see the woman who belongs to me, and who has sworn to be mine, and who has, with a thousand sacred oaths, vowed to love me, to be true to me, and to follow me as her husband and her lord. Or how, Catharine! Can you have forgotten your oath? Can you have become untrue to your own heart? Do you want to cast me away, and throw me, like a ball of which you are tired, to another?”
“Oh,” said she, quite unconsciously, “I--I can never forget and never be untrue.”
“Well, then, my Catharine, the bride and wife of my future, what then are you speaking to me of Elizabeth? --of this little princess, who sighs for love as the flower-bud for the sun, and takes the first man whom she finds in her way for the sun after which she pines? What care we for Elizabeth, my Catharine? And what have we to do with that child in this hour of long-wished-for reunion?”
“Oh, he calls me a child!” murmured Elizabeth. “I am nothing but a child to him!” And she pressed her hands on her mouth in order to repress her cry of anger and anguish, and to prevent them from hearing her teeth, which were chattering as though she were in a chill.
With irresistible force Thomas Seymour drew Catharine into his arms. “Avoid me no longer,” said he, in tender entreaty. “The hour has come which is finally to determine our destiny! The king is at the point of death, and my Catharine will at length be free--free to follow her own heart. At this hour I remind you of your oath! Do you remember still that day when you referred me to this hour? Do you still know, Catharine, how you vowed to be my wife and to receive me as the lord of your future? Oh, my beloved, that crown which weighed down your head will soon be taken away. Now I yet stand before you as your subject, but in a few hours it will be your lord and your husband that stands before you; and he will ask: ‘Catharine, my wife, have you kept with me the faith you swore to me? Have you been guiltless of perjury in respect of your vows and your love? Have you preserved my honor, which is your honor also, clear from every spot; and can you, free from guilt, look me in the eye?”
He gazed at her with proud, flashing eyes, and before his commanding look her firmness and her pride melted away like ice before the sunshine. Again he was the master, whose right it was to rule her heart; and she again the lowly handmaid, whose sweetest happiness it was to submit and bow to the will of her lover.
“I can look you frankly in the eye,” murmured she, “and no guilt burdens my conscience. I have loved naught but you, and my God only dwells near you in my heart.” Wholly overcome, wholly intoxicated with happiness, she leaned her head upon his shoulder, and as he clasped her in his arms, as he covered with kisses her now unresisting lips, she felt only that she loved him unutterably, and that there was no happiness for her except with him.
It was a sweet dream, a moment of most exquisite ecstasy. But it was only a moment. A hand was laid violently on her shoulder, a hoarse angry voice called her name; and as she looked up, she encountered the wild glance of Elizabeth, who stood before her with deathly pale cheeks, with trembling lips, with expanded nostrils, and eyes darting flashes of wrath and hatred.
“This, then, is the friendly service which you swore to me?” said she, gnashing her teeth. “Did you steal into my confidence, and with scoffing mouth spy out the secrets of my heart, in order to go away and betray them to your paramour? That you might in his arms ridicule this pitiable maiden, who allowed herself for the moment to be betrayed by her heart, and took a felon for an honorable man! Woe, woe to you, Catharine, for I tell you I will have no compassion on the adulteress, who mocks at me, and betrays my father!”
She was raving; completely beside herself with anger, she dashed away the hand which Catharine laid on her shoulder, and sprang back from the touch of her enemy like an irritated lioness.
Her father’s blood fumed and raged within her, and, a true daughter of Henry the Eighth, she concealed in her heart only bloodthirsty and revengeful thoughts.
She cast on Thomas Seymour a look of dark wrath, and a contemptuous smile played about her lips. “My lord,” said she, “you have called me a child who allows herself to be easily deceived, because she longs so much for the sun and for happiness. You are right: I was a child; and I was foolish enough to take a miserable liar for a noble-man, who was worthy of the proud fortune of being loved by a king’s daughter. Yes, you are right; that was a childish dream. Thanks to you, I have now awoke from it; and you have matured the child into a woman, who laughs at the folly of her youth, and despises to-day what she adored yesterday. I have nothing to do with you; and you are even too insignificant and too contemptible for my anger. But I tell you, you have played a hazardous game, and you will lose. You courted a queen and a princess, and you will gain neither of them: not the one, for she despises you; not the other, for she ascends the scaffold!”
With a wild laugh she was hurrying to the door, but Catharine with a strong hand held her back and compelled her to remain. “What are you going to do?” asked she, with perfect calmness and composure.
“What am I going to do?” asked Elizabeth, her eyes flashing like those of a lioness. “You ask me what I will do? I will go to my father, and tell him what I have here witnessed! He will listen to me; and his tongue will still have strength enough to pronounce your sentence of death! Oh, my mother died on the scaffold, and yet she was innocent. We will see, forsooth, whether you will escape the scaffold--you, who are guilty!”
“Well, then, go to your father,” said Catharine; “go and accuse me. But first you shall hear me. This man whom I loved, I wanted to renounce, in order to give him to you. By the confession of your love, you had crushed my happiness and my future. But I was not angry with you. I understood you heart, for Thomas Seymour is worthy of being loved. But you are right; for the king’s wife it was a sinful love, however innocent and pure I may have been. On that account I wanted to renounce it; on that account I wanted, on the first confession from you, to silently sacrifice myself. You yourself have now made it an impossibility. Go, then, and accuse us to your father, and fear not that I will belie my heart. Now, that the crisis has come, it shall find me prepared; and on the scaffold I will still account myself blest, for Thomas Seymour loves me!”
“Ay, he loves you, Catharine!” cried he, completely overcome and enchanted by her noble, majestic bearing.
“He loves you so warmly and ardently, that death with you seems to him an enviable lot; and he would not exchange it for any throne nor for any crown.”
And as he thus spoke, he put his arms around Catharine’s neck, and impetuously drew her to his heart.
Elizabeth uttered a fierce scream, and sprang to the door. But what noise was that which all at once drew nigh; which suddenly, like a wild billow, came roaring on, and filled the anterooms and the halls? What were these affrighted, shrieking voices calling? What were they screaming to the queen, and the physicians, and the priest?
Elizabeth stopped amazed, and listened. Thomas Seymour and Catharine, arm linked in arm, stood near her. They scarcely heard what was taking place; they looked at each other and smiled, and dreamed of love and death and an eternity of happiness.
Now the door flew open; there was seen John Heywood’s pale face: there were the maids of honor and the court officials. And all shrieked and all wailed: “The king is dying! He is struck with apoplexy! The king is at the point of death!”
“The king calls you! The king desires to die in the arms of his wife!” said John Heywood, and, as he quietly pushed Elizabeth aside and away from the door as she was pressing violently forward, he added: “The king will see nobody but his wife and the priest; and he has authorized me to call the queen!”
He opened the door; and through the lines of weeping and wailing court officials and servants, Catharine moved on, to go to the death-bed of her royal husband.
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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37
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“LE ROI EST MORT--VIVE LA REINE!”
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King Henry lay a-dying. That life full of sin, full of blood and crime, full of treachery and cunning, full of hypocrisy and sanctimonious cruelty--that life was at last lived out. That hand, which had signed so many death-warrants, was now clutched in the throes of death. It had stiffened at the very moment when the king was going to sign the Duke of Norfolk’s death-warrant. [Footnote: historical. The king’s own words. --Leti, vol. I, p. 16.] And the king was dying with the gnawing consciousness that he had no longer the power to throttle that enemy whom he hated. The mighty king was now nothing more than a feeble, dying old man, who was no longer able to hold the pen and sign this death-warrant for which he had so long hankered and hoped. Now it lay before him, and he no longer had the power to use it. God, in His wisdom and His justice, had decreed against him the most grievous and horrible of punishments; He had left him his consciousness; He had not crippled him in mind, but in body only. And that motionless and rigid mass which, growing chill in death, lay there on the couch of purple trimmed with gold--that was the king--a king whom agony of conscience did not permit to die, and who now shuddered and was horrified in view of death, to which he had, with relentless cruelty, hunted so many of his subjects.
Catharine and the Archbishop of Canterbury, the noble Cranmer, stood at his bedside: and whilst in convulsive agony he grasped Catharine’s hands, he listened to the devout prayers which Cranmer was saying over him.
Once he asked with mumbling tongue: “My lord, what kind of a world then is that where those who condemn others to die, are condemned to die themselves?”
And as the pious Cranmer, touched by the agonies and tortures of conscience which he read in the king’s looks, and full of pity for the dying tyrant, sought to comfort him, and spoke to him of the mercy of God which has compassion on every sinner, the king groaned out: “No, no! No mercy for him who knew no mercy!”
At length this awful struggle of death with life was ended; and death had vanquished life. The king had closed his eyes to earth, to open them again there above, as a guilt-laden sinner in the presence of God.
For three days his death was kept a secret. They wanted first to have everything arranged, and to fill up the void which his death must make. They wanted, when they spoke to the people of the dead king, to show them also at the same time the living king. And since they knew that the people would not weep for the dead, they were to rejoice for the living; since they would sing no funeral psalms, they were to let their hymns of joy resound.
On the third day the gates of Whitehall were thrown open, and a gloomy funeral train moved through the streets of London. In dead silence the populace saw borne past them the coffin of the king, before whom they had trembled so much, and for whom they now had not a word of mourning or of pity--no tears for the dead who for seven-and-thirty years had been their king.
They were bearing the coffin to Westminster Abbey to the splendid monument which Wolsey had built there for his royal master. But the way was long, and the panting horses with black housings, which drew the hearse, had often to stop and rest. And all of a sudden, as the carriage stood still on one of the large open squares, blood was seen to issue from the king’s coffin. It streamed down in crimson currents and flowed over the stones of the streets. The people with a shudder stood around and saw the king’s blood flowing, and thought how much blood he had spilt on that same spot, for the coffin was standing on the square where the executions were wont to take place, and where the scaffolds were erected and the stakes set. As the people stood gazing at the blood which flowed from the king’s coffin, two dogs sprang forth from the crowd and, with greedy tongue, licked the blood of King Henry the Eighth. But the people, shuddering and horror-stricken, fled in all directions, and talked among themselves of the poor priest who a few weeks before was executed here on this very spot, because he would not recognize the king as the supreme lord of the Church and God’s vicegerent; of that unfortunate man who cursed the king, and on the scaffold said: “May the dogs one day drink the blood of this king who has shed so much innocent blood!” And now the curse of the dying man had found its fulfilment, and the dogs had drunk the king’s blood. [Footnote: Historical. --See Tytler, p. 481.]
When the gloomy funeral train had left the palace of Whitehall, when the king’s corpse no longer infected the halls with its awful stench of corruption, and the court was preparing to do homage to the boy Edward as the new king, Thomas Seymour, Earl of Sudley, entered the room of the young royal widow. He came in a magnificent mourning suit, and his elder brother, Edward Seymour, and Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury, walked by his side.
With a blush and a sweet smile, Catharine bade them welcome.
“Queen,” said Thomas Seymour with solemn air, “I come to-day to claim of you the fulfilment of your vow! Oh, do not cast down your eyes, nor blush for shame. The noble archbishop knows your heart, and he knows that it is as pure as the heart of a maiden, and that an unchaste thought has never sullied your pure soul. And my brother would not be here, had he not faith in and respect for a love which has preserved itself so faithful and constant amidst storms and dangers. I have selected these two noble friends as my suitors, and in their presence I will ask you: ‘Queen Catharine, the king is dead, and no fetters longer bind your heart; will you not give it me as my own? Will you accept me as your husband, and sacrifice for me your royal title and your exalted position? ’” With a bewitching smile she gave him her hand. “You well know,” whispered she, “that I sacrifice nothing for you, but receive from you all of happiness and love that I hope for.”
“Will you then, in the presence of these two friends, accept me as your future husband, and plight me your vow of truth and love?”
Catharine trembled and cast down her eyes with the bashfulness of a young girl. “Alas!” whispered she, “do you not then see my mourning dress? Is it becoming to think of happiness, while the funeral lamentations have scarcely died away?”
“Queen Catharine,” said Archbishop Cranmer, “let the dead bury their dead! Life also has its rights; and man should not give up his claim on happiness, for it is a most holy possession. You have endured much and suffered much, queen, but your heart is pure and without guilt; therefore you may now, with a clear conscience, bid welcome to happiness also. Do not delay about it. In God’s name I have come to bless your love, and give to your happiness a holy consecration.”
“And I,” said Edward Seymour, “I have begged of my brother the honor of being allowed to accompany him in order to say to your majesty that I know how to duly appreciate the high honor which you show our family, and that, as your brother-in-law, I shall ever be mindful that you were once my queen and I your subject.”
“But I,” cried Thomas Seymour, “I would not delay coming to you, in order that I might show you that love only brings me to you, and that no other consideration could induce me. The king’s will is not yet opened, and I know not its contents. But however it may determine with respect to all of us, it cannot diminish or increase my happiness in possessing you. Whatever you may be, you will ever be to me only the adored woman, the ardently loved wife; and only to assure you of this, I have come this very day.”
Catharine extended her hand to him with a bewitching smile. “I have never doubted of you, Seymour,” whispered she, “and never did I love you more ardently than when I wanted to renounce you.”
She bowed her head on her lover’s shoulder, and tears of purest joy bedewed her cheeks. The Archbishop of Canterbury joined their hands, and blessed them as betrothed lovers; and the elder Seymour, Earl Hertford, bowed and greeted them as a betrothed couple.
On that very same day the king’s will was opened. In the large gilded hall, in which King Henry’s merry laughter and thundering voice of wrath had so often resounded, were now read his last commands. The whole court was assembled, as it was wont to be for a joyous festival; and Catharine once more sat on the royal throne. But the dreaded tyrant, the bloodthirsty King Henry the Eighth, was no longer at her side; but the poor pale boy, Edward, who had inherited from his father neither energy nor genius, but only his thirst for blood and his canting hypocrisy. At his side stood his sisters, the Princesses Mary and Elizabeth. Both were pale and of a sad countenance; but with both, it was not for their father that they were grieving.
Mary, the bigoted Roman Catholic, saw with horror and bitter anguish the days of adversity which were about to befall her church; for Edward was a fanatical opponent of the Roman Catholic religion, and she knew that he would shed the blood of the papists with relentless cruelty. On this account it was that she mourned.
But Elizabeth, that young girl of ardent heart--she thought neither of her father nor of the dangers threatening the Church; she thought only of her love, she felt only that she had been deprived of a hope, of an illusion--that she had awoke from a sweet and enchanting dream to the rude and barren reality. She had given up her first love, but her heart bled and the wound still smarted.
The will was read. Elizabeth looked toward Thomas Seymour during this solemn and portentous reading. She wanted to read in his countenance the impression made on him by these grave words, so pregnant with the future; she wanted to search the depths of his soul, and to penetrate the secret thoughts of his heart. She saw how he turned pale when, not Queen Catharine, but his brother, Earl Hertford, was appointed regent during Edward’s minority; she saw the sinister, almost angry look which he threw at the queen; and with a cruel smile she murmured: “I am revenged! He loves her no longer!”
John Heywood, who was standing behind the queen’s throne, had also observed the look of Thomas Seymour, yet not like Elizabeth, with a rejoicing, but with a sorrowful heart, and he dropped his head upon his breast and murmured: “Poor Catharine! He will hate her, and she will be very unhappy.”
But she was still happy. Her eye beamed with pure delight when she perceived that her lover was, by the king’s will, appointed High Admiral of England and guardian of the young king. She thought not of herself, but only of him, of her lover; and it filled her with the proudest satisfaction to see him invested with places of such high honor and dignity.
Poor Catharine! Her eye did not see the sullen cloud which still rested on the brow of her beloved. She was so happy and so innocent, and so little ambitious! For her this only was happiness, to be her lover’s, to be the wife of Thomas Seymour.
And this happiness was to be hers. Thirty days after the death of King Henry the Eighth she became the wife of the high admiral, Thomas Seymour, Earl of Sudley. Archbishop Cranmer solemnized their union in the chapel at Whitehall, and the lord protector, now Duke of Somerset, formerly Earl of Hertford, the brother of Thomas Seymour, was the witness of this marriage, which was, however, still kept a secret, and of which there were to be no other witnesses. When, however, they resorted to the chapel for the marriage, Princess Elizabeth came forward to meet the queen, and offered her hand.
It was the first time they had met since the dreadful day on which they confronted each other as enemies--the first time that they had again seen each other eye to eye.
Elizabeth had wrung this sacrifice from her heart. Her proud soul revolted at the thought that Thomas Seymour might imagine that she was still grieving for him, that she still loved him. She would show him that her heart was entirely recovered from that first dream of her youth--that she had not the least regret or pain.
She accosted him with a haughty, cold smile, and presented Catharine her hand. “Queen,” said she, “you have so long been a kind and faithful mother to me, that I may well once more claim the right of being your daughter. Let me, therefore, as your daughter, be present at the solemn transaction in which you are about to engage; and allow me to stand at your side and pray for you, whilst the archbishop performs the sacred service, and transforms the queen into the Countess of Sudley. May God bless you, Catharine, and give you all the happiness that you deserve!”
And Princess Elizabeth knelt at Catharine’s side, as the archbishop blest this new marriage tie. And while she prayed her eye again glided over toward Thomas Seymour, who was standing there by his young wife. Catharine’s countenance beamed with beauty and happiness, but upon Thomas Seymour’s brow still lay the cloud that had settled there on that day when the king’s will was opened--that will which did not make Queen Catharine regent, and which thereby destroyed Thomas Seymour’s proud and ambitious schemes.
And that cloud remained on Thomas Seymour’s brow. It sank down lower and still lower. It soon overshadowed the happiness of Catharine’s love, and awakened her from her short dream of bliss.
What she suffered, how much of secret agony and silent woe she endured, who can wish to know or conjecture? Catharine had a proud and a chaste soul. She concealed from the world her pain and her grief, as bashfully as she had once done her love. Nobody suspected what she suffered and how she struggled with her crushed heart.
She never complained; she saw bloom after bloom fall from her life; she saw the smile disappear from her husband’s countenance; she heard his voice, at first so tender, gradually harden to harsher tones; she felt his heart growing colder and colder, and his love changing into indifference, perhaps even into hate.
She had devoted her whole heart to love, but she felt day by day, and hour by hour, that her husband’s heart was cooling more and more. She felt, with dreadful heartrending certainty, she was his with all her love.
But he was no longer hers.
And she tormented her heart to find out why he no longer loved her--what she had been guilty of, that he turned away from her. Seymour had not the delicacy and magnanimity to conceal from her his inward thoughts; and at last she comprehended why he neglected her.
He had hoped that Catharine would be Regent of England, that he then would be consort of the regent. Because it had not happened so his love had died.
Catharine felt this, and she died of it. But not suddenly, not at once, did death release her from her sorrows and racking tortures. Six months she had to suffer and struggle with them. After six months she died.
Strange rumors were spread at her death; and John Heywood never passed by Earl Seymour without gazing at him with an angry look, and saying: “You have murdered the beautiful queen! Deny it, if you can!”
Thomas Seymour laughed, and did not consider it worth his while to defend himself against the accusations of the fool. He laughed, notwithstanding he had not yet put off the mourning he wore for Catharine.
In these mourning garments he ventured to approach the Princess Elizabeth, to swear to her his ardent love, and sue for her hand. But Elizabeth repelled him with coldness and haughty contempt; and, like the fool, the princess also said: “You have murdered Catharine! I cannot be the wife of a murderer!”
And God’s justice punished the murderer of the innocent and noble Catharine; and scarcely three months after the death of his wife, the high admiral had to ascend the scaffold, and was executed as a traitor.
By Catharine’s wish, her books and papers were given to her true friend John Heywood, and he undertook with the greatest care an examination of the same. He found among her papers many leaves written by herself, many verses and poems, which breathed forth the sorrowfulness of her spirit. Catharine herself had collected them into a book, and with her own hand she had given to the book this title: “Lamentations of a Sinner.”
Catharine had wept much as she penned these “Lamentations”; for in many places the manuscript was illegible, and her tears had obliterated the characters.
John Heywood kissed the spots where the traces of her tears remained, and whispered: “The sinner has by her suffering been glorified into a saint; and these poems are the cross and the monument which she has prepared for her own grave. I will set up this cross, that the good may take comfort, and the wicked flee from it.” And he did so. He had the “Lamentations of a Sinner” printed; and this book was the fairest monument of Catharine.
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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1
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. TEN YEARS LATER
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'If anyone had told me what wonderful changes were to take place here in ten years, I wouldn't have believed it,' said Mrs Jo to Mrs Meg, as they sat on the piazza at Plumfield one summer day, looking about them with faces full of pride and pleasure.
'This is the sort of magic that money and kind hearts can work. I am sure Mr Laurence could have no nobler monument than the college he so generously endowed; and a home like this will keep Aunt March's memory green as long as it lasts,' answered Mrs Meg, always glad to praise the absent.
'We used to believe in fairies, you remember, and plan what we'd ask for if we could have three wishes. Doesn't it seem as if mine had been really granted at last? Money, fame, and plenty of the work I love,' said Mrs Jo, carelessly rumpling up her hair as she clasped her hands over her head just as she used to do when a girl.
'I have had mine, and Amy is enjoying hers to her heart's content. If dear Marmee, John, and Beth were here, it would be quite perfect,' added Meg, with a tender quiver in her voice; for Marmee's place was empty now.
Jo put her hand on her sister's, and both sat silent for a little while, surveying the pleasant scene before them with mingled sad and happy thoughts.
It certainly did look as if magic had been at work, for quiet Plumfield was transformed into a busy little world. The house seemed more hospitable than ever, refreshed now with new paint, added wings, well-kept lawn and garden, and a prosperous air it had not worn when riotous boys swarmed everywhere and it was rather difficult for the Bhaers to make both ends meet. On the hill, where kites used to be flown, stood the fine college which Mr Laurence's munificent legacy had built. Busy students were going to and fro along the paths once trodden by childish feet, and many young men and women were enjoying all the advantages that wealth, wisdom, and benevolence could give them.
Just inside the gates of Plumfield a pretty brown cottage, very like the Dovecote, nestled among the trees, and on the green slope westward Laurie's white-pillared mansion glittered in the sunshine; for when the rapid growth of the city shut in the old house, spoilt Meg's nest, and dared to put a soap-factory under Mr Laurence's indignant nose, our friends emigrated to Plumfield, and the great changes began.
These were the pleasant ones; and the loss of the dear old people was sweetened by the blessings they left behind; so all prospered now in the little community, and Mr Bhaer as president, and Mr March as chaplain of the college, saw their long-cherished dream beautifully realized. The sisters divided the care of the young people among them, each taking the part that suited her best. Meg was the motherly friend of the young women, Jo the confidante and defender of all the youths, and Amy the lady Bountiful who delicately smoothed the way for needy students, and entertained them all so cordially that it was no wonder they named her lovely home Mount Parnassus, so full was it of music, beauty, and the culture hungry young hearts and fancies long for.
The original twelve boys had of course scattered far and wide during these years, but all that lived still remembered old Plumfield, and came wandering back from the four quarters of the earth to tell their various experiences, laugh over the pleasures of the past, and face the duties of the present with fresh courage; for such home-comings keep hearts tender and hands helpful with the memories of young and happy days. A few words will tell the history of each, and then we can go on with the new chapter of their lives.
Franz was with a merchant kinsman in Hamburg, a man of twenty-six now, and doing well. Emil was the jolliest tar that ever 'sailed the ocean blue'. His uncle sent him on a long voyage to disgust him with this adventurous life; but he came home so delighted with it that it was plain this was his profession, and the German kinsman gave him a good chance in his ships; so the lad was happy. Dan was a wanderer still; for after the geological researches in South America he tried sheep-farming in Australia, and was now in California looking up mines. Nat was busy with music at the Conservatory, preparing for a year or two in Germany to finish him off. Tom was studying medicine and trying to like it. Jack was in business with his father, bent on getting rich. Dolly was in college with Stuffy and Ned reading law. Poor little Dick was dead, so was Billy; and no one could mourn for them, since life would never be happy, afflicted as they were in mind and body.
Rob and Teddy were called the 'Lion and the Lamb'; for the latter was as rampant as the king of beasts, and the former as gentle as any sheep that ever baaed. Mrs Jo called him 'my daughter', and found him the most dutiful of children, with plenty of manliness underlying the quiet manners and tender nature. But in Ted she seemed to see all the faults, whims, aspirations, and fun of her own youth in a new shape. With his tawny locks always in wild confusion, his long legs and arms, loud voice, and continual activity, Ted was a prominent figure at Plumfield. He had his moods of gloom, and fell into the Slough of Despond about once a week, to be hoisted out by patient Rob or his mother, who understood when to let him alone and when to shake him up. He was her pride and joy as well as torment, being a very bright lad for his age, and so full of all sorts of budding talent, that her maternal mind was much exercised as to what this remarkable boy would become.
Demi had gone through College with honour, and Mrs Meg had set her heart on his being a minister--picturing in her fond fancy the first sermon her dignified young parson would preach, as well as the long, useful, and honoured life he was to lead. But John, as she called him now, firmly declined the divinity school, saying he had had enough of books, and needed to know more of men and the world, and caused the dear woman much disappointment by deciding to try a journalist's career. It was a blow; but she knew that young minds cannot be driven, and that experience is the best teacher; so she let him follow his own inclinations, still hoping to see him in the pulpit. Aunt Jo raged when she found that there was to be a reporter in the family, and called him 'Jenkins' on the spot. She liked his literary tendencies, but had reason to detest official Paul Prys, as we shall see later. Demi knew his own mind, however, and tranquilly carried out his plans, unmoved by the tongues of the anxious mammas or the jokes of his mates. Uncle Teddy encouraged him, and painted a splendid career, mentioning Dickens and other celebrities who began as reporters and ended as famous novelists or newspaper men.
The girls were all flourishing. Daisy, as sweet and domestic as ever, was her mother's comfort and companion. Josie at fourteen was a most original young person, full of pranks and peculiarities, the latest of which was a passion for the stage, which caused her quiet mother and sister much anxiety as well as amusement. Bess had grown into a tall, beautiful girl looking several years older than she was, with the same graceful ways and dainty tastes which the little Princess had, and a rich inheritance of both the father's and mother's gifts, fostered by every aid love and money could give. But the pride of the community was naughty Nan; for, like so many restless, wilful children, she was growing into a woman full of the energy and promise that suddenly blossoms when the ambitious seeker finds the work she is fitted to do well. Nan began to study medicine at sixteen, and at twenty was getting on bravely; for now, thanks to other intelligent women, colleges and hospitals were open to her. She had never wavered in her purpose from the childish days when she shocked Daisy in the old willow by saying: 'I don't want any family to fuss over. I shall have an office, with bottles and pestle things in it, and drive round and cure folks.' The future foretold by the little girl the young woman was rapidly bringing to pass, and finding so much happiness in it that nothing could win her from the chosen work. Several worthy young gentlemen had tried to make her change her mind and choose, as Daisy did, 'a nice little house and family to take care of'. But Nan only laughed, and routed the lovers by proposing to look at the tongue which spoke of adoration, or professionally felt the pulse in the manly hand offered for her acceptance. So all departed but one persistent youth, who was such a devoted Traddles it was impossible to quench him.
This was Tom, who was as faithful to his child sweetheart as she to her 'pestle things', and gave a proof of fidelity that touched her very much. He studied medicine for her sake alone, having no taste for it, and a decided fancy for a mercantile life. But Nan was firm, and Tom stoutly kept on, devoutly hoping he might not kill many of his fellow-beings when he came to practise. They were excellent friends, however, and caused much amusement to their comrades, by the vicissitudes of this merry love-chase.
Both were approaching Plumfield on the afternoon when Mrs Meg and Mrs Jo were talking on the piazza. Not together; for Nan was walking briskly along the pleasant road alone, thinking over a case that interested her, and Tom was pegging on behind to overtake her, as if by accident, when the suburbs of the city were past--a little way of his, which was part of the joke.
Nan was a handsome girl, with a fresh colour, clear eye, quick smile, and the self-poised look young women with a purpose always have. She was simply and sensibly dressed, walked easily, and seemed full of vigour, with her broad shoulders well back, arms swinging freely, and the elasticity of youth and health in every motion. The few people she met turned to look at her, as if it was a pleasant sight to see a hearty, happy girl walking countryward that lovely day; and the red-faced young man steaming along behind, hat off and every tight curl wagging with impatience, evidently agreed with them.
Presently a mild 'Hallo!' was borne upon the breeze, and pausing, with an effort to look surprised that was an utter failure, Nan said affably: 'Oh, is that you, Tom?'
'Looks like it. Thought you might be walking out today'; and Tom's jovial face beamed with pleasure.
'You knew it. How is your throat?' asked Nan in her professional tone, which was always a quencher to undue raptures.
'Throat? Oh, ah! yes, I remember. It is well. The effect of that prescription was wonderful. I'll never call homoeopathy a humbug again.'
'You were the humbug this time, and so were the unmedicated pellets I gave you. If sugar or milk can cure diphtheria in this remarkable manner, I'll make a note of it. O Tom, Tom, will you never be done playing tricks?' ' O Nan, Nan, will you never be done getting the better of me?' And the merry pair laughed at one another just as they did in the old times, which always came back freshly when they went to Plumfield.
'Well, I knew I shouldn't see you for a week if I didn't scare up some excuse for a call at the office. You are so desperately busy all the time I never get a word,' explained Tom.
'You ought to be busy too, and above such nonsense. Really, Tom, if you don't give your mind to your lectures, you'll never get on,' said Nan soberly.
'I have quite enough of them as it is,' answered Tom with an air of disgust. 'A fellow must lark a bit after dissecting corpuses all day. I can't stand it long at a time, though some people seem to enjoy it immensely.'
'Then why not leave it, and do what suits you better? I always thought it a foolish thing, you know,' said Nan, with a trace of anxiety in the keen eyes that searched for signs of illness in a face as ruddy as a Baldwin apple.
'You know why I chose it, and why I shall stick to it if it kills me. I may not look delicate, but I've a deep-seated heart complaint, and it will carry me off sooner or later; for only one doctor in the world can cure it, and she won't.'
There was an air of pensive resignation about Tom that was both comic and pathetic; for he was in earnest, and kept on giving hints of this sort, without the least encouragement.
Nan frowned; but she was used to it, and knew how to treat him.
'She is curing it in the best and only way; but a more refractory patient never lived. Did you go to that ball, as I directed?'
'I did.'
'And devote yourself to pretty Miss West?'
'Danced with her the whole evening.'
'No impression made on that susceptible organ of yours?'
'Not the slightest. I gaped in her face once, forgot to feed her, and gave a sigh of relief when I handed her over to her mamma.'
'Repeat the dose as often as possible, and note the symptoms. I predict that you'll “cry for it” by and by.'
'Never! I'm sure it doesn't suit my constitution.'
'We shall see. Obey orders!' sternly.
'Yes, Doctor,' meekly.
Silence reigned for a moment; then, as if the bone of contention was forgotten in the pleasant recollections called up by familiar objects, Nan said suddenly: 'What fun we used to have in that wood! Do you remember how you tumbled out of the big nut-tree and nearly broke your collar-bones?'
'Don't I! and how you steeped me in wormwood till I was a fine mahogany colour, and Aunt Jo wailed over my spoilt jacket,' laughed Tom, a boy again in a minute.
'And how you set the house afire?'
'And you ran off for your band-box?'
'Do you ever say “Thunder-turtles” now?'
'Do people ever call you “Giddy-gaddy”?'
'Daisy does. Dear thing, I haven't seen her for a week.'
'I saw Demi this morning, and he said she was keeping house for Mother Bhaer.'
'She always does when Aunt Jo gets into a vortex. Daisy is a model housekeeper; and you couldn't do better than make your bow to her, if you can't go to work and wait till you are grown up before you begin lovering.'
'Nat would break his fiddle over my head if I suggested such a thing. No, thank you. Another name is engraved upon my heart as indelibly as the blue anchor on my arm. “Hope” is my motto, and “No surrender”, yours; see who will hold out longest.'
'You silly boys think we must pair off as we did when children; but we shall do nothing of the kind. How well Parnassus looks from here!' said Nan, abruptly changing the conversation again.
'It is a fine house; but I love old Plum best. Wouldn't Aunt March stare if she could see the changes here?' answered Tom, as they both paused at the great gate to look at the pleasant landscape before them.
A sudden whoop startled them, as a long boy with a wild yellow head came leaping over a hedge like a kangaroo, followed by a slender girl, who stuck in the hawthorn, and sat there laughing like a witch. A pretty little lass she was, with curly dark hair, bright eyes, and a very expressive face. Her hat was at her back, and her skirts a good deal the worse for the brooks she had crossed, the trees she had climbed, and the last leap, which added several fine rents.
'Take me down, Nan, please. Tom, hold Ted; he's got my book, and I will have it,' called Josie from her perch, not at all daunted by the appearance of her friends.
Tom promptly collared the thief, while Nan picked Josie from among the thorns and set her on her feet without a word of reproof; for having been a romp in her own girlhood, she was very indulgent to like tastes in others. 'What's the matter, dear?' she asked, pinning up the longest rip, while Josie examined the scratches on her hands. 'I was studying my part in the willow, and Ted came slyly up and poked the book out of my hands with his rod. It fell in the brook, and before I could scrabble down he was off. You wretch, give it back this moment or I'll box your ears,' cried Josie, laughing and scolding in the same breath.
Escaping from Tom, Ted struck a sentimental attitude, and with tender glances at the wet, torn young person before him, delivered Claude Melnotte's famous speech in a lackadaisical way that was irresistibly funny, ending with 'Dost like the picture, love?' as he made an object of himself by tying his long legs in a knot and distorting his face horribly.
The sound of applause from the piazza put a stop to these antics, and the young folks went up the avenue together very much in the old style when Tom drove four in hand and Nan was the best horse in the team. Rosy, breathless, and merry, they greeted the ladies and sat down on the steps to rest, Aunt Meg sewing up her daughter's rags while Mrs Jo smoothed the Lion's mane, and rescued the book. Daisy appeared in a moment to greet her friend, and all began to talk.
'Muffins for tea; better stay and eat 'em; Daisy's never fail,' said Ted hospitably.
'He's a judge; he ate nine last time. That's why he's so fat,' added Josie, with a withering glance at her cousin, who was as thin as a lath.
'I must go and see Lucy Dove. She has a whitlow, and it's time to lance it. I'll tea at college,' answered Nan, feeling in her pocket to be sure she had not forgotten her case of instruments.
'Thanks, I'm going there also. Tom Merryweather has granulated lids, and I promised to touch them up for him. Save a doctor's fee and be good practice for me. I'm clumsy with my thumbs,' said Tom, bound to be near his idol while he could.
'Hush! Daisy doesn't like to hear you saw-bones talk of your work. Muffins suit us better'; and Ted grinned sweetly, with a view to future favours in the eating line.
'Any news of the Commodore?' asked Tom.
'He is on his way home, and Dan hopes to come soon. I long to see my boys together, and have begged the wanderers to come to Thanksgiving, if not before,' answered Mrs Jo, beaming at the thought.
'They'll come, every man of them, if they can. Even Jack will risk losing a dollar for the sake of one of our jolly old dinners,' laughed Tom.
'There's the turkey fattening for the feast. I never chase him now, but feed him well; and he's “swellin' wisibly”, bless his drumsticks!' said Ted, pointing out the doomed fowl proudly parading in a neighbouring field.
'If Nat goes the last of the month we shall want a farewell frolic for him. I suppose the dear old Chirper will come home a second Ole Bull,' said Nan to her friend.
A pretty colour came into Daisy's cheek, and the folds of muslin on her breast rose and fell with a quick breath; but she answered placidly: 'Uncle Laurie says he has real talent, and after the training he will get abroad he can command a good living here, though he may never be famous.'
'Young people seldom turn out as one predicts, so it is of little use to expect anything,' said Mrs Meg with a sigh. 'If our children are good and useful men and women, we should be satisfied; yet it's very natural to wish them to be brilliant and successful.'
'They are like my chickens, mighty uncertain. Now, that fine-looking cockerel of mine is the stupidest one of the lot, and the ugly, long-legged chap is the king of the yard, he's so smart; crows loud enough to wake the Seven Sleepers; but the handsome one croaks, and is no end of a coward. I get snubbed; but you wait till I grow up, and then see'; and Ted looked so like his own long-legged pet that everyone laughed at his modest prediction.
'I want to see Dan settled somewhere. “A rolling stone gathers no moss”, and at twenty-five he is still roaming about the world without a tie to hold him, except this'; and Mrs Meg nodded towards her sister.
'Dan will find his place at last, and experience is his best teacher. He is rough still, but each time he comes home I see a change for the better, and never lose my faith in him. He may never do anything great, or get rich; but if the wild boy makes an honest man, I'm satisfied,' said Mrs Jo, who always defended the black sheep of her flock.
'That's right, mother, stand by Dan! He's worth a dozen Jacks and Neds bragging about money and trying to be swells. You see if he doesn't do something to be proud of and take the wind out of their sails,' added Ted, whose love for his 'Danny' was now strengthened by a boy's admiration for the bold, adventurous man.
'Hope so, I'm sure. He's just the fellow to do rash things and come to glory--climbing the Matterhorn, taking a “header” into Niagara, or finding a big nugget. That's his way of sowing wild oats, and perhaps it's better than ours,' said Tom thoughtfully; for he had gained a good deal of experience in that sort of agriculture since he became a medical student.
'Much better!' said Mrs Jo emphatically. 'I'd rather send my boys off to see the world in that way than leave them alone in a city full of temptations, with nothing to do but waste time, money, and health, as so many are left. Dan has to work his way, and that teaches him courage, patience, and self-reliance. I don't worry about him as much as I do about George and Dolly at college, no more fit than two babies to take care of themselves.'
'How about John? He's knocking round town as a newspaper man, reporting all sorts of things, from sermons to prize-fights,' asked Tom, who thought that sort of life would be much more to his own taste than medical lectures and hospital wards.
'Demi has three safeguards--good principles, refined tastes, and a wise mother. He won't come to harm, and these experiences will be useful to him when he begins to write, as I'm sure he will in time,' began Mrs Jo in her prophetic tone; for she was anxious to have some of her geese turn out swans.
'Speak of Jenkins, and you'll hear the rustling of his paper,' cried Tom, as a fresh-faced, brown-eyed young man came up the avenue, waving a newspaper over his head.
'Here's your Evening Tattler! Latest Edition! Awful murder! Bank clerk absconded! Powder-mill explosion, and great strike of the Latin School boys!' roared Ted, going to meet his cousin with the graceful gait of a young giraffe.
'The Commodore is in, and will cut his cable and run before the wind as soon as he can get off,' called Demi, with 'a nice derangement of nautical epitaphs', as he came up smiling over his good news.
Everyone talked together for a moment, and the paper passed from hand to hand that each eye might rest on the pleasant fact that the Brenda, from Hamburg, was safe in port.
'He'll come lurching out by tomorrow with his usual collection of marine monsters and lively yarns. I saw him, jolly and tarry and brown as a coffee-berry. Had a good run, and hopes to be second mate, as the other chap is laid up with a broken leg,' added Demi.
'Wish I had the setting of it,' said Nan to herself, with a professional twist of her hand.
'How's Franz?' asked Mrs Jo.
'He's going to be married! There's news for you. The first of the flock, Aunty, so say good-bye to him. Her name is Ludmilla Heldegard Blumenthal; good family, well-off, pretty, and of course an angel. The dear old boy wants Uncle's consent, and then he will settle down to be a happy and an honest burgher. Long life to him!'
'I'm glad to hear it. I do so like to settle my boys with a good wife and a nice little home. Now, if all is right, I shall feel as if Franz was off my mind,' said Mrs Jo, folding her hands contentedly; for she often felt like a distracted hen with a large brood of mixed chickens and ducks upon her hands.
'So do I,' sighed Tom, with a sly glance at Nan. 'That's what a fellow needs to keep him steady; and it's the duty of nice girls to marry as soon as possible, isn't it, Demi?'
'If there are enough nice fellows to go round. The female population exceeds the male, you know, especially in New England; which accounts for the high state of culture we are in, perhaps,' answered John, who was leaning over his mother's chair, telling his day's experiences in a whisper.
'It is a merciful provision, my dears; for it takes three or four women to get each man into, through, and out of the world. You are costly creatures, boys; and it is well that mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters love their duty and do it so well, or you would perish off the face of the earth,' said Mrs Jo solemnly, as she took up a basket filled with dilapidated hose; for the good Professor was still hard on his socks, and his sons resembled him in that respect.
'Such being the case, there is plenty for the “superfluous women” to do, in taking care of these helpless men and their families. I see that more clearly every day, and am very glad and grateful that my profession will make me a useful, happy, and independent spinster.'
Nan's emphasis on the last word caused Tom to groan, and the rest to laugh.
'I take great pride and solid satisfaction in you, Nan, and hope to see you very successful; for we do need just such helpful women in the world. I sometimes feel as if I've missed my vocation and ought to have remained single; but my duty seemed to point this way, and I don't regret it,' said Mrs Jo, folding a large and very ragged blue sock to her bosom.
'Neither do I. What should I ever have done without my dearest Mum?' added Ted, with a filial hug which caused both to disappear behind the newspaper in which he had been mercifully absorbed for a few minutes.
'My darling boy, if you would wash your hands semi-occasionally, fond caresses would be less disastrous to my collar. Never mind, my precious touslehead, better grass stains and dirt than no cuddlings at all'; and Mrs Jo emerged from that brief eclipse looking much refreshed, though her back hair was caught in Ted's buttons and her collar under one ear.
Here Josie, who had been studying her part at the other end of the piazza, suddenly burst forth with a smothered shriek, and gave Juliet's speech in the tomb so effectively that the boys applauded, Daisy shivered, and Nan murmured: 'Too much cerebral excitement for one of her age.'
'I'm afraid you'll have to make up your mind to it, Meg. That child is a born actress. We never did anything so well, not even the Witch's Curse,' said Mrs Jo, casting a bouquet of many-coloured socks at the feet of her flushed and panting niece, when she fell gracefully upon the door-mat.
'It is a sort of judgement upon me for my passion for the stage when a girl. Now I know how dear Marmee felt when I begged to be an actress. I never can consent, and yet I may be obliged to give up my wishes, hopes, and plans again.'
There was an accent of reproach in his mother's voice, which made Demi pick up his sister with a gentle shake, and the stern command to 'drop that nonsense in public'.
'Drop me, Minion, or I'll give you the Maniac Bride, with my best Ha-ha!' cried Josie, glaring at him like an offended kitten. Being set on her feet, she made a splendid courtesy, and dramatically proclaiming, 'Mrs Woffington's carriage waits,' swept down the steps and round the corner, trailing Daisy's scarlet shawl majestically behind her.
'Isn't she great fun? I couldn't stop in this dull place if I hadn't that child to make it lively for me. If ever she turns prim, I'm off; so mind how you nip her in the bud,' said Teddy, frowning at Demi, who was now writing out shorthand notes on the steps.
'You two are a team, and it takes a strong hand to drive you, but I rather like it. Josie ought to have been my child, and Rob yours, Meg. Then your house would have been all peace and mine all Bedlam. Now I must go and tell Laurie the news. Come with me, Meg, a little stroll will do us good'; and sticking Ted's straw hat on her head, Mrs Jo walked off with her sister, leaving Daisy to attend to the muffins, Ted to appease Josie, and Tom and Nan to give their respective patients a very bad quarter of an hour.
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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2
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. PARNASSUS
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It was well named; and the Muses seemed to be at home that day, for as the newcomers went up the slope appropriate sights and sounds greeted them. Passing an open window, they looked in upon a library presided over by Clio, Calliope, and Urania; Melpomene and Thalia were disporting themselves in the hall, where some young people were dancing and rehearsing a play; Erato was walking in the garden with her lover, and in the music-room Phoebus himself was drilling a tuneful choir.
A mature Apollo was our old friend Laurie, but comely and genial as ever; for time had ripened the freakish boy into a noble man. Care and sorrow, as well as ease and happiness, had done much for him; and the responsibility of carrying out his grandfather's wishes had been a duty most faithfully performed. Prosperity suits some people, and they blossom best in a glow of sunshine; others need the shade, and are the sweeter for a touch of frost. Laurie was one of the former sort, and Amy was another; so life had been a kind of poem to them since they married--not only harmonious and happy, but earnest, useful, and rich in the beautiful benevolence which can do so much when wealth and wisdom go hand in hand with charity. Their house was full of unostentatious beauty and comfort, and here the art-loving host and hostess attracted and entertained artists of all kinds. Laurie had music enough now, and was a generous patron to the class he most liked to help. Amy had her proteges among ambitious young painters and sculptors, and found her own art double dear as her daughter grew old enough to share its labours and delights with her; for she was one of those who prove that women can be faithful wives and mothers without sacrificing the special gift bestowed upon them for their own development and the good of others.
Her sisters knew where to find her, and Jo went at once to the studio, where mother and daughter worked together. Bess was busy with the bust of a little child, while her mother added the last touches to a fine head of her husband. Time seemed to have stood still with Amy, for happiness had kept her young and prosperity given her the culture she needed. A stately, graceful woman, who showed how elegant simplicity could be made by the taste with which she chose her dress and the grace with which she wore it. As someone said: 'I never know what Mrs Laurence has on, but I always receive the impression that she is the best-dressed lady in the room.'
It was evident that she adored her daughter, and well she might; for the beauty she had longed for seemed, to her fond eyes at least, to be impersonated in this younger self. Bess inherited her mother's Diana-like figure, blue eyes, fair skin, and golden hair, tied up in the same classic knot of curls. Also--ah! never-ending source of joy to Amy--she had her father's handsome nose and mouth, cast in a feminine mould. The severe simplicity of a long linen pinafore suited her; and she worked away with the entire absorption of the true artist, unconscious of the loving eyes upon her, till Aunt Jo came in exclaiming eagerly: 'My dear girls, stop your mud-pies and hear the news!'
Both artists dropped their tools and greeted the irrepressible woman cordially, though genius had been burning splendidly and her coming spoilt a precious hour. They were in the full tide of gossip when Laurie, who had been summoned by Meg, arrived, and sitting down between the sisters, with no barricade anywhere, listened with interest to the news of Franz and Emil.
'The epidemic has broke out, and now it will rage and ravage your flock. Be prepared for every sort of romance and rashness for the next ten years, Jo. Your boys are growing up and will plunge headlong into a sea of worse scrapes than any you have had yet,' said Laurie, enjoying her look of mingled delight and despair.
'I know it, and I hope I shall be able to pull them through and land them safely; but it's an awful responsibility, for they will come to me and insist that I can make their poor little loves run smoothly. I like it, though, and Meg is such a mush of sentiment she revels in the prospect,' answered Jo, feeling pretty easy about her own boys, whose youth made them safe for the present.
'I'm afraid she won't revel when our Nat begins to buzz too near her Daisy. Of course you see what all that means? As musical director I am also his confidante, and would like to know what advice to give,' said Laurie soberly. 'Hush! you forget that child,' began Jo, nodding towards Bess, who was at work again.
'Bless you! she's in Athens, and doesn't hear a word. She ought to leave off, though, and go out. My darling, put the baby to sleep, and go for a run. Aunt Meg is in the parlour; go and show her the new pictures till we come,' added Laurie, looking at his tall girl as Pygmalion might have looked at Galatea; for he considered her the finest statue in the house.
'Yes, papa; but please tell me if it is good'; and Bess obediently put down her tools, with a lingering glance at the bust.
'My cherished daughter, truth compels me to confess that one cheek is plumper than the other; and the curls upon its infant brow are rather too much like horns for perfect grace; otherwise it rivals Raphael's Chanting Cherubs, and I'm proud of it.'
Laurie was laughing as he spoke; for these first attempts were so like Amy's early ones, it was impossible to regard them as soberly as the enthusiastic mamma did.
'You can't see beauty in anything but music,' answered Bess, shaking the golden head that made the one bright spot in the cool north lights of the great studio.
'Well, I see beauty in you, dear. And if you are not art, what is? I wish to put a little more nature into you, and get you away from this cold clay and marble into the sunshine, to dance and laugh as the others do. I want a flesh-and-blood girl, not a sweet statue in a grey pinafore, who forgets everything but her work.' As he spoke, two dusty hands came round his neck, and Bess said earnestly, punctuating her words with soft touches of her lips: 'I never forget you, papa; but I do want to do something beautiful that you may be proud of me by and by. Mamma often tells me to stop; but when we get in here we forget there is any world outside, we are so busy and so happy. Now I'll go and run and sing, and be a girl to please you.' And throwing away the apron, Bess vanished from the room, seeming to take all the light with her.
'I'm glad you said that. The dear child is too much absorbed in her artistic dreams for one so young. It is my fault; but I sympathize so deeply in it all, I forget to be wise,' sighed Amy, carefully covering the baby with a wet towel.
'I think this power of living in our children is one of the sweetest things in the world; but I try to remember what Marmee once said to Meg--that fathers should have their share in the education of both girls and boys; so I leave Ted to his father all I can, and Fritz lends me Rob, whose quiet ways are as restful and good for me as Ted's tempests are for his father. Now I advise you, Amy, to let Bess drop the mud-pies for a time, and take up music with Laurie; then she won't be one-sided, and he won't be jealous.'
'Hear, hear! A Daniel--a very Daniel!' cried Laurie, well pleased. 'I thought you'd lend a hand, Jo, and say a word for me. I am a little jealous of Amy, and want more of a share in my girl. Come, my lady, let me have her this summer, and next year, when we go to Rome, I'll give her up to you and high art. Isn't that a fair bargain?'
'I agree; but in trying your hobby, nature, with music thrown in, don't forget that, though only fifteen, our Bess is older than most girls of that age, and cannot be treated like a child. She is so very precious to me, I feel as if I wanted to keep her always as pure and beautiful as the marble she loves so well.'
Amy spoke regretfully as she looked about the lovely room where she had spent so many happy hours with this dear child of hers. ' “Turn and turn about is fair play”, as we used to say when we all wanted to ride on Ellen Tree or wear the russet boots,' said Jo briskly; 'so you must share your girl between you, and see who will do the most for her.'
'We will,' answered the fond parents, laughing at the recollections Jo's proverb brought up to them.
'How I did use to enjoy bouncing on the limbs of that old apple-tree! No real horse ever gave me half the pleasure or the exercise,' said Amy, looking out of the high window as if she saw the dear old orchard again and the little girls at play there.
'And what fun I had with those blessed boots!' laughed Jo. 'I've got the relics now. The boys reduced them to rags; but I love them still, and would enjoy a good theatrical stalk in them if it were possible.'
'My fondest memories twine about the warming-pan and the sausage. What larks we had! And how long ago it seems!' said Laurie, staring at the two women before him as if he found it hard to realize that they ever had been little Amy and riotous Jo.
'Don't suggest that we are growing old, my Lord. We have only bloomed; and a very nice bouquet we make with our buds about us,' answered Mrs Amy, shaking out the folds of her rosy muslin with much the air of dainty satisfaction the girl used to show in a new dress.
'Not to mention our thorns and dead leaves,' added Jo, with a sigh; for life had never been very easy to her, and even now she had her troubles both within and without.
'Come and have a dish of tea, old dear, and see what the young folks are about. You are tired, and want to be “stayed with flagons and comforted with apples”,' said Laurie, offering an arm to each sister, and leading them away to afternoon tea, which flowed as freely on Parnassus as the nectar of old.
They found Meg in the summer-parlour, an airy and delightful room, full now of afternoon sunshine and the rustle of trees; for the three long windows opened on the garden. The great music-room was at one end, and at the other, in a deep alcove hung with purple curtains, a little household shrine had been made. Three portraits hung there, two marble busts stood in the corners, and a couch, an oval table, with its urn of flowers, were the only articles of furniture the nook contained. The busts were John Brooke and Beth--Amy's work--both excellent likenesses, and both full of the placid beauty which always recalls the saying, that 'Clay represents life; plaster, death; marble, immortality'. On the right, as became the founder of the house, hung the portrait of Mr Laurence, with its expression of mingled pride and benevolence, as fresh and attractive as when he caught the girl Jo admiring it. Opposite was Aunt March--a legacy to Amy--in an imposing turban, immense sleeves, and long mittens decorously crossed on the front of her plum-coloured satin gown. Time had mellowed the severity of her aspect; and the fixed regard of the handsome old gentleman opposite seemed to account for the amiable simper on lips that had not uttered a sharp word for years.
In the place of honour, with the sunshine warm upon it, and a green garland always round it, was Marmee's beloved face, painted with grateful skill by a great artist whom she had befriended when poor and unknown. So beautifully lifelike was it that it seemed to smile down upon her daughters, saying cheerfully: 'Be happy; I am with you still.'
The three sisters stood a moment looking up at the beloved picture with eyes full of tender reverence and the longing that never left them; for this noble mother had been so much to them that no one could ever fill her place. Only two years since she had gone away to live and love anew, leaving such a sweet memory behind her that it was both an inspiration and a comforter to all the household. They felt this as they drew closer to one another, and Laurie put it into words as he said earnestly: 'I can ask nothing better for my child than that she may be a woman like our mother. Please God, she shall be, if I can do it; for I owe the best I have to this dear saint.'
Just then a fresh voice began to sing 'Ave Maria' in the music-room, and Bess unconsciously echoed her father's prayer for her as she dutifully obeyed his wishes. The soft sound of the air Marmee used to sing led the listeners back into the world again from that momentary reaching after the loved and lost, and they sat down together near the open windows enjoying the music, while Laurie brought them tea, making the little service pleasant by the tender care he gave to it.
Nat came in with Demi, soon followed by Ted and Josie, the Professor and his faithful Rob, all anxious to hear more about 'the boys'. The rattle of cups and tongues grew brisk, and the setting sun saw a cheerful company resting in the bright room after the varied labours of the day.
Professor Bhaer was grey now, but robust and genial as ever; for he had the work he loved, and did it so heartily that the whole college felt his beautiful influence. Rob was as much like him as it was possible for a boy to be, and was already called the 'young Professor', he so adored study and closely imitated his honoured father in all ways.
'Well, heart's dearest, we go to have our boys again, all two, and may rejoice greatly,' said Mr Bhaer, seating himself beside Jo with a beaming face and a handshake of congratulation.
'Oh, Fritz, I'm so delighted about Emil, and if you approve about Franz also. Did you know Ludmilla? Is it a wise match?' asked Mrs Jo, handing him her cup of tea and drawing closer, as if she welcomed her refuge in joy as well as sorrow.
'It all goes well. I saw the Madchen when I went over to place Franz. A child then, but most sweet and charming. Blumenthal is satisfied, I think, and the boy will be happy. He is too German to be content away from Vaterland, so we shall have him as a link between the new and the old, and that pleases me much.'
'And Emil, he is to be second mate next voyage; isn't that fine? I'm so happy that both your boys have done well; you gave up so much for them and their mother. You make light of it, dear, but I never forget it,' said Jo, with her hand in his as sentimentally as if she was a girl again and her Fritz had come a-wooing.
He laughed his cheery laugh, and whispered behind her fan: 'If I had not come to America for the poor lads, I never should have found my Jo. The hard times are very sweet now, and I bless Gott for all I seemed to lose, because I gained the blessing of my life.'
'Spooning! spooning! Here's an awful flirtation on the sly,' cried Teddy, peering over the fan just at that interesting moment, much to his mother's confusion and his father's amusement; for the Professor never was ashamed of the fact that he still considered his wife the dearest woman in the world. Rob promptly ejected his brother from one window, to see him skip in at the other, while Mrs Jo shut her fan and held it ready to rap her unruly boy's knuckles if he came near her again.
Nat approached in answer to Mr Bhaer's beckoning teaspoon, and stood before them with a face full of the respectful affection he felt for the excellent man who had done so much for him.
'I have the letters ready for thee, my son. They are two old friends of mine in Leipzig, who will befriend thee in that new life. It is well to have them, for thou wilt be heartbroken with Heimweh at the first, Nat, and need comforting,' said the Professor, giving him several letters.
'Thanks, sir. Yes, I expect to be pretty lonely till I get started, then my music and the hope of getting on will cheer me up,' answered Nat, who both longed and dreaded to leave all these friends behind him and make new ones.
He was a man now; but the blue eyes were as honest as ever, the mouth still a little weak, in spite of the carefully cherished moustache over it, and the broad forehead more plainly than ever betrayed the music-loving nature of the youth. Modest, affectionate, and dutiful, Nat was considered a pleasant though not a brilliant success by Mrs Jo. She loved and trusted him, and was sure he would do his best, but did not expect that he would be great in any way, unless the stimulus of foreign training and self-dependence made him a better artist and a stronger man than now seemed likely.
'I've marked all your things--or rather, Daisy did--and as soon as your books are collected, we can see about the packing,' said Mrs Jo, who was so used to fitting boys off for all quarters of the globe that a trip to the North Pole would not have been too much for her.
Nat grew red at mention of that name--or was it the last glow of sunset on his rather pale cheek? --and his heart beat happily at the thought of the dear girl working Ns and Bs on his humble socks and handkerchiefs; for Nat adored Daisy, and the cherished dream of his life was to earn a place for himself as a musician and win this angel for his wife. This hope did more for him than the Professor's counsels, Mrs Jo's care, or Mr Laurie's generous help. For her sake he worked, waited, and hoped, finding courage and patience in the dream of that happy future when Daisy should make a little home for him and he fiddle a fortune into her lap. Mrs Jo knew this; and though he was not exactly the man she would have chosen for her niece, she felt that Nat would always need just the wise and loving care Daisy could give him, and that without it there was danger of his being one of the amiable and aimless men who fail for want of the right pilot to steer them safely through the world. Mrs Meg decidedly frowned upon the poor boy's love, and would not hear of giving her dear girl to any but the best man to be found on the face of the earth. She was very kind, but as firm as such gentle souls can be; and Nat fled for comfort to Mrs Jo, who always espoused the interests of her boys heartily. A new set of anxieties was beginning now that the aforesaid boys were growing up, and she foresaw no end of worry as well as amusement in the love-affairs already budding in her flock. Mrs Meg was usually her best ally and adviser, for she loved romances as well now as when a blooming girl herself. But in this case she hardened her heart, and would not hear a word of entreaty. 'Nat was not man enough, never would be, no one knew his family, a musician's life was a hard one; Daisy was too young, five or six years hence when time had proved both perhaps. Let us see what absence will do for him.' And that was the end of it, for when the maternal Pelican was roused she could be very firm, though for her precious children she would have plucked her last feather and given the last drop of her blood.
Mrs Jo was thinking of this as she looked at Nat while he talked with her husband about Leipzig, and she resolved to have a clear understanding with him before he went; for she was used to confidences, and talked freely with her boys about the trials and temptations that beset all lives in the beginning, and so often mar them, for want of the right word at the right moment.
This is the first duty of parents, and no false delicacy should keep them from the watchful care, the gentle warning, which makes self-knowledge and self-control the compass and pilot of the young as they leave the safe harbour of home.
'Plato and his disciples approach,' announced irreverent Teddy, as Mr March came in with several young men and women about him; for the wise old man was universally beloved, and ministered so beautifully to his flock that many of them thanked him all their lives for the help given to both hearts and souls.
Bess went to him at once; for since Marmee died, Grandpapa was her special care, and it was sweet to see the golden head bend over the silver one as she rolled out his easy-chair and waited on him with tender alacrity.
'Aesthetic tea always on tap here, sir; will you have a flowing bowl or a bit of ambrosia?' asked Laurie, who was wandering about with a sugar-basin in one hand and a plate of cake in the other; for sweetening cups and feeding the hungry was work he loved.
'Neither, thanks; this child has taken care of me'; and Mr March turned to Bess, who sat on one arm of his chair, holding a glass of fresh milk.
'Long may she live to do it, sir, and I be here to see this pretty contradiction of the song that “youth and age cannot live together”!' answered Laurie, smiling at the pair. ' “Crabbed age”, papa; that makes all the difference in the world,' said Bess quickly; for she loved poetry, and read the best.
'Wouldst thou see fresh roses grow In a reverend bed of snow?'
quoted Mr March, as Josie came and perched on the other arm, looking like a very thorny little rose; for she had been having a hot discussion with Ted, and had got the worst of it.
'Grandpa, must women always obey men and say they are the wisest, just because they are the strongest?' she cried, looking fiercely at her cousin, who came stalking up with a provoking smile on the boyish face that was always very comical atop of that tall figure.
'Well, my dear, that is the old-fashioned belief, and it will take some time to change it. But I think the woman's hour has struck; and it looks to me as if the boys must do their best, for the girls are abreast now, and may reach the goal first,' answered Mr March, surveying with paternal satisfaction the bright faces of the young women, who were among the best students in the college.
'The poor little Atalantas are sadly distracted and delayed by the obstacles thrown in their way--not golden apples, by any means--but I think they will stand a fair chance when they have learned to run better,' laughed Uncle Laurie, stroking Josie's breezy hair, which stood up like the fur of an angry kitten.
'Whole barrels of apples won't stop me when I start, and a dozen Teds won't trip me up, though they may try. I'll show him that a woman can act as well, if not better, than a man. It has been done, and will be again; and I'll never own that my brain isn't as good as his, though it may be smaller,' cried the excited young person.
'If you shake your head in that violent way you'll addle what brains you have got; and I'd take care of 'em, if I were you,' began teasing Ted.
'What started this civil war?' asked Grandpapa, with a gentle emphasis on the adjective, which caused the combatants to calm their ardour a little.
'Why, we were pegging away at the Iliad and came to where Zeus tells Juno not to inquire into his plans or he'll whip her, and Jo was disgusted because Juno meekly hushed up. I said it was all right, and agreed with the old fellow that women didn't know much and ought to obey men,' explained Ted, to the great amusement of his hearers.
'Goddesses may do as they like, but those Greek and Trojan women were poor-spirited things if they minded men who couldn't fight their own battles and had to be hustled off by Pallas, and Venus, and Juno, when they were going to get beaten. The idea of two armies stopping and sitting down while a pair of heroes flung stones at one another! I don't think much of your old Homer. Give me Napoleon or Grant for my hero.'
Josie's scorn was as funny as if a humming-bird scolded at an ostrich, and everyone laughed as she sniffed at the immortal poet and criticized the gods.
'Napoleon's Juno had a nice time; didn't she? That's just the way girls argue--first one way and then the other,' jeered Ted.
'Like Johnson's young lady, who was “not categorical, but all wiggle-waggle”,' added Uncle Laurie, enjoying the battle immensely.
'I was only speaking of them as soldiers. But if you come to the woman side of it, wasn't Grant a kind husband and Mrs Grant a happy woman? He didn't threaten to whip her if she asked a natural question; and if Napoleon did do wrong about Josephine, he could fight, and didn't want any Minerva to come fussing over him. They were a stupid set, from dandified Paris to Achilles sulking in his ships, and I won't change my opinion for all the Hectors and Agamemnons in Greece,' said Josie, still unconquered.
'You can fight like a Trojan, that's evident; and we will be the two obedient armies looking on while you and Ted have it out,' began Uncle Laurie, assuming the attitude of a warrior leaning on his spear.
'I fear we must give it up, for Pallas is about to descend and carry off our Hector,' said Mr March, smiling, as Jo came to remind her son that suppertime was near.
'We will fight it out later when there are no goddesses to interfere,' said Teddy, as he turned away with unusual alacrity, remembering the treat in store.
'Conquered by a muffin, by Jove!' called Josie after him, exulting in an opportunity to use the classical exclamation forbidden to her sex.
But Ted shot a Parthian arrow as he retired in good order by replying, with a highly virtuous expression: 'Obedience is a soldier's first duty.'
Bent on her woman's privilege of having the last word, Josie ran after him, but never uttered the scathing speech upon her lips, for a very brown young man in a blue suit came leaping up the steps with a cheery 'Ahoy! ahoy! where is everybody?'
'Emil! Emil!' cried Josie, and in a moment Ted was upon him, and the late enemies ended their fray in a joyful welcome to the newcomer.
Muffins were forgotten, and towing their cousin like two fussy little tugs with a fine merchantman, the children returned to the parlour, where Emil kissed all the women and shook hands with all the men except his uncle; him he embraced in the good old German style, to the great delight of the observers.
'Didn't think I could get off today, but found I could, and steered straight for old Plum. Not a soul there, so I luffed and bore away for Parnassus, and here is every man Jack of you. Bless your hearts, how glad I am to see you all!' exclaimed the sailor boy, beaming at them, as he stood with his legs apart as if he still felt the rocking deck under his feet.
'You ought to “shiver your timbers”, not “bless our hearts”, Emil; it's not nautical at all. Oh, how nice and shippy and tarry you do smell!' said Josie, sniffing at him with great enjoyment of the fresh sea odours he brought with him. This was her favourite cousin, and she was his pet; so she knew that the bulging pockets of the blue jacket contained treasures for her at least.
'Avast, my hearty, and let me take soundings before you dive,' laughed Emil, understanding her affectionate caresses, and holding her off with one hand while with the other he rummaged out sundry foreign little boxes and parcels marked with different names, and handed them round with appropriate remarks, which caused much laughter; for Emil was a wag.
'There's a hawser that will hold our little cock-boat still about five minutes,' he said, throwing a necklace of pretty pink coral over Josie's head; 'and here's something the mermaids sent to Undine,' he added, handing Bess a string of pearly shells on a silver chain.
I thought Daisy would like a fiddle, and Nat can find her a beau,' continued the sailor, with a laugh, as he undid a dainty filigree brooch in the shape of a violin.
'I know she will, and I'll take it to her,' answered Nat, as he vanished, glad of an errand, and sure that he could find Daisy though Emil had missed her.
Emil chuckled, and handed out a quaintly carved bear whose head opened, showing a capacious ink-stand. This he presented, with a scrape, to Aunt Jo.
'Knowing your fondness for these fine animals, I brought this one to your pen.'
'Very good, Commodore! Try again,' said Mrs Jo, much pleased with her gift, which caused the Professor to prophesy 'works of Shakespeare' from its depths, so great would be the inspiration of the beloved bruin.
'As Aunt Meg will wear caps, in spite of her youth, I got Ludmilla to get me some bits of lace. Hope you'll like 'em'; and out of a soft paper came some filmy things, one of which soon lay like a net of snowflakes on Mrs Meg's pretty hair.
'I couldn't find anything swell enough for Aunt Amy, because she has everything she wants, so I brought a little picture that always makes me think of her when Bess was a baby'; and he handed her an oval ivory locket, on which was painted a goldenhaired Madonna, with a rosy child folded in her blue mantle.
'How lovely!' cried everyone; and Aunt Amy at once hung it about her neck on the blue ribbon from Bess's hair, charmed with her gift; for it recalled the happiest year of her life.
'Now, I flatter myself I've got just the thing for Nan, neat but not gaudy, a sort of sign you see, and very appropriate for a doctor,' said Emil, proudly displaying a pair of lava earrings shaped like little skulls.
'Horrid!' And Bess, who hated ugly things, turned her eyes to her own pretty shells.
'She won't wear earrings,' said Josie.
'Well, she'll enjoy punching your ears then. She's never so happy as when she's overhauling her fellow creatures and going for 'em with a knife,' answered Emil, undisturbed. 'I've got a lot of plunder for you fellows in my chest, but I knew I should have no peace till my cargo for the girls was unloaded. Now tell me all the news.' And, seated on Amy's best marbletopped table, the sailor swung his legs and talked at the rate of ten knots an hour, till Aunt Jo carried them all off to a grand family tea in honour of the Commodore.
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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3
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. JO'S LAST SCRAPE
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The March family had enjoyed a great many surprises in the course of their varied career, but the greatest of all was when the Ugly Duckling turned out to be, not a swan, but a golden goose, whose literary eggs found such an unexpected market that in ten years Jo's wildest and most cherished dream actually came true. How or why it happened she never clearly understood, but all of a sudden she found herself famous in a small way, and, better still, with a snug little fortune in her pocket to clear away the obstacles of the present and assure the future of her boys.
It began during a bad year when everything went wrong at Plumfield; times were hard, the school dwindled, Jo overworked herself and had a long illness; Laurie and Amy were abroad, and the Bhaers too proud to ask help even of those as near and dear as this generous pair. Confined to her room, Jo got desperate over the state of affairs, till she fell back upon the long-disused pen as the only thing she could do to help fill up the gaps in the income. A book for girls being wanted by a certain publisher, she hastily scribbled a little story describing a few scenes and adventures in the lives of herself and sisters, though boys were more in her line, and with very slight hopes of success sent it out to seek its fortune.
Things always went by contraries with Jo. Her first book, laboured over for years, and launched full of the high hopes and ambitious dreams of youth, foundered on its voyage, though the wreck continued to float long afterward, to the profit of the publisher at least. The hastily written story, sent away with no thought beyond the few dollars it might bring, sailed with a fair wind and a wise pilot at the helm into public favour, and came home heavily laden with an unexpected cargo of gold and glory.
A more astonished woman probably never existed than Josephine Bhaer when her little ship came into port with flags flying, cannon that had been silent before now booming gaily, and, better than all, many kind faces rejoicing with her, many friendly hands grasping hers with cordial congratulations. After that it was plain sailing, and she merely had to load her ships and send them off on prosperous trips, to bring home stores of comfort for all she loved and laboured for.
The fame she never did quite accept; for it takes very little fire to make a great deal of smoke nowadays, and notoriety is not real glory. The fortune she could not doubt, and gratefully received; though it was not half so large a one as a generous world reported it to be. The tide having turned continued to rise, and floated the family comfortably into a snug harbour where the older members could rest secure from storms, and whence the younger ones could launch their boats for the voyage of life.
All manner of happiness, peace, and plenty came in those years to bless the patient waiters, hopeful workers, and devout believers in the wisdom and justice of Him who sends disappointment, poverty, and sorrow to try the love of human hearts and make success the sweeter when it comes. The world saw the prosperity, and kind souls rejoiced over the improved fortunes of the family; but the success Jo valued most, the happiness that nothing could change or take away, few knew much about.
It was the power of making her mother's last years happy and serene; to see the burden of care laid down for ever, the weary hands at rest, the dear face untroubled by any anxiety, and the tender heart free to pour itself out in the wise charity which was its delight. As a girl, Jo's favourite plan had been a room where Marmee could sit in peace and enjoy herself after her hard, heroic life. Now the dream had become a happy fact, and Marmee sat in her pleasant chamber with every comfort and luxury about her, loving daughters to wait on her as infirmities increased, a faithful mate to lean upon, and grand-children to brighten the twilight of life with their dutiful affection. A very precious time to all, for she rejoiced as only mothers can in the good fortunes of their children. She had lived to reap the harvest she sowed; had seen prayers answered, hopes blossom, good gifts bear fruit, peace and prosperity bless the home she had made; and then, like some brave, patient angel, whose work was done, turned her face heavenward, glad to rest.
This was the sweet and sacred side of the change; but it had its droll and thorny one, as all things have in this curious world of ours. After the first surprise, incredulity, and joy, which came to Jo, with the ingratitude of human nature, she soon tired of renown, and began to resent her loss of liberty. For suddenly the admiring public took possession of her and all her affairs, past, present, and to come. Strangers demanded to look at her, question, advise, warn, congratulate, and drive her out of her wits by well-meant but very wearisome attentions. If she declined to open her heart to them, they reproached her; if she refused to endow her pet charities, relieve private wants, or sympathize with every ill and trial known to humanity, she was called hard-hearted, selfish, and haughty; if she found it impossible to answer the piles of letters sent her, she was neglectful of her duty to the admiring public; and if she preferred the privacy of home to the pedestal upon which she was requested to pose, 'the airs of literary people' were freely criticized.
She did her best for the children, they being the public for whom she wrote, and laboured stoutly to supply the demand always in the mouths of voracious youth--'More stories; more right away!' Her family objected to this devotion at their expense, and her health suffered; but for a time she gratefully offered herself up on the altar of juvenile literature, feeling that she owed a good deal to the little friends in whose sight she had found favour after twenty years of effort.
But a time came when her patience gave out; and wearying of being a lion, she became a bear in nature as in name, and returning to her den, growled awfully when ordered out. Her family enjoyed the fun, and had small sympathy with her trials, but Jo came to consider it the worse scrape of her life; for liberty had always been her dearest possession, and it seemed to be fast going from her. Living in a lantern soon loses its charm, and she was too old, too tired, and too busy to like it. She felt that she had done all that could reasonably be required of her when autographs, photographs, and autobiographical sketches had been sown broadcast over the land; when artists had taken her home in all its aspects, and reporters had taken her in the grim one she always assumed on these trying occasions; when a series of enthusiastic boarding-schools had ravaged her grounds for trophies, and a steady stream of amiable pilgrims had worn her doorsteps with their respectful feet; when servants left after a week's trial of the bell that rang all day; when her husband was forced to guard her at meals, and the boys to cover her retreat out of back windows on certain occasions when enterprising guests walked in unannounced at unfortunate moments.
A sketch of one day may perhaps explain the state of things, offer some excuse for the unhappy woman, and give a hint to the autograph-fiend now rampant in the land; for it is a true tale.
'There ought to be a law to protect unfortunate authors,' said Mrs Jo one morning soon after Emil's arrival, when the mail brought her an unusually large and varied assortment of letters. 'To me it is a more vital subject than international copyright; for time is money, peace is health, and I lose both with no return but less respect for my fellow creatures and a wild desire to fly into the wilderness, since I cannot shut my doors even in free America.'
'Lion-hunters are awful when in search of their prey. If they could change places for a while it would do them good; and they'd see what bores they were when they “do themselves the honour of calling to express their admiration of our charming work”,' quoted Ted, with a bow to his parent, now frowning over twelve requests for autographs.
'I have made up my mind on one point,' said Mrs Jo with great firmness. 'I will not answer this kind of letter. I've sent at least six to this boy, and he probably sells them. This girl writes from a seminary, and if I send her one all the other girls will at once write for more. All begin by saying they know they intrude, and that I am of course annoyed by these requests; but they venture to ask because I like boys, or they like the books, or it is only one. Emerson and Whittier put these things in the wastepaper-basket; and though only a literary nursery-maid who provides moral pap for the young, I will follow their illustrious example; for I shall have no time to eat or sleep if I try to satisfy these dear unreasonable children'; and Mrs Jo swept away the entire batch with a sigh of relief.
'I'll open the others and let you eat your breakfast in peace, liebe Mutter,' said Rob, who often acted as her secretary. 'Here's one from the South'; and breaking an imposing seal, he read: 'MADAM, As it has pleased Heaven to bless your efforts with a large fortune, I feel no hesitation in asking you to supply funds to purchase a new communion-service for our church. To whatever denomination you belong, you will of course respond with liberality to such a request, 'Respectfully yours, 'MRS X.Y. ZAVIER' 'Send a civil refusal, dear. All I have to give must go to feed and clothe the poor at my gates. That is my thank-offering for success. Go on,' answered his mother, with a grateful glance about her happy home.
'A literary youth of eighteen proposes that you put your name to a novel he has written; and after the first edition your name is to be taken off and his put on. There's a cool proposal for you. I guess you won't agree to that, in spite of your soft-heartedness towards most of the young scribblers.'
'Couldn't be done. Tell him so kindly, and don't let him send the manuscript. I have seven on hand now, and barely time to read my own,' said Mrs Jo, pensively fishing a small letter out of the slop-bowl and opening it with care, because the down-hill address suggested that a child wrote it.
'I will answer this myself. A little sick girl wants a book, and she shall have it, but I can't write sequels to all the rest to please her. I should never come to an end if I tried to suit these voracious little Oliver Twists, clamouring for more. What next, Robin?'
'This is short and sweet.
'DEAR MRS BHAER, I am now going to give you my opinion of your works. I have read them all many times, and call them first-rate. Please go ahead.
'Your admirer, 'BILLY BABCOCK' 'Now that is what I like. Billy is a man of sense and a critic worth having, since he had read my works many times before expressing his opinion. He asks for no answer, so send my thanks and regards.'
'Here's a lady in England with seven girls, and she wishes to know your views upon education. Also what careers they shall follow the oldest being twelve. Don't wonder she's worried,' laughed Rob.
'I'll try to answer it. But as I have no girls, my opinion isn't worth much and will probably shock her, as I shall tell her to let them run and play and build up good, stout bodies before she talks about careers. They will soon show what they want, if they are let alone, and not all run in the same mould.'
'Here's a fellow who wants to know what sort of a girl he shall marry, and if you know of any like those in your stories.'
'Give him Nan's address, and see what he'll get,' proposed Ted, privately resolving to do it himself if possible.
'This is from a lady who wants you to adopt her child and lend her money to study art abroad for a few years. Better take it, and try your hand at a girl, mother.'
'No, thank you, I will keep to my own line of business. What is that blotted one? It looks rather awful, to judge by the ink,' asked Mrs Jo, who beguiled her daily task by trying to guess from the outside what was inside her many letters. This proved to be a poem from an insane admirer, to judge by its incoherent style.
'TO J.M.B. 'Oh, were I a heliotrope, I would play poet, And blow a breeze of fragrance To you; and none should know it.
'Your form like the stately elm When Phoebus gilds the morning ray; Your cheeks like the ocean bed That blooms a rose in May.
'Your words are wise and bright, I bequeath them to you a legacy given; And when your spirit takes its flight, May it bloom aflower in heaven.
'My tongue in flattering language spoke, And sweeter silence never broke in busiest street or loneliest glen. I take you with the flashes of my pen.
'Consider the lilies, how they grow; They toil not, yet are fair, Gems and flowers and Solomon's seal. The geranium of the world is J. M. Bhaer.
'JAMES' While the boys shouted over this effusion--which is a true one--their mother read several liberal offers from budding magazines for her to edit them gratis; one long letter from a young girl inconsolable because her favourite hero died, and 'would dear Mrs Bhaer rewrite the tale, and make it end good?' another from an irate boy denied an autograph, who darkly foretold financial ruin and loss of favour if she did not send him and all other fellows who asked autographs, photographs, and auto-biographical sketches; a minister wished to know her religion; and an undecided maiden asked which of her two lovers she should marry. These samples will suffice to show a few of the claims made on a busy woman's time, and make my readers pardon Mrs Jo if she did not carefully reply to all.
'That job is done. Now I will dust a bit, and then go to my work. I'm all behind-hand, and serials can't wait; so deny me to everybody, Mary. I won't see Queen Victoria if she comes today.' And Mrs Bhaer threw down her napkin as if defying all creation.
'I hope the day will go well with thee, my dearest,' answered her husband, who had been busy with his own voluminous correspondence. 'I will dine at college with Professor Plock, who is to visit us today. The Junglings can lunch on Parnassus; so thou shalt have a quiet time.' And smoothing the worried lines out of her forehead with his good-bye kiss, the excellent man marched away, both pockets full of books, an old umbrella in one hand, and a bag of stones for the geology class in the other.
'If all literary women had such thoughtful angels for husbands, they would live longer and write more. Perhaps that wouldn't be a blessing to the world though, as most of us write too much now,' said Mrs Jo, waving her feather duster to her spouse, who responded with flourishes of the umbrella as he went down the avenue.
Rob started for school at the same time, looking so much like him with his books and bag and square shoulders and steady air that his mother laughed as she turned away, saying heartily: 'Bless both my dear professors, for better creatures never lived!'
Emil was already gone to his ship in the city; but Ted lingered to steal the address he wanted, ravage the sugar-bowl, and talk with 'Mum'; for the two had great larks together. Mrs Jo always arranged her own parlour, refilled her vases, and gave the little touches that left it cool and neat for the day. Going to draw down the curtain, she beheld an artist sketching on the lawn, and groaned as she hastily retired to the back window to shake her duster.
At that moment the bell rang and the sound of wheels was heard in the road.
'I'll go; Mary lets 'em in'; and Ted smoothed his hair as he made for the hall.
'Can't see anyone. Give me a chance to fly upstairs,' whispered Mrs Jo, preparing to escape. But before she could do so, a man appeared at the door with a card in his hand. Ted met him with a stern air, and his mother dodged behind the window-curtains to bide her time for escape.
'I am doing a series of articles for the Saturday Tattler, and I called to see Mrs Bhaer the first of all,' began the newcomer in the insinuating tone of his tribe, while his quick eyes were taking in all they could, experience having taught him to make the most of his time, as his visits were usually short ones.
'Mrs Bhaer never sees reporters, sir.'
'But a few moments will be all I ask,' said the man, edging his way farther in.
'You can't see her, for she is out,' replied Teddy, as a backward glance showed him that his unhappy parent had vanished--through the window, he supposed, as she sometimes did when hard bestead.
'Very sorry. I'll call again. Is this her study? Charming room!' And the intruder fell back on the parlour, bound to see something and bag a fact if he died in the attempt. 'It is not,' said Teddy, gently but firmly backing him down the hall, devoutly hoping that his mother had escaped round the corner of the house.
'If you could tell me Mrs Bhaer's age and birthplace, date of marriage, and number of children, I should be much obliged,' continued the unabashed visitor as he tripped over the door-mat.
'She is about sixty, born in Nova Zembla, married just forty years ago today, and has eleven daughters. Anything else, sir?' And Ted's sober face was such a funny contrast to his ridiculous reply that the reporter owned himself routed, and retired laughing just as a lady followed by three beaming girls came up the steps.
'We are all the way from Oshkosh, and couldn't go home without seein' dear Aunt Jo. My girls just admire her works, and lot on gettin' a sight of her. I know it's early; but we are goin' to see Holmes and Longfeller, and the rest of the celebrities, so we ran out here fust thing. Mrs Erastus Kingsbury Parmalee, of Oshkosh, tell her. We don't mind waitin'; we can look round a spell if she ain't ready to see folks yet.'
All this was uttered with such rapidity that Ted could only stand gazing at the buxom damsels, who fixed their six blue eyes upon him so beseechingly that his native gallantry made it impossible to deny them a civil reply at least.
'Mrs Bhaer is not visible today--out just now, I believe; but you can see the house and grounds if you like,' he murmured, falling back as the four pressed in gazing rapturously about them.
'Oh, thank you! Sweet, pretty place I'm sure! That's where she writes, ain't it? Do tell me if that's her picture! Looks just as I imagined her!'
With these remarks the ladies paused before a fine engraving of the Hon. Mrs Norton, with a pen in her hand and a rapt expression of countenance, likewise a diadem and pearl necklace.
Keeping his gravity with an effort, Teddy pointed to a very bad portrait of Mrs Jo, which hung behind the door, and afforded her much amusement, it was so dismal, in spite of a curious effect of light upon the end of the nose and cheeks as red as the chair she sat in.
'This was taken for my mother; but it is not very good,' he said, enjoying the struggles of the girls not to look dismayed at the sad difference between the real and the ideal. The youngest, aged twelve, could not conceal her disappointment, and turned away, feeling as so many of us have felt when we discover that our idols are very ordinary men and women.
'I thought she'd be about sixteen and have her hair braided in two tails down her back. I don't care about seeing her now,' said the honest child, walking off to the hall door, leaving her mother to apologize, and her sisters to declare that the bad portrait was 'perfectly lovely, so speaking and poetic, you know, 'specially about the brow'.
'Come girls, we must be goin', if we want to get through today. You can leave your albums and have them sent when Mrs Bhaer has written a sentiment in 'em. We are a thousand times obliged. Give our best love to your ma, and tell her we are so sorry not to see her.' Just as Mrs. Erastus Kingsbury Parmalee uttered the words her eye fell upon a middle-aged woman in a large checked apron, with a handkerchief tied over her head, busily dusting an end room which looked like a study.
'One peep at her sanctum since she is out,' cried the enthusiastic lady, and swept across the hall with her flock before Teddy could warn his mother, whose retreat had been cut off by the artist in front, the reporter at the back of the house--for he hadn't gone and the ladies in the hall.
'They've got her!' thought Teddy, in comical dismay. 'No use for her to play housemaid since they've seen the portrait.'
Mrs Jo did her best, and being a good actress, would have escaped if the fatal picture had not betrayed her. Mrs Parmalee paused at the desk, and regardless of the meerschaum that lay there, the man's slippers close by, and a pile of letters directed to 'Prof. F. Bhaer', she clasped her hands, exclaiming impressively: 'Girls, this is the spot where she wrote those sweet, those moral tales which have thrilled us to the soul! Could I--ah, could I take one morsel of paper, an old pen, a postage stamp even, as a memento of this gifted woman?'
'Yes'm, help yourselves,' replied the maid, moving away with a glance at the boy, whose eyes were now full of merriment he could not suppress.
The oldest girl saw it, guessed the truth, and a quick look at the woman in the apron confirmed her suspicion. Touching her mother, she whispered: 'Ma, it's Mrs Bhaer herself. I know it is.'
'No? yes? it is! Well, I do declare, how nice that is!' And hastily pursuing the unhappy woman, who was making for the door, Mrs Parmalee cried eagerly: 'Don't mind us! I know you're busy, but just let me take your hand and then we'll go.'
Giving herself up for lost, Mrs Jo turned and presented her hand like a tea-tray, submitting to have it heartily shaken, as the matron said, with somewhat alarming hospitality: 'If ever you come to Oshkosh, your feet won't be allowed to touch the pavement; for you'll be borne in the arms of the populace, we shall be so dreadful glad to see you.'
Mentally resolving never to visit that effusive town, Jo responded as cordially as she could; and having written her name in the albums, provided each visitor with a memento, and kissed them all round, they at last departed, to call on 'Longfeller, Holmes, and the rest'--who were all out, it is devoutly to be hoped.
'You villain, why didn't you give me a chance to whip away? Oh, my dear, what fibs you told that man! I hope we shall be forgiven our sins in this line, but I don't know what is to become of us if we don't dodge. So many against one isn't fair play.' And Mrs Jo hung up her apron in the hall closet, with a groan at the trials of her lot.
'More people coming up the avenue! Better dodge while the coast is clear! I'll head them off!' cried Teddy, looking back from the steps, as he was departing to school.
Mrs Jo flew upstairs, and having locked her door, calmly viewed a young ladies' seminary camp on the lawn, and being denied the house, proceed to enjoy themselves by picking the flowers, doing up their hair, eating lunch, and freely expressing their opinion of the place and its possessors before they went.
A few hours of quiet followed, and she was just settling down to a long afternoon of hard work, when Rob came home to tell her that the Young Men's Christian Union would visit the college, and two or three of the fellows whom she knew wanted to pay their respects to her on the way.
'It is going to rain, so they won't come, I dare say; but father thought you'd like to be ready, in case they do call. You always see the boys, you know, though you harden your heart to the poor girls,' said Rob, who had heard from his brother about the morning visitations.
'Boys don't gush, so I can stand it. The last time I let in a party of girls one fell into my arms and said, “Darling, love me!” I wanted to shake her,' answered Mrs Jo, wiping her pen with energy.
'You may be sure the fellows won't do it, but they will want autographs, so you'd better be prepared with a few dozen,' said Rob, laying out a quire of notepaper, being a hospitable youth and sympathizing with those who admired his mother.
'They can't outdo the girls. At X College I really believe I wrote three hundred during the day I was there, and I left a pile of cards and albums on my table when I came away. It is one of the most absurd and tiresome manias that ever afflicted the world.'
Nevertheless Mrs Jo wrote her name a dozen times, put on her black silk, and resigned herself to the impending call, praying for rain, however, as she returned to her work.
The shower came, and feeling quite secure, she rumpled up her hair, took off her cuffs, and hurried to finish her chapter; for thirty pages a day was her task, and she liked to have it well done before evening. Josie had brought some flowers for the vases, and was just putting the last touches when she saw several umbrellas bobbing down the hill.
'They are coming, Aunty! I see uncle hurrying across the field to receive them,' she called at the stair-foot.
'Keep an eye on them, and let me know when they enter the avenue. It will take but a minute to tidy up and run down,' answered Mrs Jo, scribbling away for dear life, because serials wait for no man, not even the whole Christian Union en masse.
'There are more than two or three. I see half a dozen at least,' called sister Ann from the hall door. 'No! a dozen, I do believe; Aunty, look out; they are all coming! What shall we do?' And Josie quailed at the idea of facing the black throng rapidly approaching.
'Mercy on us, there are hundreds! Run and put a tub in the back entry for their umbrellas to drip into. Tell them to go down the hall and leave them, and pile their hats on the table; the tree won't hold them all. No use to get mats; my poor carpets!' And down went Mrs Jo to prepare for the invasion, while Josie and the maids flew about dismayed at the prospect of so many muddy boots.
On they came, a long line of umbrellas, with splashed legs and flushed faces underneath; for the gentlemen had been having a good time all over the town, undisturbed by the rain. Professor Bhaer met them at the gate, and was making a little speech of welcome, when Mrs Jo, touched by their bedraggled state, appeared at the door, beckoning them in. Leaving their host to orate bareheaded in the wet, the young men hastened up the steps, merry, warm, and eager, clutching off their hats as they came, and struggling with their umbrellas, as the order was passed to march in and stack arms.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, down the hall went seventy-five pairs of boots; soon seventy-five umbrellas dripped sociably in the hospitable tub, while their owners swarmed all over the lower part of the house; and seventy-five hearty hands were shaken by the hostess without a murmur, though some were wet, some very warm, and nearly all bore trophies of the day's ramble. One impetuous party flourished a small turtle as he made his compliments; another had a load of sticks cut from noted spots; and all begged for some memento of Plumfield. A pile of cards mysteriously appeared on the table, with a written request for autographs; and despite her morning vow, Mrs Jo wrote everyone, while her husband and boys did the honours of the house.
Josie fled to the back parlour, but was discovered by exploring youths, and mortally insulted by one of them, who innocently inquired if she was Mrs Bhaer. The reception did not last long, and the end was better than the beginning; for the rain ceased, and a rainbow shone beautifully over them as the good fellows stood upon the lawn singing sweetly for a farewell. A happy omen, that bow of promise arched over the young heads, as if Heaven smiled upon their union, and showed them that above the muddy earth and rainy skies the blessed sun still shone for all. Three cheers, and then away they went, leaving a pleasant recollection of their visit to amuse the family as they scraped the mud off the carpets with shovels and emptied the tub half-full of water.
'Nice, honest, hard-working fellows, and I don't begrudge my half-hour at all; but I must finish, so don't let anyone disturb me till tea-time,' said Mrs Jo, leaving Mary to shut up the house; for papa and the boys had gone off with the guests, and Josie had run home to tell her mother about the fun at Aunt Jo's.
Peace reigned for an hour, then the bell rang and Mary came giggling up to say: 'A queer kind of a lady wants to know if she can catch a grasshopper in the garden.'
'A what?' cried Mrs Jo, dropping her pen with a blot; for of all the odd requests ever made, this was the oddest.
'A grasshopper, ma'am. I said you was busy, and asked what she wanted, and says she: “I've got grasshoppers from the grounds of several famous folks, and I want one from Plumfield to add to my collection.” Did you ever?' And Mary giggled again at the idea.
'Tell her to take all there are and welcome. I shall be glad to get rid of them; always bouncing in my face and getting in my dress,' laughed Mrs Jo.
Mary retired, to return in a moment nearly speechless with merriment.
'She's much obliged, ma'am, and she'd like an old gown or a pair of stockings of yours to put in a rug she's making. Got a vest of Emerson's, she says, and a pair of Mr. Holmes's trousers, and a dress of Mrs Stowe's. She must be crazy!'
'Give her that old red shawl, then I shall make a gay show among the great ones in that astonishing rug. Yes, they are all lunatics, these lion-hunters; but this seems to be a harmless maniac, for she doesn't take my time, and gives me a good laugh,' said Mrs Jo, returning to her work after a glance from the window, which showed her a tall, thin lady in rusty black, skipping wildly to and fro on the lawn in pursuit of the lively insect she wanted.
No more interruptions till the light began to fade, then Mary popped her head in to say a gentleman wished to see Mrs Bhaer, and wouldn't take no for an answer.
'He must. I shall not go down. This has been an awful day, and I won't be disturbed again,' replied the harassed authoress, pausing in the midst of the grand finale of her chapter.
'I told him so, ma'am; but he walked right in as bold as brass. I guess he's another crazy one, and I declare I'm 'most afraid of him, he's so big and black, and cool as cucumbers, though I will say he's good-looking,' added Mary, with a simper; for the stranger had evidently found favour in her sight despite his boldness.
'My day has been ruined, and I will have this last half-hour to finish. Tell him to go away; I won't go down,' cried Mrs Jo, fiercely.
Mary went; and listening, in spite of herself, her mistress heard first a murmur of voices, then a cry from Mary, and remembering the ways of reporters, also that her maid was both pretty and timid, Mrs Bhaer flung down her pen and went to the rescue. Descending with her most majestic air she demanded in an awe-inspiring voice, as she paused to survey the somewhat brigandish intruder, who seemed to be storming the staircase which Mary was gallantly defending: 'Who is this person who insists on remaining when I have declined to see him?'
'I'm sure I don't know, ma'am. He won't give no name, and says you'll be sorry if you don't see him,' answered Mary, retiring flushed and indignant from her post.
'Won't you be sorry?' asked the stranger, looking up with a pair of black eyes full of laughter, the flash of white teeth through a long beard, and both hands out as he boldly approached the irate lady.
Mrs Jo gave one keen look, for the voice was familiar; then completed Mary's bewilderment by throwing both arms round the brigand's neck, exclaiming joyfully: 'My dearest boy, where did you come from?'
'California, on purpose to see you, Mother Bhaer. Now won't you be sorry if I go away?' answered Dan, with a hearty kiss.
'To think of my ordering you out of the house when I've been longing to see you for a year,' laughed Mrs Jo, and she went down to have a good talk with her returned wanderer, who enjoyed the joke immensely.
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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4
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. DAN
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Mrs Jo often thought that Dan had Indian blood in him, not only because of his love of a wild, wandering life, but his appearance; for as he grew up, this became more striking. At twenty-five he was very tall, with sinewy limbs, a keen, dark face, and the alert look of one whose senses were all alive; rough in manner, full of energy, quick with word and blow, eyes full of the old fire, always watchful as if used to keep guard, and a general air of vigour and freshness very charming to those who knew the dangers and delights of his adventurous life. He was looking his best as he sat talking with 'Mother Bhaer', one strong brown hand in hers, and a world of affection in his voice as he said: 'Forget old friends! How could I forget the only home I ever knew? Why, I was in such a hurry to come and tell my good luck that I didn't stop to fix up, you see; though I knew you'd think I looked more like a wild buffalo than ever,' with a shake of his shaggy black head, a tug at his beard, and a laugh that made the room ring.
'I like it; I always had a fancy for banditti--and you look just like one. Mary, being a newcomer, was frightened at your looks and manners. Josie won't know you, but Ted will recognize his Danny in spite of the big beard and flowing mane. They will all be here soon to welcome you; so before they come tell me more about yourself. Why, Dan, dear! it's nearly two years since you were here! Has it gone well with you?' asked Mrs Jo, who had been listening with maternal interest to his account of life in California, and the unexpected success of a small investment he had made.
'First-rate! I don't care for the money, you know. I only want a trifle to pay my way--rather earn as I go, and not be bothered with the care of a lot. It's the fun of the thing coming to me, and my being able to give away, that I like. No use to lay up; I shan't live to be old and need it,--my sort never do,' said Dan, looking as if his little fortune rather oppressed him.
'But if you marry and settle somewhere, as I hope you will, you must have something to begin with, my son. So be prudent and invest your money; don't give it away, for rainy days come to all of us, and dependence would be very hard for you to bear,' answered Mrs Jo with a sage air, though she liked to see that the money-making fever had not seized her lucky boy yet.
Dan shook his head, and glanced about the room as if he already found it rather confined and longed for all out-of-doors again.
'Who would marry a jack-o'-lantern like me? Women like a steady-going man; I shall never be that.'
'My dear boy, when I was a girl I liked just such adventurous fellows as you are. Anything fresh and daring, free and romantic, is always attractive to us womenfolk. Don't be discouraged; you'll find an anchor some day, and be content to take shorter voyages and bring home a good cargo.'
'What should you say if I brought you an Indian squaw some day?' asked Dan, with a glimmer of mischief in the eyes that rested on a marble bust of Galatea gleaming white and lovely in the corner.
'Welcome her heartily, if she was a good one. Is there a prospect of it?' and Mrs Jo peered at him with the interest which even literary ladies take in love affairs.
'Not at present, thank you. I'm too busy “to gallivant”, as Ted calls it. How is the boy?' asked Dan, skilfully turning the conversation, as if he had had enough of sentiment.
Mrs Jo was off at once, and expatiated upon the talents and virtues of her sons till they came bursting in and fell upon Dan like two affectionate young bears, finding a vent for their joyful emotions in a sort of friendly wrestling-match; in which both got worsted, of course, for the hunter soon settled them. The Professor followed, and tongues went like mill-clappers while Mary lighted up and cook devoted herself to an unusually good supper, instinctively divining that this guest was a welcome one.
After tea Dan was walking up and down the long rooms as he talked, with occasional trips into the hall for a fresher breath of air, his lungs seeming to need more than those of civilized people. In one of these trips he saw a white figure framed in the dark doorway, and paused to look at it. Bess paused also, not recognizing her old friend, and quite unconscious of the pretty picture she made standing, tall and slender, against the soft gloom of the summer night, with her golden hair like a halo round her head, and the ends of a white shawl blown out like wings by the cool wind sweeping through the hail. 'Is it Dan?' she asked, coming in with a gracious smile and outstretched hand.
'Looks like it; but I didn't know you, Princess. I thought it was a spirit,' answered Dan, looking down at her with a curious softness and wonder in his face.
'I've grown very much, but two years have changed you entirely'; and Bess looked up with girlish pleasure at the picturesque figure before her--for it was a decided contrast to the well-dressed people about her.
Before they could say more, Josie rushed in, and, forgetfull of the newly acquired dignity of her teens, let Dan catch her up and kiss her like a child. Not till he set her down did he discover she also was changed, and exclaimed in comic dismay: 'Hallo! Why, you are growing up too! What am I going to do, with no young one to play with? Here's Ted going it like a beanstalk, and Bess a young lady, and even you, my mustard-seed, letting down your frocks and putting on airs.'
The girls laughed, and Josie blushed as she stared at the tall man, conscious that she had leaped before she looked. They made a pretty contrast, these two young cousins--one as fair as a lily, the other a little wild rose. And Dan gave a nod of satisfaction as he surveyed them; for he had seen many bonny girls in his travels, and was glad that these old friends were blooming so beautifully.
'Here! we can't allow any monopoly of Dan!' called Mrs Jo. 'Bring him back and keep an eye on him, or he will be slipping off for another little run of a year or two before we have half seen him.'
Led by these agreeable captors, Dan returned to the parlour to receive a scolding from Josie for getting ahead of all the other boys and looking like a man first.
'Emil is older; but he's only a boy, and dances jigs and sings sailor songs just as he used to. You look about thirty, and as big and black as a villain in a play. Oh, I've got a splendid idea! You are just the thing for Arbaces in The Last Days of Pompeii. We want to act it; have the lion and the gladiators and the eruption. Tom and Ted are going to shower bushels of ashes down and roll barrels of stones about. We wanted a dark man for the Egyptian; and you will be gorgeous in red and white shawls. Won't he, Aunt Jo?'
This deluge of words made Dan clap his hands over his ears; and before Mrs Bhaer could answer her impetuous niece the Laurences, with Meg and her family, arrived, soon followed by Tom and Nan, and all sat down to listen to Dan's adventures--told in brief yet effective manner, as the varying expressions of interest, wonder, merriment, and suspense painted on the circle of faces round him plainly showed. The boys all wanted to start at once for California and make fortunes; the girls could hardly wait for the curious and pretty things he had picked up for them in his travels; while the elders rejoiced heartily over the energy and good prospects of their wild boy.
'Of course you will want to go back for another stroke of luck; and I hope you will have it. But speculation is a dangerous game, and you may lose all you've won,' said Mr Laurie, who had enjoyed the stirring tale as much as any of the boys, and would have liked to rough it with Dan as well as they.
'I've had enough of it, for a while at least; too much like gambling. The excitement is all I care for, and it isn't good for me. I have a notion to try farming out West. It's grand on a large scale; and I feel as if steady work would be rather jolly after loafing round so long. I can make a beginning, and you can send me your black sheep to stock my place with. I tried sheep-farming in Australia, and know something about black ones, any way.'
A laugh chased away the sober look in Dan's face as he ended; and those who knew him best guessed that he had learned a lesson there in San Francisco, and dared not try again.
'That is a capital idea, Dan!' cried Mrs Jo, seeing great hope in this desire to fix himself somewhere and help others. 'We shall know where you are, and can go and see you, and not have half the world between us. I'll send my Ted for a visit. He's such a restless spirit, it would do him good. With you he would be safe while he worked off his surplus energies and learned a wholesome business.'
'I'll use the “shubble and de hoe” like a good one, if I get a chance out there; but the Speranza mines sound rather jollier,' said Ted, examining the samples of ore Dan had brought for the Professor.
'You go and start a new town, and when we are ready to swarm we will come out and settle there. You will want a newspaper very soon, and I like the idea of running one myself much better than grinding away as I do now,' observed Demi, panting to distinguish himself in the journalistic line.
'We could easily plant a new college there. These sturdy Westerners are hungry for learning, and very quick to see and choose the best,' added ever-young Mr March, beholding with his prophetic eye many duplicates of their own flourishing establishment springing up in the wide West.
'Go on, Dan. It is a fine plan, and we will back you up. I shouldn't mind investing in a few prairies and cowboys myself,' said Mr Laurie, always ready to help the lads to help themselves, both by his cheery words and ever-open purse.
'A little money sort of ballasts a fellow, and investing it in land anchors him--for a while, at least. I'd like to see what I can do, but I thought I'd consult you before I decided. Have my doubts about it suiting me for many years; but I can cut loose when I'm tired,' answered Dan, both touched and pleased at the eager interest of these friends in his plans.
'I know you won't like it. After having the whole world to roam over, one farm will seem dreadfully small and stupid,' said Josie, who much preferred the romance of the wandering life which brought her thrilling tales and pretty things at each return.
'Is there any art out there?' asked Bess, thinking what a good study in black and white Dan would make as he stood talking, half turned from the light.
'Plenty of nature, dear; and that is better. You will find splendid animals to model, and scenery such as you never saw in Europe to paint. Even prosaic pumpkins are grand out there. You can play Cinderella in one of them, Josie, when you open your theatre in Dansville,' said Mr Laurie, anxious that no cold water should be thrown on the new plan.
Stage-struck Josie was caught at once, and being promised all the tragic parts on the yet unbuilt stage, she felt a deep interest in the project and begged Dan to lose no time in beginning his experiment. Bess also confessed that studies from nature would be good for her, and wild scenery improve her taste, which might grow over-nice if only the delicate and beautiful were set before her.
'I speak for the practice of the new town,' said Nan, always eager for fresh enterprises. 'I shall be ready by the time you get well started--towns grow so fast out there.'
'Dan isn't going to allow any woman under forty in his place. He doesn't like them, 'specially young and pretty ones,' put in Tom, who was raging with jealousy, because he read admiration for Nan in Dan's eyes.
'That won't affect me, because doctors are exceptions to all rules. There won't be much sickness in Dansville, everyone will lead such active, wholesome lives, and only energetic young people will go there. But accidents will be frequent, owing to wild cattle, fast riding, Indian scrimmages, and the recklessness of Western life. That will just suit me. I long for broken bones, surgery is so interesting and I get so little here,' answered Nan, yearning to put out her shingle and begin.
'I'll have you, Doctor, and be glad of such a good sample of what we can do in the East. Peg away, and I'll send for you as soon as I have a roof to cover you. I'll scalp a few red fellows or smash up a dozen or so of cowboys for your special benefit,' laughed Dan, well pleased with the energy and fine physique which made Nan a conspicuous figure among other girls.
'Thanks. I'll come. Would you just let me feel your arm? Splendid biceps! Now, boys, see here: this is what I call muscle.' And Nan delivered a short lecture with Dan's sinewy arm to illustrate it. Tom retired to the alcove and glowered at the stars, while he swung his own right arm with a vigour suggestive of knocking someone down.
'Make Tom sexton; he'll enjoy burying the patients Nan kills. He's trying to get up the glum expression proper to the business. Don't forget him, Dan,' said Ted, directing attention to the blighted being in the corner.
But Tom never sulked long, and came out from his brief eclipse with the cheerful proposition: 'Look here, we'll get the city to ship out to Dansville all the cases of yellow fever, smallpox, and cholera that arrive; then Nan will be happy and her mistakes won't matter much with emigrants and convicts.'
'I should advise settling near Jacksonville, or some such city, that you might enjoy the society of cultivated persons. The Plato Club is there, and a most ardent thirst for philosophy. Everything from the East is welcomed hospitably, and new enterprises would flourish in such kindly soil,' observed Mr March, mildly offering a suggestion, as he sat among the elders enjoying the lively scene.
The idea of Dan studying Plato was very funny; but no one except naughty Ted smiled, and Dan made haste to unfold another plan seething in that active brain of his.
'I'm not sure the farming will succeed, and have a strong leaning towards my old friends the Montana Indians. They are a peaceful tribe, and need help awfully; hundreds have died of starvation because they don't get their share. The Sioux are fighters, thirty thousand strong, so Government fears 'em, and gives 'em all they want. I call that a damned shame!' Dan stopped short as the oath slipped out, but his eyes flashed, and he went on quickly: 'It is just that, and I won't beg pardon. If I'd had any money when I was there I'd have given every cent to those poor devils, cheated out of everything, and waiting patiently, after being driven from their own land to places where nothing will grow. Now, honest agents could do much, and I've a feeling that I ought to go and lend a hand. I know their lingo, and I like 'em. I've got a few thousands, and I ain't sure I have any right to spend it on myself and settle down to enjoy it. Hey?'
Dan looked very manly and earnest as he faced his friends, flushed and excited by the energy of his words; and all felt that little thrill of sympathy which links hearts together by the tie of pity for the wronged.
'Do it, do it!' cried Mrs Jo, fired at once; for misfortune was much more interesting to her than good luck.
'Do it, do it!' echoed Ted, applauding as if at a play, 'and take me along to help. I'm just raging to get among those fine fellows and hunt.'
'Let us hear more and see if it is wise,' said Mr Laurie, privately resolving to people his as yet unbought prairies with Montana Indians, and increase his donations to the society that sent missionaries to this much wronged people.
Dan plunged at once into the history of what he saw among the Dakotas, and other tribes in the Northwest, telling of their wrongs, patience, and courage as if they were his brothers.
'They called me Dan Fire Cloud, because my rifle was the best they ever saw. And Black Hawk was as good a friend as a fellow would want; saved my life more than once, and taught me just what will be useful if I go back. They are down on their luck, now, and I'd like to pay my debts.'
By this time everyone was interested, and Dansville began to lose its charm. But prudent Mr Bhaer suggested that one honest agent among many could not do much, and noble as the effort would be, it was wiser to think over the matter carefully, get influence and authority from the right quarters, and meantime look at lands before deciding.
'Well, I will. I'm going to take a run to Kansas and see how that promises. Met a fellow in 'Frisco who'd been there, and he spoke well of it. The fact is, there's so much to be done every where that I don't know where to catch on, and half wish I hadn't any money,' answered Dan, knitting his brows in the perplexity all kind souls feel when anxious to help at the great task of the world's charity.
'I'll keep it for you till you decide. You are such an impetuous lad you'll give it to the first beggar that gets hold of you. I'll turn it over while you are prospecting, and hand it back when you are ready to invest, shall I?' asked Mr Laurie, who had learned wisdom since the days of his own extravagant youth.
'Thanky, sir, I'd be glad to get rid of it. You just hold on till I say the word; and if anything happens to me this time, keep it to help some other scamp as you helped me. This is my will, and you all witness it. Now I feel better.' And Dan squared his shoulders as if relieved of a burden, after handing over the belt in which he carried his little fortune.
No one dreamed how much was to happen before Dan came to take his money back, nor how nearly that act was his last will and testament; and while Mr Laurie was explaining how he would invest it, a cheery voice was heard singing: 'Oh, Peggy was a jolly lass, Ye heave ho, boys, ye heave ho! She never grudged her Jack a glass, Ye heave ho, boys, ye heave ho! And when he sailed the raging main, She faithful was unto her swain, Ye heave ho, boys, ye heave ho!'
Emil always announced his arrival in that fashion, and in a moment he came hurrying in with Nat, who had been giving lessons in town all day. It was good to see the latter beam at his friend as he nearly shook his hand off; better still to see how Dan gratefully remembered all he owed Nat, and tried to pay the debt in his rough way; and best of all to hear the two travellers compare notes and reel off yarns to dazzle the land-lubbers and home-keepers.
After this addition the house would not contain the gay youngsters, so they migrated to the piazza and settled on the steps, like a flock of night-loving birds. Mr March and the Professor retired to the study, Meg and Amy went to look after the little refection of fruit and cake which was to come, and Mrs Jo and Mr Laurie sat in the long window listening to the chat that went on outside.
'There they are, the flower of our flock!' she said, pointing to the group before them. 'The others are dead or scattered, but these seven boys and four girls are my especial comfort and pride. Counting Alice Heath, my dozen is made up, and my hands are full trying to guide these young lives as far as human skill can do it.'
'When we remember how different they are, from what some of them came, and the home influences about others, I think we may feel pretty well satisfied so far,' answered Mr Laurie soberly, as his eyes rested on one bright head among the black and brown ones, for the young moon shone alike on all.
'I don't worry about the girls; Meg sees to them, and is so wise and patient and tender they can't help doing well; but my boys are more care every year, and seem to drift farther away from me each time they go,' sighed Mrs Jo. 'They will grow up, and I can only hold them by one little thread, which may snap at any time, as it has with Jack and Ned. Dolly and George still like to come back, and I can say my word to them; and dear old Franz is too true ever to forget his own. But the three who are soon going out into the world again I can't help worrying about. Emil's good heart will keep him straight, I hope, and '“A sweet little cherub sits up aloft, To look out for the life of poor Jack.”'
Nat is to make his first flight, and he's weak in spite of your strengthening influence; and Dan is still untamed. I fear it will take some hard lesson to do that.'
'He's a fine fellow, Jo, and I almost regret this farming project. A little polish would make a gentleman of him, and who knows what he might become here among us,' answered Mr Laurie, leaning over Mrs Bhaer's chair, just as he used to do years ago when they had mischievous secrets together.
'It wouldn't be safe, Teddy. Work and the free life he loves will make a good man of him, and that is better than any amount of polish, with the dangers an easy life in a city would bring him. We can't change his nature--only help it to develop in the right direction. The old impulses are there, and must be controlled, or he will go wrong. I see that; but his love for us is a safeguard, and we must keep a hold on him till he is older or has a stronger tie to help him.'
Mrs Jo spoke earnestly, for, knowing Dan better than anyone else, she saw that her colt was not thoroughly broken yet, and feared while she hoped, knowing that life would always be hard for one like him. She was sure that before he went away again, in some quiet moment he would give her a glimpse of his inner self, and then she could say the word of warning or encouragement that he needed. So she bided her time, studying him meanwhile, glad to see all that was promising, and quick to detect the harm the world was doing him. She was very anxious to make a success of her 'firebrand' because others predicted failure; but having learned that people cannot be moulded like clay, she contented herself with the hope that this neglected boy might become a good man, and asked no more. Even that was much to expect, so full was he of wayward impulses, strong passions, and the lawless nature born in him. Nothing held him but the one affection of his life--the memory of Plumfield, the fear of disappointing these faithful friends, the pride, stronger than principle, that made him want to keep the regard of the mates who always had admired and loved him in spite of all his faults.
'Don't fret, old dear; Emil is one of the happy-go-lucky sort who always fall on their legs. I'll see to Nat, and Dan is in a good way now. Let him take a look at Kansas, and if the farm plan loses its charm, he can fall back on poor Lo, and really do good out there. He's unusually fitted for that peculiar task and I hope he'll decide to do it. Fighting oppressors, and befriending the oppressed will keep those dangerous energies of his busy, and the life will suit him better than sheep-folds and wheat-fields.'
'I hope so. What is that?' and Mrs Jo leaned forward to listen, as exclamations from Ted and Josie caught her ear.
'A mustang! a real, live one; and we can ride it. Dan, you are a first-class trump!' cried the boy.
'A whole Indian dress for me! Now I can play Namioka, if the boys act Metamora,' added Josie, clapping her hands.
'A buffalo's head for Bess! Good gracious, Dan, why did you bring such a horrid thing as that to her?' asked Nan.
'Thought it would do her good to model something strong and natural. She'll never amount to anything if she keeps on making namby-pamby gods and pet kittens,' answered irreverent Dan, remembering that when he was last here Bess was vibrating distractedly between a head of Apollo and her Persian cat as models.
'Thank you; I'll try it, and if I fail we can put the buffalo up in the hall to remind us of you,' said Bess, indignant at the insult offered the gods of her idolatry, but too well bred to show it except in her voice, which was as sweet and as cold as ice-cream.
'I suppose you won't come out to see our new settlement when the rest do? Too rough for you?' asked Dan, trying to assume the deferential air all the boys used when addressing their Princess.
'I am going to Rome to study for years. All the beauty and art of the world is there, and a lifetime isn't long enough to enjoy it,' answered Bess.
'Rome is a mouldy old tomb compared to the “Garden of the gods” and my magnificent Rockies. I don't care a hang for art; nature is as much as I can stand, and I guess I could show you things that would knock your old masters higher than kites. Better come, and while Josie rides the horses you can model 'em. If a drove of a hundred or so of wild ones can't show you beauty, I'll give up,' cried Dan, waxing enthusiastic over the wild grace and vigour which he could enjoy but had no power to describe.
'I'll come some day with papa, and see if they are better than the horses of St Mark and those on Capitol Hill. Please don't abuse my gods, and I will try to like yours,' said Bess, beginning to think the West might be worth seeing, though no Raphael or Angelo had yet appeared there.
'That's a bargain! I do think people ought to see their own country before they go scooting off to foreign parts, as if the new world wasn't worth discovering,' began Dan, ready to bury the hatchet.
'It has some advantages, but not all. The women of England can vote, and we can't. I'm ashamed of America that she isn't ahead in all good things,' cried Nan, who held advanced views on all reforms, and was anxious about her rights, having had to fight for some of them.
'Oh, please don't begin on that. People always quarrel over that question, and call names, and never agree. Do let us be quiet and happy tonight,' pleaded Daisy, who hated discussion as much as Nan loved it.
'You shall vote as much as you like in our new town, Nan; be mayor and aldermen, and run the whole concern. It's going to be as free as air, or I can't live in it,' said Dan, adding, with a laugh, 'I see Mrs Giddygaddy and Mrs Shakespeare Smith don't agree any better than they used to.'
'If everyone agreed, we should never get on. Daisy is a dear, but inclined to be an old fogy; so I stir her up; and next fall she will go and vote with me. Demi will escort us to do the one thing we are allowed to do as yet.'
'Will you take 'em, Deacon?' asked Dan, using the old name as if he liked it. 'It works capitally in Wyoming.'
'I shall be proud to do it. Mother and the aunts go every year, and Daisy will come with me. She is my better half still; and I don't mean to leave her behind in anything,' said Demi, with an arm round his sister of whom he was fonder than ever.
Dan looked at them wistfully, thinking how sweet it must be to have such a tie; and his lonely youth seemed sadder than ever as he recalled its struggles. A gusty sigh from Tom made sentiment impossible, as he said pensively: 'I always wanted to be a twin. It's so sociable and so cosy to have someone glad to lean on a fellow and comfort him, if other girls are cruel.'
As Tom's unrequited passion was the standing joke of the family, this allusion produced a laugh, which Nan increased by whipping out a bottle of Nux, saying, with her professional air: 'I knew you ate too much lobster for tea. Take four pellets, and your dyspepsia will be all right. Tom always sighs and is silly when he's overeaten.'
'I'll take 'em. These are the only sweet things you ever give me.' And Tom gloomily crunched his dose. ' “Who can minister to a mind diseased, or pluck out a rooted sorrow?” quoted Josie tragically from her perch on the railing.
'Come with me, Tommy, and I'll make a man of you. Drop your pills and powders, and cavort round the world a spell, and you'll soon forget you've got a heart, or a stomach either,' said Dan, offering his one panacea for all ills.
'Ship with me, Tom. A good fit of seasickness will set you up, and a stiff north-easter blow your blue-devils away. Come along as surgeon--easy berth, and no end of larks.' ' “And if your Nancy frowns, my lad, And scorns a jacket blue, Just hoist your sails for other ports, And find a maid more true.”'
added Emil, who had a fragment of song to cheer every care and sorrow, and freely offered them to his friends.
'Perhaps I'll think of it when I've got my diploma. I'm not going to grind three mortal years and have nothing to show for it. Till then,--' 'I'll never desert Mrs Micawber,' interrupted Teddy, with a gurgling sob. Tom immediately rolled him off the step into the wet grass below; and by the time this slight skirmish was over, the jingle of teaspoons suggested refreshments of a more agreeable sort. In former times the little girls waited on the boys, to save confusion; now the young men flew to serve the ladies, young and old; and that slight fact showed plainly how the tables were turned by time. And what a pleasant arrangement it was! Even Josie sat still, and let Emil bring her berries; enjoying her young lady-hood, till Ted stole her cake, when she forgot manners, and chastised him with a rap on the knuckles. As guest of honour, Dan was only allowed to wait on Bess, who still held the highest place in this small world. Tom carefully selected the best of everything for Nan, to be crushed by the remark: 'I never eat at this hour; and you will have a nightmare if you do.'
So, dutifully curbing the pangs of hunger, he gave the plate to Daisy, and chewed rose-leaves for his supper.
When a surprising quantity of wholesome nourishment had been consumed, someone said, 'Let's sing!' and a tuneful hour followed. Nat fiddled, Demi piped, Dan strummed the old banjo, and Emil warbled a doleful ballad about the wreck of the Bounding Betsey; then everybody joined in the old songs till there was very decidedly 'music in the air'; and passers-by said, as they listened smiling: 'Old Plum is gay tonight!'
When all had gone Dan lingered on the piazza, enjoying the balmy wind that blew up from the hayfields, and brought the breath of flowers from Parnassus; and as he leaned there romantically in the moonlight, Mrs Jo came to shut the door.
'Dreaming dreams, Dan?' she asked, thinking the tender moment might have come. Imagine the shock when, instead of some interesting confidence or affectionate word, Dan swung round, saying bluntly: 'I was wishing I could smoke.'
Mrs Jo laughed at the downfall of her hopes, and answered kindly: 'You may, in your room; but don't set the house afire.'
Perhaps Dan saw a little disappointment in her face, or the memory of the sequel of that boyish frolic touched his heart; for he stooped and kissed her, saying in a whisper: 'Good night, mother.' And Mrs Jo was half satisfied.
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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5
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. VACATION
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Everyone was glad of a holiday next morning, and all lingered over the breakfast-table, till Mrs Jo suddenly exclaimed: 'Why, there's a dog!' And on the threshold of the door appeared a great deer-hound, standing motionless, with his eyes fixed on Dan.
'Hallo, old boy! Couldn't you wait till I came for you? Have you cut away on the sly? Own up now, and take your whipping like a man,' said Dan, rising to meet the dog, who reared on his hind legs to look his master in the face and bark as if uttering an indignant denial of any disobedience.
'All right; Don never lies.' And Dan gave the tall beast a hug, adding as he glanced out of the window, where a man and horse were seen approaching: 'I left my plunder at the hotel over night, not knowing how I should find you. Come out and see Octoo, my mustang; she's a beauty.' And Dan was off, with the family streaming after him, to welcome the newcomer.
They found her preparing to go up the steps in her eagerness to reach her master, to the great dismay of the man, who was holding her back.
'Let her come,' called Dan; 'she climbs like a cat and jumps like a deer. Well, my girl, do you want a gallop?' he asked, as the pretty creature clattered up to him and whinnied with pleasure as he rubbed her nose and slapped her glossy flank.
'That's what I call a horse worth having,' said Ted, full of admiration and delight; for he was to have the care of her during Dan's absence.
'What intelligent eyes! She looks as if she would speak,' said Mrs Jo.
'She talks like a human in her way. Very little that she don't know. Hey, old Lass?' and Dan laid his cheek to hers as if the little black mare was very dear to him.
'What does “Octoo” mean?' asked Rob.
'Lightning; she deserves it, as you'll see. Black Hawk gave her to me for my rifle, and we've had high times together out yonder. She's saved my life more than once. Do you see that scar?'
Dan pointed to a small one, half hidden by the long mane; and standing with his arm about Octoo's neck, he told the story of it.
'Black Hawk and I were after buffalo one time, but didn't find 'em as soon as we expected; so our food gave out, and there we were a hundred miles from Red Deer River, where our camp was. I thought we were done for, but my brave pal says: “Now I'll show you how we can live till we find the herds.” We were unsaddling for the night by a little pond; there wasn't a living creature in sight anywhere, not even a bird, and we could see for miles over the prairies. What do you think we did?' And Dan looked into the faces round him.
'Ate worms like the Australian fellows,' said Rob. 'Boiled grass or leaves,' added Mrs Jo.
'Perhaps filled the stomach with clay, as we read of savages doing?' suggested Mr Bhaer.
'Killed one of the horses,' cried Ted, eager for bloodshed of some sort.
'No; but we bled one of them. See, just here; filled a tin cup, put some wild sage leaves in it, with water, and heated it over a fire of sticks. It was good, and we slept well.'
'I guess Octoo didn't.' And Josie patted the animal, with a face full of sympathy.
'Never minded it a bit. Black Hawk said we could live on the horses several days and still travel before they felt it. But by another morning we found the buffalo, and I shot the one whose head is in my box, ready to hang up and scare brats into fits. He's a fierce old fellow, you bet.'
'What is this strap for?' asked Ted, who was busily examining the Indian saddle, the single rein and snaffle, with lariat, and round the neck the leather band he spoke of.
'We hold on to that when we lie along the horse's flank farthest from the enemy, and fire under the neck as we gallop round and round. I'll show you.' And springing into the saddle, Dan was off down the steps, tearing over the lawn at a great pace, sometimes on Octoo's back, sometimes half hidden as he hung by stirrup and strap, and sometimes off altogether, running beside her as she loped along, enjoying the fun immensely; while Don raced after, in a canine rapture at being free again and with his mates.
It was a fine sight--the three wild things at play, so full of vigour, grace, and freedom, that for the moment the smooth lawn seemed a prairie; and the spectators felt as if this glimpse of another life made their own seem rather tame and colourless.
'This is better than a circus!' cried Mrs Jo, wishing she were a girl again, that she might take a gallop on this chained lightning of a horse. 'I foresee that Nan will have her hands full setting bones, for Ted will break every one of his trying to rival Dan.'
'A few falls will not harm, and this new care and pleasure will be good for him in all ways. But I fear Dan will never follow a plough after riding a Pegasus like that,' answered Mr Bhaer, as the black mare leaped the gate and came flying up the avenue, to stop at a word and stand quivering with excitement, while Dan swung himself off and looked up for applause.
He received plenty of it, and seemed more pleased for his pet's sake than for his own. Ted clamoured for a lesson at once, and was soon at ease in the queer saddle, finding Octoo gentle as a lamb, as he trotted away to show off at college. Bess came hastening down the hill, having seen the race from afar; and all collected on the piazza while Dan 'yanked' the cover off the big box the express had 'dumped' before the door--to borrow his own words.
Dan usually travelled in light marching order, and hated to have more luggage than he could carry in his well-worn valise. But now that he had a little money of his own, he had cumbered himself with a collection of trophies won by his bow and spear, and brought them home to bestow upon his friends.
'We shall be devoured with moths,' thought Mrs Jo, as the shaggy head appeared, followed by a wolf-skin rug for her feet, a bear-skin ditto for the Professor's study, and Indian garments bedecked with foxes' tails for the boys.
All nice and warm for a July day, but received with delight nevertheless. Ted and Josie immediately 'dressed up', learned the war-whoop, and proceeded to astonish their friends by a series of skirmishes about the house and grounds, with tomahawks and bows and arrows, till weariness produced a lull.
Gay birds' wings, plumy pampas grass, strings of wampum, and pretty work in beads, bark, and feathers, pleased the girls. Minerals, arrow-heads, and crude sketches interested the Professor; and when the box was empty, Dan gave Mr Laurie, as his gift, several plaintive Indian songs written on birch-bark.
'We only want a tent over us to be quite perfect. I feel as if I ought to give you parched corn and dried meat for dinner, my braves. Nobody will want lamb and green peas after this splendid pow-wow,' said Mrs Jo, surveying the picturesque confusion of the long hall, where people lay about on the rugs, all more or less bedecked with feathers, moccasins, or beads.
'Moose noses, buffalo tongues, bear steaks, and roasted marrow-bones would be the thing, but I don't mind a change; so bring on your baa-baa and green meat,' answered Dan from the box, where he sat in state like a chief among his tribe, with the great hound at his feet.
The girls began to clear up, but made little headway; for everything they touched had a story, and all were thrilling, comical, or wild; so they found it hard to settle to their work, till Dan was carried off by Mr Laurie.
This was the beginning of the summer holiday, and it was curious to see what a pleasant little stir Dan's and Emil's coming made in the quiet life of the studious community; for they seemed to bring a fresh breeze with them that enlivened everyone. Many of the collegians remained during vacation; and Plumfield and Parnassus did their best to make these days pleasant for them, since most came from distant States, were poor, and had few opportunities but this for culture or amusement. Emil was hail-fellow-well-met with men and maids, and went rollicking about in true sailor fashion; but Dan stood rather in awe of the 'fair girl-graduates', and was silent when among them, eyeing them as an eagle might a flock of doves. He got on better with the young men, and was their hero at once. Their admiration for his manly accomplishments did him good; because he felt his educational defects keenly, and often wondered if he could find anything in books to satisfy him as thoroughly as did the lessons he was learning from Nature's splendidly illustrated volume. In spite of his silence, the girls found out his good qualities, and regarded 'the Spaniard', as they named him, with great favour; for his black eyes were more eloquent than his tongue, and the kind creatures tried to show their friendly interests in many charming ways.
He saw this, and endeavoured to be worthy of it--curbing his free speech, toning down his rough manners, and watching the effect of all he said and did, anxious to make a good impression. The social atmosphere warmed his lonely heart, the culture excited him to do his best, and the changes which had taken place during his absence, both in himself and others, made the old home seem like a new world. After the life in California, it was sweet and restful to be here, with these familiar faces round him, helping him to forget much that he regretted, and to resolve to deserve more entirely the confidence of these good fellows, the respect of these innocent girls.
So there was riding, rowing, and picnicking by day, music, dancing, and plays by night; and everyone said there had not been so gay a vacation for years. Bess kept her promise, and let the dust gather on her beloved clay while she went pleasuring with her mates or studied music with her father, who rejoiced over the fresh roses in her cheeks and the laughter which chased away the dreamy look she used to wear. Josie quarrelled less with Ted; for Dan had a way of looking at her which quelled her instantly, and had almost as good an effect upon her rebellious cousin. But Octoo did even more for the lively youth, who found that her charms entirely eclipsed those of the bicycle which had been his heart's delight before. Early and late he rode this untiring beast, and began to gain flesh--to the great joy of his mother, who feared that her beanstalk was growing too fast for health.
Demi, finding business dull, solaced his leisure by photographing everybody he could induce to sit or stand to him, producing some excellent pictures among many failures; for he had a pretty taste in grouping, and endless patience. He might be said to view the world through the lens of his camera, and seemed to enjoy himself very much squinting at his fellow beings from under a bit of black cambric. Dan was a treasure to him; for he took well, and willingly posed in his Mexican costume, with horse and hound, and all wanted copies of these effective photographs. Bess, also, was a favourite sitter; and Demi received a prize at the Amateur Photographic Exhibition for one of his cousin with all her hair about her face, which rose from the cloud of white lace draping the shoulders. These were freely handed round by the proud artist; and one copy had a tender little history yet to be told.
Nat was snatching every minute he could get with Daisy before the long parting; and Mrs Meg relented somewhat, feeling sure that absence would quite cure this unfortunate fancy. Daisy said little; but her gentle face was sad when she was alone, and a few quiet tears dropped on the handkerchiefs she marked so daintily with her own hair. She was sure Nat would not forget her; and life looked rather forlorn without the dear fellow who had been her friend since the days of patty-pans and confidences in the willow-tree. She was an old-fashioned daughter, dutiful and docile, with such love and reverence for her mother that her will was law; and if love was forbidden, friendship must suffice. So she kept her little sorrow to herself, smiled cheerfully at Nat, and made his last days of home-life very happy with every comfort and pleasure she could give, from sensible advice and sweet words to a well-filled work-bag for his bachelor establishment and a box of goodies for the voyage.
Tom and Nan took all the time they could spare from their studies to enjoy high jinks at Plumfield with their old friends; for Emil's next voyage was to be a long one, Nat's absence was uncertain, and no one ever knew when Dan would turn up again. They all seemed to feel that life was beginning to grow serious; and even while they enjoyed those lovely summer days together they were conscious that they were children no longer, and often in the pauses of their fun talked soberly of their plans and hopes, as if anxious to know and help one another before they drifted farther apart on their different ways.
A few weeks were all they had; then the Brenda was ready, Nat was to sail from New York, and Dan went along to see him off; for his own plans fermented in his head, and he was eager to be up and doing. A farewell dance was given on Parnassus in honour of the travellers, and all turned out in their best array and gayest spirits. George and Dolly came with the latest Harvard airs and graces, radiant to behold, in dress-suits and 'crushed hats', as Josie called the especial pride and joy of their boyish souls. Jack and Ned sent regrets and best wishes, and no one mourned their absence; for they were among what Mrs Jo called her failures. Poor Tom got into trouble, as usual, by deluging his head with some highly scented preparation in the vain hope of making his tight curls lie flat and smooth, as was the style. Unhappily, his rebellious crop only kinked the closer, and the odour of many barbers' shops clung to him in spite of his frantic efforts to banish it. Nan wouldn't allow him near her, and flapped her fan vigorously whenever he was in sight; which cut him to the heart, and made him feel like the Peri shut out from Paradise. Of course his mates jeered at him, and nothing but the unquenchable jollity of his nature kept him from despair.
Emil was resplendent in his new uniform, and danced with an abandon which only sailors know. His pumps seemed to be everywhere, and his partners soon lost breath trying to keep up with him; but the girls all declared he steered like an angel, and in spite of his pace no collisions took place; so he was happy, and found no lack of damsels to ship with him.
Having no dress-suit, Dan had been coaxed to wear his Mexican costume, and feeling at ease in the many-buttoned trousers, loose jacket, and gay sash, flung his serape over his shoulder with a flourish and looked his best, doing great execution with his long spurs, as he taught Josie strange steps or rolled his black eyes admiringly after certain blonde damsels whom he dared not address.
The mammas sat in the alcove, supplying pins, smiles, and kindly words to all, especially the awkward youths new to such scenes, and the bashful girls conscious of faded muslins and cleaned gloves. It was pleasant to see stately Mrs Amy promenade on the arm of a tall country boy, with thick boots and a big forehead, or Mrs Jo dance like a girl with a shy fellow whose arms went like pump-handles, and whose face was scarlet with confusion and pride at the honour of treading on the toes of the president's wife. Mrs Meg always had room on her sofa for two or three girls, and Mr Laurie devoted himself to these plain, poorly dressed damsels with a kindly grace that won their hearts and made them happy. The good Professor circulated like refreshments, and his cheerful face shone on all alike, while Mr March discussed Greek comedy in the study with such serious gentlemen as never unbent their mighty minds to frivolous joys.
The long music-room, parlour, hall, and piazza were full of white-gowned maidens with attendant shadows; the air was full of lively voices, and hearts and feet went lightly together as the home band played vigorously, and the friendly moon did her best to add enchantment to the scene.
'Pin me up, Meg; that dear Dunbar boy has nearly rent me “in sunder”, as Mr Peggotty would say. But didn't he enjoy himself, bumping against his fellow men and swinging me round like a mop. On these occasions I find that I'm not as young as I was, nor as light of foot. In ten years more we shall be meal-bags, sister; so be resigned.' And Mrs Jo subsided into a corner, much dishevelled by her benevolent exertions.
'I know I shall be stout; but you won't keep still long enough to get much flesh on your bones, dear; and Amy will always keep her lovely figure. She looks about eighteen tonight, in her white gown and roses,' answered Meg, busily pinning up one sister's torn frills, while her eyes fondly followed the other's graceful movements; for Meg still adored Amy in the old fashion.
It was one of the family jokes that Jo was getting fat, and she kept it up, though as yet she had only acquired a matronly outline, which was very becoming. They were laughing over the impending double chins, when Mr Laurie came off duty for a moment.
'Repairing damages as usual, Jo? You never could take a little gentle exercise without returning in rags. Come and have a quiet stroll with me and cool off before supper. I've a series of pretty tableaux to show you while Meg listens to the raptures of lisping Miss Carr, whom I made happy by giving her Demi for a partner.'
As he spoke, Laurie led Jo to the music-room, nearly empty now after a dance which sent the young people into garden and hall. Pausing before the first of the four long windows that opened on a very wide piazza, he pointed to a group outside, saying: 'The name of this is “Jack Ashore”.'
A pair of long, blue legs, ending in very neat pumps, hung from the veranda roof among the vines; and roses, gathered by unseen hands, evidently appertaining to aforesaid legs, were being dropped into the laps of several girls perched like a flock of white birds on the railing below; while a manly voice 'fell like a falling star', as it sung this pensive ditty to a most appreciative audience: MARY'S DREAM The moon had climbed the eastern hill Which rises o'er the sands of Dee, And from its highest summit shed A silver light on tower and tree, When Mary laid her down to sleep (Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea); When soft and low a voice was heard, Saying, 'Mary, weep no more for me.'
She from her pillow gently raised Her head, to see who there might be, And saw young Sandy, shivering stand With visage pale and hollow e'e. 'Oh Mary dear, cold is my clay; It lies beneath the stormy sea; Far, far from thee, I sleep in death. Dear Mary, weep no more for me.
'Three stormy nights and stormy days We tossed upon the raging main. And long we strove our bark to save; But all our striving was in vain. E'en then, when terror chilled my blood, My heart was filled with love of thee. The storm is past, and I'm at rest; So, Mary, weep no more for me.
'Oh maiden dear, yourself prepare; We soon shall meet upon that shore Where love is free from doubt and care, And you and I shall part no more.' Loud crew the cock, the shadow fled; No more her Sandy did she see; But soft the passing spirit said, 'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me.'
'The constant jollity of that boy is worth a fortune to him. He'll never sink with such a buoyant spirit to keep him afloat through life,' said Mrs Jo, as the roses were tossed back with much applause when the song ended.
'Not he; and it's a blessing to be grateful for, isn't it? We moody people know its worth. Glad you like my first tableau. Come and see number two. Hope it isn't spoilt; it was very pretty just now. This is “Othello telling his adventures to Desdemona”.'
The second window framed a very picturesque group of three. Mr March in an arm-chair, with Bess on a cushion at his feet, was listening to Dan, who, leaning against a pillar, was talking with unusual animation. The old man was in shadow, but little Desdemona was looking up with the moonlight full upon her into young Othello's face, quite absorbed in the story he was telling so well. The gay drapery over Dan's shoulder, his dark colouring, and the gesture of his arm made the picture very striking, and both spectators enjoyed it with silent pleasure, till Mrs Jo said in a quick whisper: 'I'm glad he's going away. He's too picturesque to have here among so many romantic girls. Afraid his “grand, gloomy, and peculiar” style will be too much for our simple maids.'
'No danger; Dan is in the rough as yet, and always will be, I fancy; though he is improving in many ways. How well Queenie looks in that soft light!'
'Dear little Goldilocks looks well everywhere.' And with a backward glance full of pride and fondness, Mrs Jo went on. But that scene returned to her long afterward and her own prophetic words also.
Number three was a tragical tableau at first sight; and Mr Laurie stifled a laugh as he whispered 'The Wounded Knight', pointing to Tom with his head enveloped in a large handkerchief, as he knelt before Nan, who was extracting a thorn or splinter from the palm of his hand with great skill, to judge from the patient's blissful expression of countenance.
'Do I hurt you?' she asked, turning the hand to the moonlight for a better view.
'Not a bit; dig away; I like it,' answered Tom, regardless of his aching knees and the damage done to his best trousers.
'I won't keep you long.'
'Hours, if you please. Never so happy as here.'
Quite unmoved by this tender remark, Nan put on a pair of large, round-eyed glasses, saying in a matter-of-fact tone: 'Now I see it. Only a splinter, and there it is.
'My hand is bleeding; won't you bind it up?' asked Tom, wishing to prolong the situation.
'Nonsense; suck it. Only take care of it tomorrow if you dissect. Don't want any more blood-poisoning.'
'That was the only time you were kind to me. Wish I'd lost my arm.'
'I wish you'd lost your head; it smells more like turpentine and kerosene than ever. Do take a run in the garden and air it.'
Fearing to betray themselves by laughter, the watchers went on, leaving the Knight to rush away in despair, and the Lady to bury her nose in the cup of a tall lily for refreshment.
'Poor Tom, his fate is a hard one, and he's wasting his time! Do advise him to quit philandering and go to work, Jo.'
'I have, Teddy, often; but it will take some great shock to make that boy wise. I wait with interest to see what it will be. Bless me! what is all this?'
She might well ask; for on a rustic stool stood Ted trying to pose on one foot, with the other extended, and both hands waving in the air. Josie, with several young mates, was watching his contortions with deep interest as they talked about 'little wings', 'gilded wire twisted', and a 'cunning skull-cap'.
'This might be called “Mercury Trying to Fly”,' said Mr Laurie, as they peeped through the lace curtains.
'Bless the long legs of that boy! how does he expect to manage them? They are planning for the Owlsdark Marbles, and a nice muddle they will make of my gods and goddesses with no one to show them how,' answered Mrs Jo, enjoying this scene immensely. 'Now, he's got it!' 'That's perfectly splendid!' 'See how long you can keep so!' cried the girls, as Ted managed to maintain his equilibrium a moment by resting one toe on the trellis. Unfortunately this brought all his weight on the other foot; the straw seat of the stool gave way, and the flying Mercury came down with a crash, amid shrieks of laughter from the girls. Being accustomed to ground and lofty tumbling, he quickly recovered himself, and hopped gaily about, with one leg through the stool as he improvised a classic jig.
'Thanks for four nice little pictures. You have given me an idea, and I think some time we will get up regular tableaux of this sort and march our company round a set of dissolving views. New and striking; I'll propose it to our manager and give you all the glory,' said Mrs Jo, as they strolled towards the room whence came the clash of glass and china, and glimpses of agitated black coats.
Let us follow the example of our old friends and stroll about among the young people, eavesdropping, so gathering up various little threads to help in the weaving of the story. George and Dolly were at supper, and having served the ladies in their care stood in a corner absorbing nourishment of all kinds with a vain attempt to conceal hearty appetites under an air of elegant indifference.
'Good spread, this; Laurence does things in style. First-rate coffee, but no wine, and that's a mistake,' said Stuffy, who still deserved his name, and was a stout youth with a heavy eye and bilious complexion.
'Bad for boys, he says. Jove! wish he could see us at some of our wines. Don't we just “splice the main brace” as Emil says,' answered Dolly, the dandy, carefully spreading a napkin over the glossy expanse of shirt-front whereon a diamond stud shone like a lone star. His stutter was nearly outgrown; but he, as well as George, spoke in the tone of condescension, which, with the blase airs they assumed, made a very funny contrast to their youthful faces and foolish remarks. Good-hearted little fellows both, but top-heavy with the pride of being Sophs and the freedom that college life gave them.
'Little Jo is getting to be a deuced pretty girl, isn't she?' said George, with a long sigh of satisfaction as his first mouthful of ice went slowly down his throat.
'H'm--well, fairish. The Princess is rather more to my taste. I like 'em blonde and queenly and elegant, don't you know.'
'Yes, Jo is too lively; might as well dance with a grasshopper. I've tried her, and she's one too many for me. Miss Perry is a nice, easy-going girl. Got her for the german.'
'You'll never be a dancing man. Too lazy. Now I'll undertake to steer any girl and dance down any fellow you please. Dancing's my forte.' And Dolly glanced from his trim feet to his flashing gem with the defiant air of a young turkey-cock on parade.
'Miss Grey is looking for you. Wants more grub. Just see if Miss Nelson's plate is empty, there's a good fellow. Can't eat ice in a hurry.' And George remained in his safe corner, while Dolly struggled through the crowd to do his duty, coming back in a fume, with a splash of salad dressing on his coat-cuff.
'Confound these country chaps! they go blundering round like so many dor-bugs, and make a deuce of a mess. Better stick to books and not try to be society men. Can't do it. Beastly stain. Give it a rub, and let me bolt a mouthful, I'm starved. Never saw girls eat such a lot. It proves that they ought not to study so much. Never liked co-ed,' growled Dolly, much ruffled in spirit.
'So they do. 'Tisn't ladylike. Ought to be satisfied with an ice and a bit of cake, and eat it prettily. Don't like to see a girl feed. We hard-working men need it, and, by Jove, I mean to get some more of that meringue if it's not all gone. Here, waiter! bring along that dish over there, and be lively,' commanded Stuffy, poking a young man in a rather shabby dress-suit, who was passing with a tray of glasses.
His order was obeyed promptly; but George's appetite was taken away the next moment by Dolly's exclaiming, as he looked up from his damaged coat, with a scandalized face: 'You've put your foot in it now, old boy! that's Morton, Mr Bhaer's crack man. Knows everything, no end of a “dig”, and bound to carry off all the honours. You won't hear the last of it in a hurry.' And Dolly laughed so heartily that a spoonful of ice flew upon the head of a lady sitting below him, and got him into a scrape also.
Leaving them to their despair, let us listen to the whispered chat of two girls comfortably seated in a recess waiting till their escorts were fed.
'I do think the Laurences give lovely parties. Don't you enjoy them?' asked the younger, looking about her with the eager air of one unused to this sort of pleasure.
'Very much, only I never feel as if I was dressed right. My things seemed elegant at home, and I thought I'd be over over-dressed if anything; but I look countrified and dowdy here. No time or money to change now, even if I knew how to do it,' answered the other, glancing anxiously at her bright pink silk grown, trimmed with cheap lace.
'You must get Mrs Brooke to tell you how to fix your things. She was very kind to me. I had a green silk, and it looked so cheap and horrid by the side of the nice dresses here I felt regularly unhappy about it, and asked her how much a dress like one Mrs Laurence had would cost. That looked so simple and elegant I thought it wouldn't be costly; but it was India mull and Valenciennes lace, so, of course, I couldn't have it. Then Mrs Brooke said: “Get some muslin to cover the green silk, and wear hops or some white flowers, instead of pink, in your hair, and you will have a pretty suit.” Isn't it lovely and becoming?' And Miss Burton surveyed herself with girlish satisfaction; for a little taste had softened the harsh green, and hop-bells became her red hair better than roses.
'It's sweet: I've been admiring it. I'll do mine so and ask about my purple one. Mrs Brooke has helped me to get rid of my headaches, and Mary Clay's dyspepsia is all gone since she gave up coffee and hot bread.'
'Mrs Laurence advised me to walk and run and use the gymnasium to cure my round shoulders and open my chest, and I'm a much better figure than I was.'
'Did you know that Mr Laurence pays all Amelia Merrill's bills? Her father failed, and she was heartbroken at having to leave college; but that splendid man just stepped in and made it all right.' 'Yes, and Professor Bhaer has several of the boys down at his house evenings to help them along so they can keep up with the rest; and Mrs Bhaer took care of Charles Mackey herself when he had a fever last year. I do think they are the best and kindest people in the world.'
'So do I, and my time here will be the happiest and most useful years of my life.'
And both girls forgot their gowns and their suppers for a moment to look with grateful, affectionate eyes at the friends who tried to care for bodies and for souls as well as minds.
Now come to a lively party supping on the stairs, girls like foam at the top, and a substratum of youths below, where the heaviest particles always settle. Emil, who never sat if he could climb or perch, adorned the newel-post; Tom, Nat, Demi, and Dan were camped on the steps, eating busily, as their ladies were well served and they had earned a moment's rest, which they enjoyed with their eyes fixed on the pleasing prospect above them.
'I'm so sorry the boys are going. It will be dreadfully dull without them. Now they have stopped teasing and are polite, I really enjoy them,' said Nan, who felt unusually gracious tonight as Tom's mishap kept him from annoying her.
'So do I; and Bess was mourning about it today, though as a general thing she doesn't like boys unless they are models of elegance. She has been doing Dan's head, and it is not quite finished. I never saw her so interested in any work, and it's very well done. He is so striking and big he always makes me think of the Dying Gladiator or some of those antique creatures. There's Bess now. Dear child, how sweet she looks tonight!' answered Daisy, waving her hand as the Princess went by with Grandpa on her arm.
'I never thought he would turn out so well. Don't you remember how we used to call him “the bad boy” and be sure he would become a pirate or something awful because he glared at us and swore sometimes? Now he is the handsomest of all the boys, and very entertaining with his stories and plans. I like him very much; he's so big and strong and independent. I'm tired of mollycoddles and book-worms,' said Nan in her decided way.
'Not handsomer that Nat!' cried loyal Daisy, contrasting two faces below, one unusually gay, the other sentimentally sober even in the act of munching cake. 'I like Dan, and am glad he is doing well; but he tires me, and I'm still a little afraid of him. Quiet people suit me best.'
'Life is a fight, and I like a good soldier. Boys take things too easily, don't see how serious it all is and go to work in earnest. Look at that absurd Tom, wasting his time and making an object of himself just because he can't have what he wants, like a baby crying for the moon. I've no patience with such nonsense,' scolded Nan, looking down at the jovial Thomas, who was playfully putting macaroons in Emil's shoes, and trying to beguile his exile as best he could.
'Most girls would be touched by such fidelity. I think it's beautiful,' said Daisy behind her fan; for other girls sat just below.
'You are a sentimental goose and not a judge. Nat will be twice the man when he comes back after his trip. I wish Tom was going with him. My idea is that if we girls have any influence we should use it for the good of these boys, and not pamper them up, making slaves of ourselves and tyrants of them. Let them prove what they can do and be before they ask anything of us, and give us a chance to do the same. Then we know where we are, and shall not make mistakes to mourn over all our lives.'
'Hear, hear!' cried Alice Heath, who was a girl after Nan's own heart, and had chosen a career, like a brave and sensible young woman. 'Only give us a chance, and have patience till we can do our best. Now we are expected to be as wise as men who have had generations of all the help there is, and we scarcely anything. Let us have equal opportunities, and in a few generations we will see what the judgement is. I like justice, and we get very little of it.'
'Still shouting the battle-cry of freedom?' asked Demi, peering through the banisters at this moment. 'Up with your flag! I'll stand by and lend a hand if you want it. With you and Nan to lead the van, I think you won't need much help.'
'You are a great comfort, Demi, and I'll call on you in all emergencies; for you are an honest boy, and don't forget that you owe much to your mother and your sisters and your aunts,' continued Nan. 'I do like men who come out frankly and own that they are not gods. How can we think them so when such awful mistakes are being made all the time by these great creatures? See them sick, as I do, then you know them.'
'Don't hit us when we are down; be merciful, and set us up to bless and believe in you evermore,' pleaded Demi from behind the bars.
'We'll be kind to you if you will be just to us. I don't say generous, only just. I went to a suffrage debate in the Legislature last winter; and of all the feeble, vulgar twaddle I ever heard, that was the worst; and those men were our representatives. I blushed for them, and the wives and mothers. I want an intelligent man to represent me, if I can't do it myself, not a fool.'
'Nan is on the stump. Now we shall catch it,' cried Tom, putting up an umbrella to shield his unhappy head; for Nan's earnest voice was audible, and her indignant eye happened to rest on him as she spoke.
'Go on, go on! I'll take notes, and put in “great applause” liberally,' added Demi, producing his ball-book and pencil, with his Jenkins air.
Daisy pinched his nose through the bars, and the meeting was rather tumultuous for a moment, for Emil called: 'Avast, avast, here's a squall to wind'ard'; Tom applauded wildly; Dan looked up as if the prospect of a fight, even with words, pleased him, and Nat went to support Demi, as his position seemed to be a good one. At this crisis, when everyone laughed and talked at once, Bess came floating through the upper hall and looked down like an angel of peace upon the noisy group below, as she asked, with wondering eyes and smiling lips: 'What is it?'
'An indignation meeting. Nan and Alice are on the rampage, and we are at the bar to be tried for our lives. Will Your Highness preside and judge between us?' answered Demi, as a lull at once took place; for no one rioted in the presence of the Princess.
'I'm not wise enough. I'll sit here and listen. Please go on.' And Bess took her place above them all as cool and calm as a little statue of Justice, with fan and nosegay in place of sword and scales.
'Now, ladies, free your minds, only spare us till morning; for we've got a german to dance as soon as everyone is fed, and Parnassus expects every man to do his duty. Mrs President Giddy-gaddy has the floor,' said Demi, who liked this sort of fun better than the very mild sort of flirtation which was allowed at Plumfield, for the simple reason that it could not be entirely banished, and is a part of all education, co- or otherwise.
'I have only one thing to say, and it is this,' began Nan soberly, though her eyes sparkled with a mixture of fun and earnestness. 'I want to ask every boy of you what you really think on this subject. Dan and Emil have seen the world and ought to know their own minds. Tom and Nat have had five examples before them for years. Demi is ours and we are proud of him. So is Rob. Ted is a weathercock, and Dolly and George, of course, are fogies in spite of the Annex, and girls at Girton going ahead of the men. Commodore, are you ready for the question?'
'Ay, ay, skipper.'
'Do you believe in Woman's Suffrage?'
'Bless your pretty figger head! I do, and I'll ship a crew of girls any time you say so. Aren't they worse than a press-gang to carry a fellow out of his moorings? Don't we all need one as pilot to steer us safe to port? and why shouldn't they share our mess afloat and ashore since we are sure to be wrecked without 'em?'
'Good for you, Emil! Nan will take you for first mate after that handsome speech,' said Demi, as the girls applauded, and Tom glowered. 'Now, Dan, you love liberty so well yourself, are you willing we should have it?'
'All you can get, and I'll fight any man who's mean enough to say you don't deserve it.'
This brief and forcible reply delighted the energetic President, and she beamed upon the member from California, as she said briskly: 'Nat wouldn't dare to say he was on the other side even if he were, but I hope he has made up his mind to pipe for us, at least when we take the field, and not be one of those who wait till the battle is won, and then beat the drums and share the glory.'
Mrs Giddy-gaddy's doubts were most effectually removed, and her sharp speech regretted, as Nat looked up blushing, but with a new sort of manliness in face and manner, saying, in a tone that touched them all: 'I should be the most ungrateful fellow alive if I did not love, honour, and serve women with all my heart and might, for to them I owe everything I am or ever shall be.'
Daisy clapped her hands, and Bess threw her bouquet into Nat's lap, while the other girls waved their fans, well pleased; for real feeling made his little speech eloquent.
'Thomas B. Bangs, come into court, and tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, if you can,' commanded Nan, with a rap to call the meeting to order.
Tom shut the umbrella, and standing up raised his hand, saying solemnly: 'I believe in suffrage of all kinds. I adore all women, and will die for them at any moment if it will help the cause.'
'Living and working for it is harder, and therefore more honourable. Men are always ready to die for us, but not to make our lives worth having. Cheap sentiment and bad logic. You will pass, Tom, only don't twaddle. Now, having taken the sense of the meeting we will adjourn, as the hour for festive gymnastics has arrived. I am glad to see that old Plum has given six true men to the world, and hope they will continue to be staunch to her and the principles she has taught them, wherever they may go. Now, girls, don't sit in draughts, and, boys, beware of ice-water when you are warm.'
With this characteristic close Nan retired from office, and the girls went to enjoy one of the few rights allowed them.
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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6
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. LAST WORDS
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The next day was Sunday, and a goodly troop of young and old set forth to church. --some driving, some walking, all enjoying the lovely weather and the happy quietude which comes to refresh us when the work and worry of the week are over. Daisy had a headache; and Aunt Jo remained at home to keep her company, knowing very well that the worst ache was in the tender heart struggling dutifully against the love that grew stronger as the parting drew nearer.
'Daisy knows my wishes, and I trust her. You must keep an eye on Nat, and let him clearly understand that there is to be no “lovering”, or I shall forbid the letter-writing. I hate to seem cruel, but it is too soon for my dear girl to bind herself in any way,' said Mrs Meg, as she rustled about in her best grey silk, while waiting for Demi, who always escorted his pious mother to church as a peace-offering for crossing her wishes in other things.
'I will, dear; I'm lying in wait for all three boys today, like an old spider; and I will have a good talk with each. They know I understand them, and they always open their hearts sooner or later. You look like a nice, plump little Quakeress, Meg; and no one will believe that big boy is your son,' added Mrs Jo, as Demi came in shining with Sunday neatness, from his well-blacked boots to his smooth brown head.
'You flatter me, to soften my heart toward your boy. I know your ways, Jo, and I don't give in. Be firm, and spare me a scene by and by. As for John, as long as he is satisfied with his old mother, I don't care what people think,' answered Mrs Meg, accepting with a smile the little posy of sweet peas and mignonette Demi brought her.
Then, having buttoned her dove-coloured gloves with care, she took her son's arm and went proudly away to the carriage, where Amy and Bess waited, while Jo called after them, just as Marmee used to do: 'Girls, have you got nice pocket-handkerchiefs?' They all smiled at the familiar words, and three white banners waved as they drove away, leaving the spider to watch for her first fly. She did not wait long. Daisy was lying down with a wet cheek on the little hymnbook out of which she and Nat used to sing together; so Mrs Jo strolled about the lawn, looking very like a wandering mushroom with her large buff umbrella.
Dan had gone for a ten-mile stroll; and Nat was supposed to have accompanied him, but presently came sneaking back, unable to tear himself away from the Dovecote or lose a moment of nearness to his idol that last day. Mrs Jo saw him at once, and beckoned him to a rustic seat under the old elm, where they could have their confidences undisturbed, and both keep an eye on a certain white-curtained window, half hidden in vines.
'Nice and cool here. I'm not up to one of Dan's tramps today--it's so warm, and he goes so like a steam-engine. He headed for the swamp where his pet snakes used to live, and I begged to be excused,' said Nat, fanning himself with his straw hat, though the day was not oppressive.
'I'm glad you did. Sit and rest with me, and have one of our good old talks. We've both been so busy lately, I feel as if I didn't half know your plans; and I want to,' answered Mrs Jo, feeling sure that though they might start with Leipzig they would bring up at Plumfield.
'You are very kind, and there's nothing I'd like better. I don't realize I'm going so far--suppose I shan't till I get afloat. It's a splendid start, and I don't know how I can ever thank Mr Laurie for all he's done, or you either,' added Nat, with a break in his voice; for he was a tender-hearted fellow, and never forgot a kindness.
'You can thank us beautifully by being and doing all we hope and expect of you, my dear. In the new life you are going to there will be a thousand trials and temptations, and only your own wit and wisdom to rely on. That will be the time to test the principles we have tried to give you, and see how firm they are. Of course, you will make mistakes--we all do; but don't let go of your conscience and drift along blindly. Watch and pray, dear Nat; and while your hand gains skill, let your head grow wiser, and keep your heart as innocent and warm as it is now.'
'I'll try, Mother Bhaer, my very best to be a credit to you. I know I shall improve in my music--can't help it there; but I never shall be very wise, I'm afraid. As for my heart, you know, I leave it behind me in good keeping.'
As he spoke, Nat's eyes were fixed on the window with a look of love and longing that made his quiet face both manly and sad--plainly showing how strong a hold this boyish affection had upon him.
'I want to speak of that; and I know you will forgive what seems hard, because I do most heartily sympathize with you,' said Mrs Jo, glad to have her say.
'Yes, do talk about Daisy! I think of nothing but leaving and losing her. I have no hope--I suppose it is too much to ask; only I can't help loving her, wherever I am!' cried Nat, with a mixture of defiance and despair in his face that rather startled Mrs Jo.
'Listen to me and I'll try to give you both comfort and good advice. We all know that Daisy is fond of you, but her mother objects, and being a good girl she tries to obey. Young people think they never can change, but they do in the most wonderful manner, and very few die of broken hearts.' Mrs Jo smiled as she remembered another boy whom she had once tried to comfort, and then went soberly on while Nat listened as if his fate hung upon her lips.
'One of two things will happen. You will find someone else to love, or, better still, be so busy and happy in your music that you will be willing to wait for time to settle the matter for you both. Daisy will perhaps forget when you are gone, and be glad you are only friends. At any rate it is much wiser to have no promises made; then both are free, and in a year or two may meet to laugh over the little romance nipped in the bud.'
'Do you honestly think that?' asked Nat, looking at her so keenly that the truth had to come; for all his heart was in those frank blue eyes of his.
'No, I don't!' answered Mrs Jo. 'Then if you were in my place, what would you do?' he added, with a tone of command never heard in his gentle voice before.
'Bless me! the boy is in dead earnest, and I shall forget prudence in sympathy I'm afraid,' thought Mrs Jo, surprised and pleased by the unexpected manliness Nat showed.
'I'll tell you what I should do. I'd say to myself: “I'll prove that my love is strong and faithful, and make Daisy's mother proud to give her to me by being not only a good musician but an excellent man, and so command respect and confidence. This I will try for; and if I fail, I shall be the better for the effort, and find comfort in the thought that I did my best for her sake.”'
'That is what I meant to do. But I wanted a word of hope to give me courage,' cried Nat, firing up as if the smouldering spark was set ablaze by a breath of encouragement. 'Other fellows, poorer and stupider than I, have done great things and come to honour. Why may not I, though I'm nothing now? I know Mrs Brooke remembers what I came from, but my father was honest though everything went wrong; and I have nothing to be ashamed of though I was a charity boy. I never will be ashamed of my people or myself, and I'll make other folks respect me if I can.'
'Good! that's the right spirit, Nat. Hold to it and make yourself a man. No one will be quicker to see and admire the brave work than my sister Meg. She does not despise your poverty or your past; but mothers are very tender over their daughters, and we Marches, though we have been poor, are, I confess, a little proud of our good family. We don't care for money; but a long line of virtuous ancestors is something to desire and to be proud of.'
'Well, the Blakes are a good lot. I looked 'em up, and not one was ever in prison, hanged, or disgraced in any way. We used to be rich and honoured years ago, but we've died out and got poor, and father was a street musician rather than beg; and I'll be one again before I'll do the mean things some men do and pass muster.'
Nat was so excited that Mrs Jo indulged in a laugh to calm him, and both went on more quietly.
'I told my sister all that and it pleased her. I am sure if you do well these next few years that she will relent and all be happily settled, unless that wonderful change, which you don't believe possible, should occur. Now, cheer up; don't be lackadaisical and blue. Say good-bye cheerfully and bravely, show a manly front, and leave a pleasant memory behind you. We all wish you well and hope much for you. Write to me every week and I'll send a good, gossipy answer. Be careful what you write to Daisy; don't gush or wail, for sister Meg will see the letters; and you can help your cause very much by sending sensible, cheery accounts of your life to us all.'
'I will; I will; it looks brighter and better already, and I won't lose my one comfort by any fault of my own. Thank you so much, Mother Bhaer, for taking my side. I felt so ungrateful and mean and crushed when I thought you all considered me a sneak who had no business to love such a precious girl as Daisy. No one said anything, but I knew how you felt, and that Mr Laurie sent me off partly to get me out of the way. Oh dear, life is pretty tough sometimes, isn't it?' And Nat took his head in both hands as if it ached with the confusion of hopes and fears, passions and plans that proved boyhood was past and manhood had begun.
'Very tough, but it is that very struggle with obstacles which does us good. Things have been made easy for you in many ways, but no one can do everything. You must paddle your own canoe now, and learn to avoid the rapids and steer straight to the port you want to reach. I don't know just what your temptations will be for you have no bad habits and seem to love music so well, nothing can lure you from it. I only hope you won't work too hard.'
'I feel as if I could work like a horse, I'm so eager to get on; but I'll take care. Can't waste time being sick, and you've given me doses enough to keep me all right, I guess.' Nat laughed as he remembered the book of directions Mrs Jo had written for him to consult on all occasions.
She immediately added some verbal ones on the subject of foreign messes, and having mounted one of her pet hobbies, was in full gallop when Emil was seen strolling about on the roof of the old house, that being his favourite promenade; for there he could fancy himself walking the deck, with only blue sky and fresh air about him.
'I want a word with the Commodore, and up there we shall be nice and quiet. Go and play to Daisy: it will put her to sleep and do you both good. Sit in the porch, so I can keep an eye on you as I promised'; and with a motherly pat on the shoulder Mrs Jo left Nat to his delightful task and briskly ascended to the house-top, not up the trellis as of old but by means of the stairs inside.
Emerging on the platform she found Emil cutting his initials afresh in the wood-work and singing 'Pull for the Shore', like the tuneful mariner he was.
'Come aboard and make yourself at home, Aunty,' he said, with a playful salute. 'I'm just leaving a P.P.C. in the old place, so when you fly up here for refuge you'll remember me.'
'Ah, my dear, I'm not likely to forget you. It doesn't need E. B. H. cut on all the trees and railings to remind me of my sailor boy'; and Mrs Jo took the seat nearest the blue figure astride the balustrade, not quite sure how to begin the little sermon she wanted to preach.
'Well, you don't pipe your eye and look squally when I sheer off as you used to, and that's a comfort. I like to leave port in fair weather and have a jolly send-off all round. Specially this time, for it will be a year or more before we drop anchor here again,' answered Emil, pushing his cap back, and glancing about him as if he loved old Plum and would be sorry never to see it any more.
'You have salt water enough without my adding to it. I'm going to be quite a Spartan mother, and send my sons to battle with no wailing, only the command: “With your shield or on it”,' said Mrs Jo cheerfully, adding after a pause: 'I often wish I could go too, and some day I will, when you are captain and have a ship of your own--as I've no doubt you will before long, with Uncle Herman to push you on.'
'When I do I'll christen her the Jolly Jo and take you as first mate. It would be regular larks to have you aboard, and I'd be a proud man to carry you round the world you've wanted to see so long and never could,' answered Emil, caught at once by this splendid vision.
'I'll make my first voyage with you and enjoy myself immensely in spite of seasickness and all the stormy winds that blow. I've always thought I'd like to see a wreck, a nice safe one with all saved after great danger and heroic deeds, while we clung like Mr Pillicoddy to main-top jibs and lee scuppers.'
'No wrecks yet, ma'am, but we'll try to accommodate customers. Captain says I'm a lucky dog and bring fair weather, so we'll save the dirty weather for you if you want it,' laughed Emil, digging at the ship in full sail which he was adding to his design.
'Thanks, I hope you will. This long voyage will give you new experiences, and being an officer, you will have new duties and responsibilities. Are you ready for them? You take everything so gaily, I've been wondering if you realized that now you will have not only to obey but to command also, and power is a dangerous thing. Be careful that you don't abuse it or let it make a tyrant of you.'
'Right you are, ma'am. I've seen plenty of that, and have got my bearings pretty well, I guess. I shan't have very wide swing with Peters over me, but I'll see that the boys don't get abused when he's bowsed up his jib. No right to speak before, but now I won't stand it.'
'That sounds mysteriously awful; could I ask what nautical torture “bowsing jibs” is?' asked Mrs Jo, in a tone of deep interest.
'Getting drunk. Peters can hold more grog than any man I ever saw; he keeps right side up, but is as savage as a norther, and makes things lively all round. I've seen him knock a fellow down with a belaying pin, and couldn't lend a hand. Better luck now, I hope.' And Emil frowned as if he already trod the quarter-deck, lord of all he surveyed.
'Don't get into trouble, for even Uncle Herman's favour won't cover insubordination, you know. You have proved yourself a good sailor; now be a good officer, which is a harder thing, I fancy. It takes a fine character to rule justly and kindly; you will have to put by your boyish ways and remember your dignity. That will be excellent training for you, Emil, and sober you down a bit. No more skylarking except here, so mind your ways, and do honour to your buttons,' said Mrs Jo, tapping one of the very bright brass ones that ornamented the new suit Emil was so proud of.
'I'll do my best. I know my time for skirmshander (chaff) is over, and I must steer a straighter course; but don't you fear, Jack ashore is a very different craft from what he is with blue water under his keel. I had a long talk with Uncle last night and got my orders; I won't forget 'em nor all I owe him. As for you, I'll name my first ship as I say, and have your bust for the figurehead, see if I don't,' and Emil gave his aunt a hearty kiss to seal the vow, which proceeding much amused Nat, playing softly in the porch of the Dovecote.
'You do me proud, Captain. But, dear, I want to say one thing and then I'm done; for you don't need much advice of mine after my good man has spoken. I read somewhere that every inch of rope used in the British Navy has a strand of red in it, so that wherever a bit of it is found it is known. That is the text of my little sermon to you. Virtue, which means honour, honesty, courage, and all that makes character, is the red thread that marks a good man wherever he is. Keep that always and everywhere, so that even if wrecked by misfortune, that sign shall still be found and recognized. Yours is a rough life, and your mates not all we could wish, but you can be a gentleman in the true sense of the word; and no matter what happens to your body, keep your soul clean, your heart true to those who love you, and do your duty to the end.'
As she spoke Emil had risen and stood listening with his cap off and a grave, bright look as if taking orders from a superior officer; when she ended, he answered briefly, but heartily: 'Please God, I will!'
'That's all; I have little fear for you, but one never knows when or how the weak moment may come, and sometimes a chance word helps us, as so many my dear mother spoke come back to me now for my own comfort and the guidance of my boys,' said Mrs Jo, rising; for the words had been said and no more were needed.
'I've stored 'em up and know where to find 'em when wanted. Often and often in my watch I've seen old Plum, and heard you and Uncle talking so plainly, I'd have sworn I was here. It is a rough life, Aunty, but a wholesome one if a fellow loves it as I do, and has an anchor to windward as I have. Don't worry about me, and I'll come home next year with a chest of tea that will cheer your heart and give you ideas enough for a dozen novels. Going below? All right, steady in the gangway! I'll be along by the time you've got out the cake-box. Last chance for a good old lunch ashore.'
Mrs Jo descended laughing, and Emil finished his ship whistling cheerfully, neither dreaming when and where this little chat on the house-top would return to the memory of one of them.
Dan was harder to catch, and not until evening did a quiet moment come in that busy family; when, while the rest were roaming about, Mrs Jo sat down to read in the study, and presently Dan looked in at the window.
'Come and rest after your long tramp; you must be tired,' she called, with an inviting nod towards the big sofa where so many boys had reposed--as much as that active animal ever does.
'Afraid I shall disturb you'; but Dan looked as if he wanted to stay his restless feet somewhere.
'Not a bit; I'm always ready to talk, shouldn't be a woman if I were not,' laughed Mrs Jo, as Dan swung himself in and sat down with an air of contentment very pleasant to see.
'Last day is over, yet somehow I don't seem to hanker to be off. Generally, I'm rather anxious to cut loose after a short stop. Odd, ain't it?' asked Dan, gravely picking grass and leaves out of his hair and beard; for he had been lying on the grass, thinking many thoughts in the quiet summer night.
'Not at all; you are beginning to get civilized. It's a good sign, and I'm glad to see it,' answered Mrs Jo promptly. 'You've had your swing, and want a change. Hope the farming will give it to you, though helping the Indians pleases me more: it is so much better to work for others than for one's self alone.'
'So 'tis,' assented Dan heartily. 'I seem to want to root somewhere and have folks of my own to take care of. Tired of my own company, I suppose, now I've seen so much better. I'm a rough, ignorant lot, and I've been thinking maybe I've missed it loafing round creation, instead of going in for education as the other chaps did. Hey?'
He looked anxiously at Mrs Jo; and she tried to hide the surprise this new outburst caused her; for till now Dan had scorned books and gloried in his freedom.
'No; I don't think so in your case. So far I'm sure the free life was best. Now that you are a man you can control that lawless nature better; but as a boy only great activity and much adventure could keep you out of mischief. Time is taming my colt, you see, and I shall yet be proud of him, whether he makes a pack-horse of himself to carry help to the starving or goes to ploughing as Pegasus did.'
Dan liked the comparison, and smiled as he lounged in the sofa-corner, with the new thoughtfulness in his eyes.
'Glad you think so. The fact is it's going to take a heap of taming to make me go well in harness anywhere. I want to, and I try now and then, but always kick over the traces and run away. No lives lost yet; but I shouldn't wonder if there was some time, and a general smash-up.'
'Why, Dan, did you have any dangerous adventures during this last absence? I fancied so, but didn't ask before, knowing you'd tell me if I could help in any way. Can I?' And Mrs Jo looked anxiously at him; for a sudden lowering expression had come into his face, and he leaned forward as if to hide it.
'Nothing very bad; but 'Frisco isn't just a heaven on earth, you know, and it's harder to be a saint there than here,' he answered slowly; then, as if he had made up his mind to ''fess', as the children used to say, he sat up, and added rapidly, in a half-defiant, half-shamefaced way, 'I tried gambling, and it wasn't good for me.'
'Was that how you made your money?'
'Not a penny of it! That's all honest, if speculation isn't a bigger sort of gambling. I won a lot; but I lost or gave it away, and cut the whole concern before it got the better of me.'
'Thank heaven for that! Don't try it again; it may have the terrible fascination for you it has for so many. Keep to your mountains and prairies, and shun cities, if these things tempt you, Dan. Better lose your life than your soul, and one such passion leads to worse sins, as you know better than I.' Dan nodded, and seeing how troubled she was, said, in a lighter tone, though still the shadow of that past experience remained: 'Don't be scared; I'm all right now; and a burnt dog dreads the fire. I don't drink, or do the things you dread; don't care for 'em; but I get excited, and then this devilish temper of mine is more than I can manage. Fighting a moose or a buffalo is all right; but when you pitch into a man, no matter how great a scamp he is, you've got to look out. I shall kill someone some day; that's all I'm afraid of. I do hate a sneak!' And Dan brought his fist down on the table with a blow that made the lamp totter and the books skip.
'That always was your trial, Dan, and I can sympathize with you; for I've been trying to govern my own temper all my life, and haven't learnt yet,' said Mrs Jo, with a sigh. 'For heaven's sake, guard your demon well, and don't let a moment's fury ruin all your life. As I said to Nat, watch and pray, my dear boy. There is no other help or hope for human weakness but God's love and patience.'
Tears were in Mrs Jo's eyes as she spoke; for she felt this deeply, and knew how hard a task it is to rule these bosom sins of ours. Dan looked touched, also uncomfortable, as he always did when religion of any sort was mentioned, though he had a simple creed of his own, and tried to live up to it in his blind way.
'I don't do much praying; don't seem to come handy to me; but I can watch like a redskin, only it's easier to mount guard over a lurking grizzly than my own cursed temper. It's that I'm afraid of, if I settle down. I can get on with wild beasts first-rate; but men rile me awfully, and I can't take it out in a free fight, as I can with a bear or a wolf. Guess I'd better head for the Rockies, and stay there a spell longer--till I'm tame enough for decent folks, if I ever am.' And Dan leaned his rough head on his hands in a despondent attitude.
'Try my sort of help, and don't give up. Read more, study a little, and try to meet a better class of people, who won't “rile”, but soothe and strengthen you. We don't make you savage, I'm sure; for you have been as meek as a lamb, and made us very happy.'
'Glad of it; but I've felt like a hawk in a hen-house all the same, and wanted to pounce and tear more than once. Not so much as I used, though,' added Dan, after a short laugh at Mrs Jo's surprised face. 'I'll try your plan, and keep good company this bout if I can; but a man can't pick and choose, knocking about as I do.'
'Yes, you can this time; for you are going on a peaceful errand and can keep clear of temptation if you try. Take some books and read; that's an immense help; and books are always good company if you have the right sort. Let me pick out some for you.' And Mrs Jo made a bee-line to the well-laden shelves, which were the joy of her heart and the comfort of her life.
'Give me travels and stories, please; don't want any pious works, can't seem to relish 'em, and won't pretend I do,' said Dan, following to look over her head with small favour at the long lines of well-worn volumes.
Mrs Jo turned short round, and putting a hand on either broad shoulder, looked him in the eye, saying soberly: 'Now, Dan, see here; never sneer at good things or pretend to be worse than you are. Don't let false shame make you neglect the religion without which no man can live. You needn't talk about it if you don't like, but don't shut your heart to it in whatever shape it comes. Nature is your God now; she has done much for you; let her do more, and lead you to know and love a wiser and more tender teacher, friend, and comforter than she can ever be. That is your only hope; don't throw it away, and waste time; for sooner or later you will feel the need of Him, and He will come to you and hold you up when all other help fails.'
Dan stood motionless, and let her read in his softened eyes the dumb desire that lived in his heart, though he had no words to tell it, and only permitted her to catch a glimpse of the divine spark which smoulders or burns clearly in every human soul. He did not speak; and glad to be spared some answer which should belie his real feelings, Mrs Jo hastened to say, with her most motherly smile: 'I saw in your room the little Bible I gave you long ago; it was well worn outside, but fresh within, as if not much read. Will you promise me to read a little once a week, dear, for my sake? Sunday is a quiet day everywhere, and this book is never old nor out of place. Begin with the stories you used to love when I told them to you boys. David was your favourite, you remember? Read him again; he'll suit you even better now, and you'll find his sins and repentance useful reading till you come to the life and work of a diviner example than he. You will do it, for love of mother Bhaer, who always loved her “firebrand” and hoped to save him?'
'I will,' answered Dan, with a sudden brightening of face that was like a sunburst through a cloud, full of promise though so short-lived and rare.
Mrs Jo turned at once to the books and began to talk of them, knowing well that Dan would not hear any more just then. He seemed relieved; for it was always hard for him to show his inner self, and he took pride in hiding it as an Indian does in concealing pain or fear.
'Hallo, here's old Sintram! I remember him; used to like him and his tantrums, and read about 'em to Ted. There he is riding ahead with Death and the Devil alongside.'
As Dan looked at the little picture of the young man with horse and hound going bravely up the rocky defile, accompanied by the companions who ride beside most men through this world, a curious impulse made Mrs Jo say quickly: 'That's you, Dan, just you at this time! Danger and sin are near you in the life you lead; moods and passions torment you; the bad father left you to fight alone, and the wild spirit drives you to wander up and down the world looking for peace and self-control. Even the horse and hound are there, your Octoo and Don, faithful friends, unscared by the strange mates that go with you. You have not got the armour yet, but I'm trying to show you where to find it. Remember the mother Sintram loved and longed to find, and did find when his battle was bravely fought, his reward well earned? You can recollect your mother; and I have always felt that all the good qualities you possess come from her. Act out the beautiful old story in this as in the other parts, and try to give her back a son to be proud of.'
Quite carried away by the likeness of the quaint tale to Dan's life and needs, Mrs Jo went on pointing to the various pictures which illustrated it, and when she looked up was surprised to see how struck and interested he seemed to be. Like all people of his temperament he was very impressionable, and his life among hunters and Indians had made him superstitious; he believed in dreams, liked weird tales, and whatever appealed to the eye or mind, vividly impressed him more than the wisest words. The story of poor, tormented Sintram came back clearly as he looked and listened, symbolizing his secret trials even more truly than Mrs Jo knew; and just at that moment this had an effect upon him that never was forgotten. But all he said was: 'Small chance of that. I don't take much stock in the idea of meeting folks in heaven. Guess mother won't remember the poor little brat she left so long ago; why should she?'
'Because true mothers never forget their children; and I know she was one, from the fact that she ran away from the cruel husband, to save her little son from bad influences. Had she lived, life would have been happier for you, with this tender friend to help and comfort you. Never forget that she risked everything for your sake, and don't let it be in vain.'
Mrs Jo spoke very earnestly, knowing that this was the one sweet memory of Dan's early life, and glad to have recalled it at this moment; for suddenly a great tear splashed down on the page where Sintram kneels at his mother's feet, wounded, but victorious over sin and death. She looked up, well pleased to have touched Dan to the heart's core, as that drop proved; but a sweep of the arm brushed away the tell-tale, and his beard hid the mate to it, as he shut the book, saying with a suppressed quiver in his strong voice: 'I'll keep this, if nobody wants it. I'll read it over, and maybe it will do me good. I'd like to meet her anywhere, but don't believe I ever shall.'
'Keep it and welcome. My mother gave it to me; and when you read it try to believe that neither of your mothers will ever forget you.'
Mrs Jo gave the book with a caress; and simply saying: 'Thanks; good night,' Dan thrust it into his pocket, and walked straight away to the river to recover from this unwonted mood of tenderness and confidence.
Next day the travellers were off. All were in good spirits, and a cloud of handkerchiefs whitened the air as they drove away in the old bus, waving their hats to everyone and kissing their hands, especially to mother Bhaer, who said in her prophetic tone as she wiped her eyes, when the familiar rumble died away: 'I have a feeling that something is going to happen to some of them, and they will never come back to me, or come back changed. Well, I can only say, God be with my boys!'
And He was.
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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7
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. THE LION AND THE LAMB
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When the boys were gone a lull fell upon Plumfield, and the family scattered to various places for brief outings, as August had come and all felt the need of change. The Professor took Mrs Jo to the mountains. The Laurences were at the seashore, and there Meg's family and the Bhaer boys took turns to visit, as someone must always be at home to keep things in order.
Mrs Meg, with Daisy, was in office when the events occurred which we are about to relate. Rob and Ted were just up from Rocky Nook, and Nan was passing a week with her friend as the only relaxation she allowed herself. Demi was off on a run with Tom, so Rob was man of the house, with old Silas as general overseer. The sea air seemed to have gone to Ted's head, for he was unusually freakish, and led his gentle aunt and poor Rob a life of it with his pranks. Octoo was worn out with the wild rides he took, and Don openly rebelled when ordered to leap and show off his accomplishments; while the girls at college were both amused and worried by the ghosts who haunted the grounds at night, the unearthly melodies that disturbed their studious hours, and the hairbreadth escapes of this restless boy by flood and field and fire. Something happened at length which effectually sobered Ted and made a lasting impression on both the boys; for sudden danger and a haunting fear turned the Lion into a lamb and the Lamb into a lion, as far as courage went.
On the first of September--the boys never forgot the date--after a pleasant tramp and good luck with their fishing, the brothers were lounging in the barn; for Daisy had company, and the lads kept out of the way.
'I tell you what it is, Bobby, that dog is sick. He won't play, nor eat, nor drink, and acts queerly. Dan will kill us if anything happens to him,' said Ted, looking at Don, who lay near his kennel resting a moment after one of the restless wanderings which kept him vibrating between the door of Dan's room and the shady corner of the yard, where his master had settled him with an old cap to guard till he came back.
'It's the hot weather, perhaps. But I sometimes think he's pining for Dan. Dogs do, you know, and the poor fellow has been low in his mind ever since the boys went. Maybe something has happened to Dan. Don howled last night and can't rest. I've heard of such things,' answered Rob thoughtfully.
'Pooh! he can't know. He's cross. I'll stir him up and take him for a run. Always makes me feel better. Hi, boy! wake up and be jolly'; and Ted snapped his fingers at the dog, who only looked at him with grim indifference.
'Better let him alone. If he isn't right tomorrow, we'll take him to Dr Watkins and see what he says.' And Rob went on watching the swallows as he lay in the hay polishing up some Latin verses he had made.
The spirit of perversity entered into Ted, and merely because he was told not to tease Don he went on doing it, pretending that it was for the dog's good. Don took no heed of his pats, commands, reproaches, or insults, till Ted's patience gave out; and seeing a convenient switch near by he could not resist the temptation to conquer the great hound by force, since gentleness failed to win obedience. He had the wisdom to chain Don up first; for a blow from any hand but his master's made him savage, and Ted had more than once tried the experiment, as the dog remembered. This indignity roused Don and he sat up with a growl. Rob heard it, and seeing Ted raise the switch, ran to interfere, exclaiming: 'Don't touch him! Dan forbade it! Leave the poor thing in peace; I won't allow it.'
Rob seldom commanded, but when he did Master Ted had to give in. His temper was up, and Rob's masterful tone made it impossible to resist one cut at the rebellious dog before he submitted. Only a single blow, but it was a costly one; for as it fell, the dog sprang at Ted with a snarl, and Rob, rushing between the two, felt the sharp teeth pierce his leg. A word made Don let go and drop remorsefully at Rob's feet, for he loved him and was evidently sorry to have hurt his friend by mistake. With a forgiving pat Rob left him, to limp to the barn followed by Ted, whose wrath was changed to shame and sorrow when he saw the red drops on Rob's sock and the little wounds in his leg.
'I'm awfully sorry. Why did you get in the way? Here, wash it up, and I'll get a rag to tie on it,' he said quickly filling a sponge with water and pulling out a very demoralized handkerchief. Rob usually made light of his own mishaps and was over ready to forgive if others were to blame; but now he sat quite still, looking at the purple marks with such a strange expression on his white face that Ted was troubled, though he added with a laugh: 'Why, you're not afraid of a little dig like that, are you, Bobby?'
'I am afraid of hydrophobia. But if Don is mad I'd rather be the one to have it,' answered Rob, with a smile and a shiver.
At that dreadful word Ted turned whiter than his brother, and, dropping sponge and handkerchief, stared at him with a frightened face, whispering in a tone of despair: 'Oh, Rob, don't say it! What shall we do, what shall we do?'
'Call Nan; she will know. Don't scare Aunty, or tell a soul but Nan; she's on the back piazza; get her out here as quick as you can. I'll wash it till she comes. Maybe it's nothing; don't look so staggered, Ted. I only thought it might be, as Don is queer.'
Rob tried to speak bravely; but Ted's long legs felt strangely weak as he hurried away, and it was lucky he met no one, for his face would have betrayed him. Nan was swinging luxuriously in a hammock, amusing herself with a lively treatise on croup, when an agitated boy suddenly clutched her, whispering, as he nearly pulled her overboard: 'Come to Rob in the barn! Don's mad and he's bitten him, and we don't know what to do; it's all my fault; no one must know. Oh, do be quick!'
Nan was on her feet at once, startled, but with her wits about her, and both were off without more words as they dodged round the house where unconscious Daisy chatted with her friends in the parlour and Aunt Meg peacefully took her afternoon nap upstairs.
Rob was braced up, and was as calm and steady as ever when they found him in the harness-room, whither he had wisely retired, to escape observation. The story was soon told, and after a look at Don, now in his kennel, sad and surly, Nan said slowly, with her eye on the full water-pan: 'Rob, there is one thing to do for the sake of safety, and it must be done at once. We can't wait to see if Don is--sick--or to go for a doctor. I can do it, and I will; but it is very painful, and I hate to hurt you, dear.'
A most unprofessional quiver got into Nan's voice as she spoke, and her keen eyes dimmed as she looked at the two anxious young faces turned so confidingly to her for help.
'I know, burn it; well, do it, please; I can bear it. But Ted better go away,' said Rob, with a firm setting of his lips, and a nod at his afflicted brother.
'I won't stir; I can stand it if he can, only it ought to be me!' cried Ted, with a desperate effort not to cry, so full of grief and fear and shame was he that it seemed as if he couldn't bear it like a man.
'He'd better stay and help; do him good,' answered Nan sternly, because, her heart was faint within her, knowing as she did all that might be in store for both poor boys. 'Keep quiet; I'll be back in a minute,' she added, going towards the house, while her quick mind hastily planned what was best to be done.
It was ironing day, and a hot fire still burned in the empty kitchen, for the maids were upstairs resting. Nan put a slender poker to heat, and as she sat waiting for it, covered her face with her hands, asking help in this sudden need for strength, courage, and wisdom; for there was no one else to call upon, and young as she was, she knew what was to be done if she only had the nerve to do it. Any other patient would have been calmly interesting, but dear, good Robin, his father's pride, his mother's comfort, everyone's favourite and friend, that he should be in danger was very terrible; and a few hot tears dropped on the well-scoured table as Nan tried to calm her trouble by remembering how very likely it was to be all a mistake, a natural but vain alarm.
'I must make light of it, or the boys will break down, and then there will be a panic. Why afflict and frighten everyone when all is in doubt? I won't. I'll take Rob to Dr Morrison at once, and have the dog man see Don. Then, having done all we can, we will either laugh at our scare--if it is one--or be ready for whatever comes. Now for my poor boy.'
Armed with the red-hot poker, a pitcher of ice-water, and several handkerchiefs from the clotheshorse, Nan went back to the barn ready to do her best in this her most serious 'emergency case'. The boys sat like statues, one of despair, the other of resignation; and it took all Nan's boasted nerve to do her work quickly and well.
'Now, Rob, only a minute, then we are safe. Stand by, Ted; he may be a bit faintish.'
Rob shut his eyes, clinched his hands, and sat like a hero. Ted knelt beside him, white as a sheet, and as weak as a girl; for the pangs of remorse were rending him, and his heart failed at the thought of all this pain because of his wilfulness. It was all over in a moment, with only one little groan; but when Nan looked to her assistant to hand the water, poor Ted needed it the most, for he had fainted away, and lay on the floor in a pathetic heap of arms and legs.
Rob laughed, and, cheered by that unexpected sound, Nan bound up the wound with hands that never trembled, though great drops stood on her forehead; and she shared the water with patient number one before she turned to patient number two. Ted was much ashamed, and quite broken in spirit, when he found how he had failed at the critical moment, and begged them not to tell, as he really could not help it; then by way of finishing his utter humiliation, a burst of hysterical tears disgraced his manly soul, and did him a world of good.
'Never mind, never mind, we are all right now, and no one need be the wiser,' said Nan briskly, as poor Ted hiccoughed on Rob's shoulder, laughing and crying in the most tempestuous manner, while his brother soothed him, and the young doctor fanned both with Silas's old straw hat.
'Now, boys, listen to me and remember what I say. We won't alarm anyone yet, for I've made up my mind our scare is all nonsense. Don was out lapping the water as I came by, and I don't believe he's mad any more than I am. Still, to ease our minds and compose our spirits, and get our guilty faces out of sight for a while, I think we had better drive into town to my old friend Dr Morrison, and let him just take a look at my work, and give us some quieting little dose; for we are all rather shaken by this flurry. Sit still, Rob; and Ted, you harness up while I run and get my hat and tell Aunty to excuse me to Daisy. I don't know those Penniman girls, and she will be glad of our room at tea, and we'll have a cosy bite at my house, and come home as gay as larks.'
Nan talked on as a vent for the hidden emotions which professional pride would not allow her to show, and the boys approved her plan at once; for action is always easier than quiet waiting. Ted went staggering away to wash his face at the pump, and rub some colour into his cheeks before he harnessed the horse. Rob lay tranquilly on the hay, looking up at the swallows again as he lived through some very memorable moments. Boy as he was, the thought of death coming suddenly to him, and in this way, might well make him sober; for it is a very solemn thing to be arrested in the midst of busy life by the possibility of the great change. There were no sins to be repented of, few faults, and many happy, dutiful years to remember with infinite comfort. So Rob had no fears to daunt him, no regrets to sadden, and best of all, a very strong and simple piety to sustain and cheer him.
'Mein Vater,' was his first thought; for Rob was very near the Professor's heart, and the loss of his eldest would have been a bitter blow. These words, whispered with a tremble of the lips that had been so firm when the hot iron burned, recalled that other Father who is always near, always tender and helpful; and, folding his hands, Rob said the heartiest little prayer he ever prayed, there on the hay, to the soft twitter of the brooding birds. It did him good; and wisely laying all his fear and doubt and trouble in God's hand, the boy felt ready for whatever was to come, and from that hour kept steadily before him the one duty that was plain--to be brave and cheerful, keep silent, and hope for the best.
Nan stole her hat, and left a note on Daisy's pincushion, saying she had taken the boys to drive, and all would be out of the way till after tea. Then she hurried back and found her patients much better, the one for work, the other for rest. In they got, and, putting Rob on the back seat with his leg up drove away, looking as gay and care-free as if nothing had happened.
Dr Morrison made light of the affair, but told Nan she had done right; and as the much-relieved lads went downstairs, he added in a whisper: 'Send the dog off for a while, and keep your eye on the boy. Don't let him know it, and report to me if anything seems wrong. One never knows in these cases. No harm to be careful.'
Nan nodded, and feeling much relieved now that the responsibility was off her shoulders, took the lads to Dr Watkins, who promised to come out later and examine Don. A merry tea at Nan's house, which was kept open for her all summer, did them good, and by the time they got home in the cool of the evening no sign of the panic remained but Ted's heavy eyes, and a slight limp when Rob walked. As the guests were still chattering on the front piazza they retired to the back, and Ted soothed his remorseful soul by swinging Rob in the hammock, while Nan told stories till the dog man arrived.
He said Don was a little under the weather, but no more mad than the grey kitten that purred round his legs while the examination went on.
'He wants his master, and feels the heat. Fed too well, perhaps. I'll keep him a few weeks and send him home all right,' said Dr Watkins, as Don laid his great head in his hand, and kept his intelligent eyes on his face, evidently feeling that this man understood his trials, and knew what to do for him.
So Don departed without a murmur, and our three conspirators took counsel together how to spare the family all anxiety, and give Rob the rest his leg demanded. Fortunately, he always spent many hours in his little study, so he could lie on the sofa with a book in his hand as long as he liked, without exciting any remark. Being of a quiet temperament, he did not worry himself or Nan with useless fears, but believed what was told him, and dismissing all dark possibilities, went cheerfully on his way, soon recovering from the shock of what he called 'our scare'.
But excitable Ted was harder to manage, and it took all Nan's wit and wisdom to keep him from betraying the secret; for it was best to say nothing and spare all discussion of the subject for Rob's sake. Ted's remorse preyed upon him, and having no 'Mum' to confide in, he was very miserable. By day he devoted himself to Rob, waiting on him, talking to him, gazing anxiously at him, and worrying the good fellow very much; though he wouldn't own it, since Ted found comfort in it. But at night, when all was quiet, Ted's lively imagination and heavy heart got the better of him, and kept him awake, or set him walking in his sleep. Nan had her eye on him, and more than once administered a little dose to give him a rest, read to him, scolded him, and when she caught him haunting the house in the watches of the night, threatened to lock him up if he did not stay in his bed. This wore off after a while; but a change came over the freakish boy, and everyone observed it, even before his mother returned to ask what they had done to quench the Lion's spirits. He was gay, but not so heedless; and often when the old wilfulness beset him, he would check it sharply, look at Rob, and give up, or stalk away to have his sulk out alone. He no longer made fun of his brother's old-fashioned ways and bookish tastes, but treated him with a new and very marked respect, which touched and pleased modest Rob, and much amazed all observers. It seemed as if he felt that he owed him reparation for the foolish act that might have cost him his life; and love being stronger than will, Ted forgot his pride, and paid his debt like an honest boy.
'I don't understand it,' said Mrs Jo, after a week of home life, much impressed by the good behaviour of her younger son. 'Ted is such a saint, I'm afraid we are going to lose him. Is it Meg's sweet influence, or Daisy's fine cooking, or the pellets I catch Nan giving him on the sly? Some witchcraft has been at work during my absence, and this will-o'-the-wisp is so amiable, quiet, and obedient, I don't know him.'
'He is growing up, heart's-dearest, and being a precocious plant, he begins to bloom early. I also see a change in my Robchen. He is more manly and serious than ever, and is seldom far from me, as if his love for the old papa was growing with his growth. Our boys will often surprise us in this way, Jo, and we can only rejoice over them and leave them to become what Gott pleases.'
As the Professor spoke, his eyes rested proudly on the brothers, who came walking up the steps together, Ted's arm over Rob's shoulder as he listened attentively to some geological remarks Rob was making on a stone he held. Usually, Ted made fun of such tastes, and loved to lay boulders in the student's path, put brickbats under his pillow, gravel in his shoes, or send parcels of dirt by express to 'Prof. R. M. Bhaer'. Lately, he had treated Rob's hobbies respectfully, and had begun to appreciate the good qualities of this quiet brother whom he had always loved but rather undervalued, till his courage under fire won Ted's admiration, and made it impossible to forget a fault, the consequences of which might have been so terrible. The leg was still lame, though doing well, and Ted was always offering an arm as support, gazing anxiously at his brother, and trying to guess his wants; for regret was still keen in Ted's soul, and Rob's forgiveness only made it deeper. A fortunate slip on the stairs gave Rob an excuse for limping, and no one but Nan and Ted saw the wound; so the secret was safe up to this time.
'We are talking about you, my lads. Come in and tell us what good fairy has been at work while we were gone. Or is it because absence sharpens our eyes, that we find such pleasant changes when we come back?' said Mrs Jo, patting the sofa on either side, while the Professor forgot his piles of letters to admire the pleasing prospect of his wife in a bower of arms, as the boys sat down beside her, smiling affectionately, but feeling a little guilty; for till now 'Mum' and 'Vater' knew every event in their boyish lives.
'Oh, it's only because Bobby and I have been alone so much; we are sort of twins. I stir him up a bit, and he steadies me a great deal. You and father do the same, you know. Nice plan. I like it'; and Ted felt that he had settled the matter capitally.
'Mother won't thank you for comparing yourself to her, Ted. I'm flattered at being like father in any way. I try to be,' answered Rob, as they laughed at Ted's compliment.
'I do thank him, for it's true; and if you, Robin, do half as much for your brother as Papa has for me, your life won't be a failure,' said Mrs Jo heartily. 'I'm very glad to see you helping one another. It's the right way, and we can't begin too soon to try to understand the needs, virtues, and failings of those nearest us. Love should not make us blind to faults, nor familiarity make us too ready to blame the shortcomings we see. So work away, my sonnies, and give us more surprises of this sort as often as you like.'
'The liebe Mutter has said all. I too am well pleased at the friendly brother-warmth I find. It is good for everyone; long may it last!' and Professor Bhaer nodded at the boys, who looked gratified, but rather at a loss how to respond to these flattering remarks.
Rob wisely kept silent, fearing to say too much; but Ted burst out, finding it impossible to help telling something: 'The fact is I've been finding out what a brave good chap Bobby is, and I'm trying to make up for all the bother I've been to him. I knew he was awfully wise, but I thought him rather soft, because he liked books better than larks, and was always fussing about his conscience. But I begin to see that it isn't the fellows who talk the loudest and show off best that are the manliest. No, sir! quiet old Bob is a hero and a trump, and I'm proud of him; so would you be if you knew all about it.'
Here a look from Rob brought Ted up with a round turn; he stopped short, grew red, and clapped his hand on his mouth in dismay.
'Well, are we not to “know all about it”?' asked Mrs Jo quickly; for her sharp eye saw signs of danger and her maternal heart felt that something had come between her and her sons. 'Boys,' she went on solemnly, 'I suspect that the change we talk about is not altogether the effect of growing up, as we say. It strikes me that Ted has been in mischief and Rob has got him out of some scrape; hence the lovely mood of my bad boy and the sober one of my conscientious son, who never hides anything from his mother.'
Rob was as red as Ted now, but after a moment's hesitation he looked up and answered with an air of relief: 'Yes, mother, that's it; but it's all over and no harm done, and I think we'd better let it be, for a while at least. I did feel guilty to keep anything from you, but now you know so much I shall not worry and you needn't either. Ted's sorry, I don't mind, and it has done us both good.'
Mrs Jo looked at Ted, who winked hard but bore the look like a man; then she turned to Rob, who smiled at her so cheerfully that she felt reassured; but something in his face struck her, and she saw what it was that made him seem older, graver, yet more lovable than ever. It was the look pain of mind, as well as body, brings, and the patience of a sweet submission to some inevitable trial. Like a flash she guessed that some danger had been near her boy, and the glances she had caught between the two lads and Nan confirmed her fears.
'Rob, dear, you have been ill, hurt, or seriously troubled by Ted? Tell me at once; I will not have any secrets now. Boys sometimes suffer all their lives from neglected accidents or carelessness. Fritz, make them speak out!'
Mr Bhaer put down his papers and came to stand before them, saying in a tone that quieted Mrs Jo, and gave the boys courage: 'My sons, give us the truth. We can bear it; do not hold it back to spare us. Ted knows we forgive much because we love him, so be frank, all two.'
Ted instantly dived among the sofa pillows and kept there, with only a pair of scarlet ears visible, while Rob in a few words told the little story, truthfully, but as gently as he could, hastening to add the comfortable assurance that Don was not mad, the wound nearly well, and no danger would ever come of it.
But Mrs Jo grew so pale he had to put his arms about her, and his father turned and walked away, exclaiming: 'Ach Himmel!' in a tone of such mingled pain, relief, and gratitude, that Ted pulled an extra pillow over his head to smother the sound. They were all right in a minute; but such news is always a shock, even if the peril is past, and Mrs Jo hugged her boy close till his father came and took him away, saying with a strong shake of both hands and a quiver in his voice: 'To be in danger of one's life tries a man's mettle, and you bear it well; but I cannot spare my good boy yet; thank Gott, we keep him safe!'
A smothered sound, between a choke and a groan, came from under the pillows, and the writhing of Ted's long legs so plainly expressed despair that his mother relented towards him, and burrowing till she found a tousled yellow head, pulled it out and smoothed it, exclaiming with an irrepressible laugh, though her cheeks were wet with tears: 'Come and be forgiven, poor sinner! I know you have suffered enough, and I won't say a word; only if harm had come to Rob you would have made me more miserable than yourself. Oh, Teddy, Teddy, do try to cure that wilful spirit of yours before it is too late!'
'Oh, Mum, I do try! I never can forget this--I hope it's cured me; if it hasn't, I am afraid I ain't worth saving,' answered Ted, pulling his own hair as the only way of expressing his deep remorse.
'Yes, you are, my dear; I felt just so at fifteen when Amy was nearly drowned, and Marmee helped me as I'll help you. Come to me, Teddy, when the evil one gets hold of you, and together we'll rout him. Ah, me! I've had many a tussle with that old Apollyon, and often got worsted, but not always. Come under my shield, and we'll fight till we win.'
No one spoke for a minute as Ted and his mother laughed and cried in one handkerchief, and Rob stood with his father's arm round him so happy that all was told and forgiven, though never to be forgotten; for such experiences do one good, and knit hearts that love more closely together.
Presently Ted rose straight up and going to his father, said bravely and humbly: 'I ought to be punished. Please do it; but first say you forgive me, as Rob does.'
'Always that, mein Sohn, seventy time seven, if needs be, else I am not worthy the name you give me. The punishment has come; I can give no greater. Let it not be in vain. It will not with the help of the mother and the All Father. Room here for both, always!'
The good Professor opened his arms and embraced his boys like a true German, not ashamed to express by gesture or by word the fatherly emotions an American would have compressed into a slap on the shoulder and a brief 'All right'.
Mrs Jo sat and enjoyed the prospect like a romantic soul as she was, and then they had a quiet talk together, saying freely all that was in their hearts, and finding much comfort in the confidence which comes when love casts out fear. It was agreed that nothing be said except to Nan, who was to be thanked and rewarded for her courage, discretion, and fidelity.
'I always knew that girl had the making of a fine woman in her, and this proves it. No panics and shrieks and faintings and fuss, but calm sense and energetic skill. Dear child, what can I give or do to show my gratitude?' said Mrs Jo enthusiastically.
'Make Tom clear out and leave her in peace,' suggested Ted, almost himself again, though a pensive haze still partially obscured his native gaiety.
'Yes, do! he frets her like a mosquito. She forbade him to come out here while she stayed, and packed him off with Demi. I like old Tom, but he is a regular noodle about Nan,' added Rob, as he went away to help his father with the accumulated letters.
'I'll do it!' said Mrs Jo decidedly. 'That girl's career shall not be hampered by a foolish boy's fancy. In a moment of weariness she may give in, and then it's all over. Wiser women have done so and regretted it all their lives. Nan shall earn her place first, and prove that she can fill it; then she may marry if she likes, and can find a man worthy of her.'
But Mrs Jo's help was not needed; for love and gratitude can work miracles, and when youth, beauty, accident, and photography are added, success is sure; as was proved in the case of the unsuspecting but too susceptible Thomas.
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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8
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. JOSIE PLAYS MERMAID
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While the young Bhaers were having serious experiences at home, Josie was enjoying herself immensely at Rocky Nook; for the Laurences knew how to make summer idleness both charming and wholesome. Bess was very fond of her little cousin; Mrs Amy felt that whether her niece was an actress or not she must be a gentlewoman, and gave her the social training which marks the well-bred woman everywhere; while Uncle Laurie was never happier than when rowing, riding, playing, or lounging with two gay girls beside him. Josie bloomed like a wild flower in this free life, Bess grew rosy, brisk, and merry, and both were great favourites with the neighbours, whose villas were by the shore or perched on the cliffs along the pretty bay.
One crumpled rose-leaf disturbed Josie's peace, one baffled wish filled her with a longing which became a mania, and kept her as restless and watchful as a detective with a case to 'work up'. Miss Cameron, the great actress, had hired one of the villas and retired thither to rest and 'create' a new part for next season. She saw no one but a friend or two, had a private beach, and was invisible except during her daily drive, or when the opera-glasses of curious gazers were fixed on a blue figure disporting itself in the sea. The Laurences knew her, but respected her privacy, and after a call left her in peace till she expressed a wish for society--a courtesy which she remembered and repaid later, as we shall see.
But Josie was like a thirsty fly buzzing about a sealed honey-pot, for this nearness to her idol was both delightful and maddening. She pined to see, hear, talk with, and study this great and happy woman who could thrill thousands by her art, and win friends by her virtue, benevolence, and beauty. This was the sort of actress the girl meant to be, and few could object if the gift was really hers; for the stage needs just such women to purify and elevate the profession which should teach as well as amuse. If kindly Miss Cameron had known what passionate love and longing burned in the bosom of the little girl whom she idly observed skipping over the rocks, splashing about the beach, or galloping past her gate on a Shetland pony, she would have made her happy by a look or a word. But being tired with her winter's work and busy with her new part, the lady took no more notice of this young neighbour than of the sea-gulls in the bay or the daisies dancing in the fields. Nosegays left on her doorstep, serenades under her garden-wall, and the fixed stare of admiring eyes were such familiar things that she scarcely minded them; and Josie grew desperate when all her little attempts failed.
'I might climb that pine-tree and tumble off on her piazza roof, or get Sheltie to throw me just at her gate and be taken in fainting. It's no use to try to drown myself when she is bathing. I can't sink, and she'd only send a man to pull me out. What can I do? I will see her and tell her my hopes and make her say I can act some day. Mamma would believe her; and if--oh, if she only would let me study with her, what perfect joy that would be!'
Josie made these remarks one afternoon as she and Bess prepared for a swim, a fishing party having prevented their morning bathe.
'You must bide your time, dear, and not be so impatient. Papa promised to give you a chance before the season is over, and he always manages things nicely. That will be better than any queer prank of yours,' answered Bess, tying her pretty hair in a white net to match her suit, while Josie made a little lobster of herself in scarlet.
'I hate to wait; but I suppose I must. Hope she will bathe this afternoon, though it is low tide. She told Uncle she should have to go in then because in the morning people stared so and went on her beach. Come and have a good dive from the big rock. No one round but nurses and babies, so we can romp and splash as much as we like.'
Away they went to have a fine time; for the little bay was free from other bathers, and the babies greatly admired their aquatic gymnastics, both being expert swimmers.
As they sat dripping on the big rock Josie suddenly gave a clutch that nearly sent Bess overboard, as she cried excitedly: 'There she is! Look! coming to bathe. How splendid! Oh, if she only would drown a little and let me save her! or even get her toe nipped by a crab; anything so I could go and speak!'
'Don't seem to look; she comes to be quiet and enjoy herself. Pretend we don't see her, that's only civil,' answered Bess, affecting to be absorbed in a white-winged yacht going by.
'Let's carelessly float that way as if going for seaweed on the rocks. She can't mind if we are flat on our backs, with only our noses out. Then when we can't help seeing her, we'll swim back as if anxious to retire. That will impress her, and she may call to thank the very polite young ladies who respect her wishes,' proposed Josie, whose lively fancy was always planning dramatic situations.
Just as they were going to slip from their rock, as if Fate relented at last, Miss Cameron was seen to beckon wildly as she stood waist-deep in the water, looking down. She called to her maid, who seemed searching along the beach for something, and not finding what she sought, waved a towel towards the girls as if summoning them to help her.
'Run, fly! she wants us, she wants us!' cried Josie, tumbling into the water like a very energetic turtle, and swimming away in her best style towards this long desired haven of joy. Bess followed more slowly, and both came panting and smiling up to Miss Cameron, who never lifted her eyes, but said in that wonderful voice of hers: 'I've dropped a bracelet. I see it, but can't get it. Will the little boy find me a long stick? I'll keep my eye on it, so the water shall not wash it away.'
'I'll dive for it with pleasure; but I'm not a boy,' answered Josie, laughing as she shook the curly head which at a distance had deceived the lady.
'I beg your pardon. Dive away, child; the sand is covering it fast. I value it very much. Never forgot to take it off before.'
'I'll get it!' and down went Josie, to come up with a handful of pebbles, but no bracelet.
'It's gone; never mind--my fault,' said Miss Cameron, disappointed, but amused at the girl's dismay as she shook the water out of her eyes and gasped bravely: 'No, it isn't. I'll have it, if I stay down all night!' and with one long breath Josie dived again, leaving nothing but a pair of agitated feet to be seen.
'I'm afraid she will hurt herself,' said Miss Cameron, looking at Bess, whom she recognized by her likeness to her mother.
'Oh, no; Josie is a little fish. She likes it'; and Bess smiled happily at this wonderful granting of her cousin's desire.
'You are Mr Laurence's daughter, I think? How d'ye do, dear? Tell papa I'm coming to see him soon. Too tired before. Quite savage. Better now. Ah! here's our pearl of divers. What luck?' she asked, as the heels went down and a dripping head came up.
Josie could only choke and splutter at first, being half strangled; but though her hands had failed again, her courage had not; and with a resolute shake of her wet hair, a bright look at the tall lady, and a series of puffs to fill her lungs, she said calmly: '“Never give up” is my motto. I'm going to get it, if I go to Liverpool for it! Now, then!' and down went the mermaid quite out of sight this time, groping like a real lobster at the bottom of the sea.
'Plucky little girl! I like that. Who is she?' asked the lady, sitting down on a half-covered stone to watch her diver, since the bracelet was lost sight of.
Bess told her, adding, with the persuasive smile of her father: 'Josie longs to be an actress, and has waited for a month to see you. This is a great happiness for her.'
'Bless the child! why didn't she come and call? I'd have let her in; though usually I avoid stage-struck girls as I do reporters,' laughed Miss Cameron.
There was no time for more; a brown hand, grasping the bracelet, rose out of the sea, followed by a purple face as Josie came up so blind and dizzy she could only cling to Bess, half drowned but triumphant.
Miss Cameron drew her to the rock where she sat, and pushing the hair out of her eyes, revived her with a hearty 'Bravo! bravo!' which assured the girl that her first act was a hit. Josie had often imagined her meeting with the great actress--the dignity and grace with which she would enter and tell her ambitious hopes, the effective dress she would wear, the witty things she would say, the deep impression her budding genius would make. But never in her wildest moments had she imagined an interview like this; scarlet, sandy, streaming, and speechless she leaned against the illustrious shoulder, looking like a beautiful seal as she blinked and wheezed till she could smile joyfully and exclaim proudly: 'I did get it! I'm so glad!'
'Now get your breath, my dear; then I shall be glad also. It was very nice of you to take all that trouble for me. How shall I thank you?' asked the lady, looking at her with the beautiful eyes that could say so many things without words.
Josie clasped her hands with a wet spat which rather destroyed the effect of the gesture, and answered in a beseeching tone that would have softened a far harder heart than Miss Cameron's: 'Let me come and see you once--only once! I want you to tell me if I can act; you will know. I'll abide by what you say; and if you think I can--by and by, when I've studied very hard--I shall be the happiest girl in the world. May I?'
'Yes; come tomorrow at eleven. We'll have a good talk; you shall show me what you can do, and I'll give you my opinion. But you won't like it.'
'I will, no matter if you tell me I'm a fool. I want it settled; so does mamma. I'll take it bravely if you say no; and if you say yes, I'll never give up till I've done my best--as you did.'
'Ah, my child, it's a weary road, and there are plenty of thorns among the roses when you've won them. I think you have the courage, and this proves that you have perseverance. Perhaps you'll do. Come, and we'll see.'
Miss Cameron touched the bracelet as she spoke, and smiled so kindly that impetuous Josie wanted to kiss her; but wisely refrained, though her eyes were wet with softer water than any in the sea as she thanked her.
'We are keeping Miss Cameron from her bath, and the tide is going out. Come, Josie,' said thoughtful Bess, fearing to outstay their welcome.
'Run over the beach and get warm. Thank you very much, little mermaid. Tell papa to bring his daughter to see me any time. Good-bye'; and with a wave of her hand the tragedy queen dismissed her court, but remained on her weedy throne watching the two lithe figures race over the sand with twinkling feet till they were out of sight. Then, as she calmly bobbed up and down in the water, she said to herself: 'The child has a good stage face, vivid, mobile; fine eyes, abandon, pluck, will. Perhaps she'll do. Good stock--talent in the family. We shall see.'
Of course Josie never slept a wink, and was in a fever of joyful excitement next day. Uncle Laurie enjoyed the episode very much, and Aunt Amy looked out her most becoming white dress for the grand occasion; Bess lent her most artistic hat, and Josie ranged the wood and marsh for a bouquet of wild roses, sweet white azalea, ferns, and graceful grasses, as the offering of a very grateful heart.
At ten she solemnly arrayed herself, and then sat looking at her neat gloves and buckled shoes till it was time to go, growing pale and sober with the thought that her fate was soon to be decided; for, like all young people she was sure that her whole life could be settled by one human creature, quite forgetting how wonderfully Providence trains us by disappointment, surprises us with unexpected success, and turns our seeming trials into blessings.
'I will go alone: we shall be freer so. Oh, Bess, pray that she may tell me rightly! So much depends on that! Don't laugh, uncle! It is a very serious moment for me. Miss Cameron knows that, and will tell you so. Kiss me, Aunt Amy, since mamma isn't here. If you say I look nice, I'm quite satisfied. Good-bye.' And with a wave of the hand as much like her model's as she could make it, Josie departed, looking very pretty and feeling very tragical.
Sure now of admittance, she boldly rang at the door which excluded so many, and being ushered into a shady parlour, feasted her eyes upon several fine portraits of great actors while she waited. She had read about most of them, and knew their trials and triumphs so well that she soon forgot herself, and tried to imitate Mrs Siddons as Lady Macbeth, looking up at the engraving as she held her nosegay like the candle in the sleep-walking scene, and knit her youthful brows distressfully while murmuring the speech of the haunted queen. So busy was she that Miss Cameron watched her for several minutes unseen, then startled her by suddenly sweeping in with the words upon her lips, the look upon her face, which made that one of her greatest scenes.
'I never can do it like that; but I'll keep trying, if you say I may,' cried Josie, forgetting her manners in the intense interest of the moment.
'Show me what you can do,' answered the actress, wisely plunging into the middle of things at once, well knowing that no common chat would satisfy this very earnest little person.
'First let me give you these. I thought you'd like wild things better than hot-house flowers; and I loved to bring them, as I'd no other way to thank you for your great kindness to me,' said Josie, offering her nosegay with a simple warmth that was very sweet.
'I do love them best, and keep my room full of the posies some good fairy hangs on my gate. Upon my word, I think I've found the fairy out--these are so like,' she added quickly, as her eye went from the flowers in her hand to others that stood near by, arranged with the same taste.
Josie's blush and smile betrayed her before she said, with a look full of girlish adoration and humility: 'I couldn't help it; I admire you so much. I know it was a liberty; but as I couldn't get in myself, I loved to think my posies pleased you.'
Something about the child and her little offering touched the woman, and, drawing Josie to her, she said, with no trace of actress in face or voice: 'They did please me, dear, and so do you. I'm tired of praise; and love is very sweet, when it is simple and sincere like this.'
Josie remembered to have heard, among many other stories, that Miss Cameron lost her lover years ago, and since had lived only for art. Now she felt that this might have been true; and pity for the splendid, lonely life made her face very eloquent, as well as grateful. Then, as if anxious to forget the past, her new friend said, in the commanding way that seemed natural to her: 'Let me see what you can do. Juliet, of course. All begin with that. Poor soul, how she is murdered!'
Now, Josie had intended to begin with Romeo's much-enduring sweetheart, and follow her up with Bianca, Pauline, and several of the favourite idols of stage-struck girls; but being a shrewd little person, she suddenly saw the wisdom of Uncle Laurie's advice, and resolved to follow it. So instead of the rant Miss Cameron expected, Josie gave poor Ophelia's mad scene, and gave it very well, having been trained by the college professor of elocution and done it many times. She was too young, of course, but the white gown, the loose hair, the real flowers she scattered over the imaginary grave, added to the illusion; and she sung the songs sweetly, dropped her pathetic curtsies, and vanished behind the curtain that divided the rooms with a backward look that surprised her critical auditor into a quick gesture of applause. Cheered by that welcome sound, Josie ran back as a little hoyden in one of the farces she had often acted, telling a story full of fun and naughtiness at first, but ending with a sob of repentance and an earnest prayer for pardon.
'Very good! Try again. Better than I expected,' called the voice of the oracle.
Josie tried Portia's speech, and recited very well, giving due emphasis to each fine sentence. Then, unable to refrain from what she considered her greatest effort, she burst into Juliet's balcony scene, ending with the poison and the tomb. She felt sure that she surpassed herself, and waited for applause. A ringing laugh made her tingle with indignation and disappointment, as she went to stand before Miss Cameron, saying in a tone of polite surprise: 'I have been told that I did it very well. I'm sorry you don't think so.'
'My dear, it's very bad. How can it help being so? What can a child like you know of love and fear and death? Don't try it yet. Leave tragedy alone till you are ready for it.'
'But you clapped Ophelia.'
'Yes, that was very pretty. Any clever girl can do it effectively. But the real meaning of Shakespeare is far above you yet, child. The comedy bit was best. There you showed real talent. It was both comic and pathetic. That's art. Don't lose it. The Portia was good declamation. Go on with that sort of thing; it trains the voice--teaches shades of expression. You've a good voice and natural grace--great helps both, hard to acquire.'
'Well, I'm glad I've got something,' sighed Josie, sitting meekly on a stool, much crestfallen, but not daunted yet, and bound to have her say out.
'My dear little girl, I told you that you would not like what I should say to you; yet I must be honest if I would really help you. I've had to do it for many like you; and most of them have never forgiven me, though my words have proved true, and they are what I advised them to be--good wives and happy mothers in quiet homes. A few have kept on, and done fairly well. One you will hear of soon, I think; for she has talent, indomitable patience, and mind as well as beauty. You are too young to show to which class you belong. Geniuses are very rare, and even at fifteen seldom give much promise of future power.'
'Oh, I don't think I'm a genius!' cried Josie, growing calm and sober as she listened to the melodious voice and looked into the expressive face that filled her with confidence, so strong, sincere, and kindly was it. 'I only want to find out if I have talent enough to go on, and after years of study to be able to act well in any of the good plays people never tire of seeing. I don't expect to be a Mrs Siddons or a Miss Cameron, much as I long to be; but it does seem as if I had something in me which can't come out in any way but this. When I act I'm perfectly happy. I seem to live, to be in my own world, and each new part is a new friend. I love Shakespeare, and am never tired of his splendid people. Of course, I don't understand it all; but it's like being alone at night with the mountains and the stars, solemn and grand, and I try to imagine how it will look when the sun comes up, and all is glorious and clear to me. I can't see, but I feel the beauty, and long to express it.'
As she spoke with the most perfect self-forgetfulness Josie was pale with excitement, her eyes shone, her lips trembled, and all her little soul seemed trying to put into words the emotions that filled it to overflowing. Miss Cameron understood, felt that this was something more than a girlish whim; and when she answered there was a new tone of sympathy in her voice, a new interest in her face, though she wisely refrained from saying all she thought, well knowing what splendid dreams young people build upon a word, and how bitter is the pain when the bright bubbles burst.
'If you feel this, I can give you no better advice than to go on loving and studying our great master,' she said slowly; but Josie caught the changed tone, and felt, with a thrill of joy, that her new friend was speaking to her now as to a comrade. 'It is an education in itself, and a lifetime is not long enough to teach you all his secret. But there is much to do before you can hope to echo his words. Have you the patience, courage, strength, to begin at the beginning, and slowly, painfully, lay the foundation for future work? Fame is a pearl many dive for and only a few bring up. Even when they do, it is not perfect, and they sigh for more, and lose better things in struggling for them.'
The last words seemed spoken more to herself than to her hearer, but Josie answered quickly, with a smile and an expressive gesture: 'I got the bracelet in spite of all the bitter water in my eyes.'
'You did! I don't forget it. A good omen. We will accept it.'
Miss Cameron answered the smile with one that was like sunshine to the girl, and stretched her white hands as if taking some invisible gift. Then added in a different tone, watching the effect of her words on the expressive face before her: 'Now you will be disappointed, for instead of telling you to come and study with me, or go and act in some second-rate theatre at once, I advise you to go back to school and finish your education. That is the first step, for all accomplishments are needed, and a single talent makes a very imperfect character. Cultivate mind and body, heart and soul, and make yourself an intelligent, graceful, beautiful, and healthy girl. Then, at eighteen or twenty, go into training and try your powers. Better start for the battle with your arms in order, and save the hard lesson which comes when we rush on too soon. Now and then genius carries all before it, but not often. We have to climb slowly, with many slips and falls. Can you wait as well as work?'
'I will!'
'We shall see. It would be pleasant to me to know that when I quit the stage I leave behind me a well-trained, faithful, gifted comrade to more than fill my place, and carry on what I have much at heart--the purification of the stage. Perhaps you are she; but remember, mere beauty and rich costumes do not make an actress, nor are the efforts of a clever little girl to play great characters real art. It is all dazzle and sham, and a disgrace and disappointment now. Why will the public be satisfied with opera bouffe, or the trash called society plays when a world of truth and beauty, poetry and pathos lies waiting to be interpreted and enjoyed?'
Miss Cameron had forgotten to whom she spoke, and walked to and fro, full of the noble regret all cultivated people feel at the low state of the stage nowadays.
'That's what Uncle Laurie says; and he and Aunt Jo try to plan plays about true and lovely things--simple domestic scenes that touch people's hearts, and make them laugh and cry and feel better. Uncle says that sort is my style, and I must not think of tragedy. But it's so much nicer to sweep about in crowns and velvet trains than to wear everyday clothes, and just be myself, though it is so easy.'
'Yet that is high art, child, and what we need for a time till we are ready for the masters. Cultivate that talent of yours. It is a special gift, this power to bring tears and smiles, and a sweeter task to touch the heart than to freeze the blood or fire the imagination. Tell your uncle he is right, and ask your aunt to try a play for you. I'll come and see it when you are ready.'
'Will you? Oh! will you? We are going to have some at Christmas, with a nice part for me. A simple little thing, but I can do it, and should be so proud, so happy to have you there.'
Josie rose as she spoke, for a glance at the clock showed her that her call was a long one; and hard as it was to end this momentous interview, she felt that she must go. Catching up her hat she went to Miss Cameron, who stood looking at her so keenly that she felt as transparent as a pane of glass, and coloured prettily as she looked up, saying, with a grateful little tremor in her voice: 'I can never thank you for this hour and all you have told me. I shall do just what you advise, and mamma will be very glad to see me settled at my books again. I can study now with all my heart, because it is to help me on; and I won't hope too much, but work and wait, and try to please you, as the only way to pay my debt.'
'That reminds me that I have not paid mine. Little friend, wear this for my sake. It is fit for a mermaid, and will remind you of your first dive. May the next bring up a better jewel, and leave no bitter water on your lips!'
As she spoke, Miss Cameron took from the lace at her throat a pretty pin of aquamarine, and fastened it like an order on Josie's proud bosom; then lifting the happy little face, she kissed it very tenderly, and watched it go smiling away with eyes that seemed to see into a future full of the trials and the triumphs which she knew so well.
Bess expected to see Josie come flying in, all raptures and excitement, or drowned in tears of disappointment, but was surprised at the expression of calm content and resolution which she wore. Pride and satisfaction, and a new feeling of responsibility both sobered and sustained her, and she felt that any amount of dry study and long waiting would be bearable, if in the glorious future she could be an honour to her profession and a comrade to the new friend whom she already adored with girlish ardour.
She told her little story to a deeply interested audience, and all felt that Miss Cameron's advice was good. Mrs Amy was relieved at the prospect of delay; for she did not want her niece to be an actress and hoped the fancy would die out.
Uncle Laurie was full of charming plans and prophecies and wrote one of his most delightful notes to thank their neighbour for her kindness; while Bess, who loved art of all kinds, fully sympathized with her cousin's ambitious hopes, only wondering why she preferred to act out her visions rather than embody them in marble.
That first interview was not the last; for Miss Cameron was really interested, and had several memorable conversations with the Laurences, while the girls sat by, drinking in every word with the delight all artists feel in their own beautiful world, and learning to see how sacred good gifts are, how powerful, and how faithfully they should be used for high ends, each in its own place helping to educate, refine, and refresh.
Josie wrote reams to her mother; and when the visit ended rejoiced her heart by bringing her a somewhat changed little daughter, who fell to work at the once-detested books with a patient energy which surprised and pleased everyone. The right string had been touched, and even French exercises and piano practice became endurable, since accomplishments would be useful by and by; dress, manners, and habits were all interesting now, because 'mind and body, heart and soul, must be cultivated', and while training to become an 'intelligent, graceful, healthy girl', little Josie was unconsciously fitting herself to play her part well on whatever stage the great Manager might prepare for her.
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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9
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. THE WORM TURNS
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Two very superior bicycles went twinkling up the road to Plumfield one September afternoon, bearing two brown and dusty riders evidently returning from a successful run, for though their legs might be a trifle weary, their faces beamed as they surveyed the world from their lofty perches with the air of calm content all wheelmen wear after they have learned to ride; before that happy period anguish of mind and body is the chief expression of the manly countenance.
'Go ahead and report, Tom; I'm due here. See you later,' said Demi, swinging himself down at the door of the Dovecote.
'Don't peach, there's a good fellow. Let me have it out with Mother Bhaer first,' returned Tom, wheeling in at the gate with a heavy sigh.
Demi laughed, and his comrade went slowly up the avenue, devoutly hoping that the coast was clear; for he was the bearer of tidings which would, he thought, convulse the entire family with astonishment and dismay.
To his great joy Mrs Jo was discovered alone in a grove of proof-sheets, which she dropped, to greet the returning wanderer cordially. But after the first glance she saw that something was the matter, recent events having made her unusually sharp-eyed and suspicious.
'What is it now, Tom?' she asked, as he subsided into an easy-chair with a curious expression of mingled fear, shame, amusement, and distress in his brick-red countenance.
'I'm in an awful scrape, ma'am.'
'Of course; I'm always prepared for scrapes when you appear. What is it? Run over some old lady who is going to law about it?' asked Mrs Jo cheerfully.
'Worse than that,' groaned Tom.
'Not poisoned some trusting soul who asked you to prescribe, I hope?'
'Worse than that.'
'You haven't let Demi catch any horrid thing and left him behind, have you?'
'Worse even than that.'
'I give it up. Tell me quick; I hate to wait for bad news.'
Having got his listener sufficiently excited, Tom launched his thunderbolt in one brief sentence, and fell back to watch the effect.
'I'm engaged!'
Mrs Jo's proof-sheets flew wildly about as she clasped her hands, exclaiming in dismay: 'If Nan has yielded, I'll never forgive her!'
'She hasn't; it's another girl.'
Tom's face was so funny as he said the words, that it was impossible to help laughing; for he looked both sheepish and pleased, besides very much perplexed and worried.
'I'm glad, very glad indeed! Don't care who it is; and I hope you'll be married soon. Now tell me all about it,' commanded Mrs Jo, so much relieved that she felt ready for anything.
'What will Nan say?' demanded Tom, rather taken aback at this view of his predicament.
'She will be rejoiced to get rid of the mosquito who has plagued her so long. Don't worry about Nan. Who is this “other girl”?'
'Demi hasn't written about her?'
'Only something about your upsetting a Miss West down at Quitno; I thought that was scrape enough.'
'That was only the beginning of a series of scrapes. Just my luck! Of course after sousing the poor girl I had to be attentive to her, hadn't I? Everyone seemed to think so, and I couldn't get away, and so I was lost before I knew it. It's all Demi's fault, he would stay there and fuss with his old photos, because the views were good and all the girls wanted to be taken. Look at these, will you, ma'am? That's the way we spent our time when we weren't playing tennis'; and Tom pulled a handful of pictures from his pocket, displaying several in which he was conspicuous, either holding a sun-umbrella over a very pretty young lady on the rocks, reposing at her feet in the grass, or perched on a piazza railing with other couples in seaside costumes and effective attitudes.
'This is she of course?' asked Mrs Jo, pointing to the much-ruffled damsel with the jaunty hat, coquettish shoes, and racquet in her hand.
'That's Dora. Isn't she lovely?' cried Tom, forgetting his tribulations for a moment and speaking with lover-like ardour.
'Very nice little person to look at. Hope she is not a Dickens Dora? That curly crop looks like it.'
'Not a bit; she's very smart; can keep house, and sew, and do lots of things, I assure you, ma'am. All the girls like her, and she's sweet-tempered and jolly, and sings like a bird, and dances beautifully, and loves books. Thinks yours are splendid, and made me talk about you no end.'
'That last sentence is to flatter me and win my help to get you out of the scrape. Tell me first how you got in'; and Mrs Jo settled herself to listen with interest, never tired of boys' affairs.
Tom gave his head a rousing rub all over to clear his wits, and plunged into his story with a will.
'Well, we've met her before, but I didn't know she was there. Demi wanted to see a fellow, so we went, and finding it nice and cool rested over Sunday. Found some pleasant people and went out rowing; I had Dora, and came to grief on a confounded rock. She could swim, no harm done, only the scare and the spoilt gown. She took it well, and we got friendly at once--couldn't help it, scrambling into that beast of a boat while the rest laughed at us. Of course we had to stay another day to see that Dora was all right. Demi wanted to. Alice Heath is down there and two other girls from our college, so we sort of lingered along, and Demi kept taking pictures, and we danced, and got into a tennis tournament; and that was as good exercise as wheeling, we thought. Fact is, tennis is a dangerous game, ma'am. A great deal of courting goes on in those courts, and we fellows find that sort of “serving” mighty agreeable, don't you know?'
'Not much tennis in my day, but I understand perfectly,' said Mrs Jo, enjoying it all as much as Tom did.
'Upon my word, I hadn't the least idea of being serious,' he continued slowly, as if this part of his tale was hard to tell; 'but everyone else spooned, so I did. Dora seemed to like it and expect it, and of course I was glad to be agreeable. She thought I amounted to something, though Nan does not, and it was pleasant to be appreciated after years of snubbing. Yes, it was right down jolly to have a sweet girl smile at you all day, and blush prettily when you said a neat thing to her, and look glad when you came, sorry when you left, and admire all you did, and make you feel like a man and act your best. That's the sort of treatment a fellow enjoys and ought to get if he behaves himself; not frowns and cold shoulders year in and year out, and made to look like a fool when he means well, and is faithful, and has loved a girl ever since he was a boy. No, by Jove, it's not fair, and I won't stand it!'
Tom waxed warm and eloquent as he thought over his wrongs, and bounced up to march about the room, wagging his head and trying to feel aggrieved as usual, but surprised to find that his heart did not ache a bit.
'I wouldn't. Drop the old fancy, for it was nothing more, and take up the new one, if it is genuine. But how came you to propose, Tom, as you must have done to be engaged?' asked Mrs Jo, impatient for the crisis of the tale.
'Oh, that was an accident. I didn't mean it at all; the donkey did it, and I couldn't get out of the scrape without hurting Dora's feelings, you see,' began Tom, seeing that the fatal moment had come.
'So there were two donkeys in it, were there?' said Mrs Jo, foreseeing fun of some sort.
'Don't laugh! It sounds funny, I know; but it might have been awful,' answered Tom darkly, though a twinkle of the eye showed that his love trials did not quite blind him to the comic side of the adventure.
'The girls admired our new wheels, and of course we liked to show off. Took 'em to ride, and had larks generally. Well, one day, Dora was on behind, and we were going nicely along a good bit of road, when a ridiculous old donkey got right across the way. I thought he'd move, but he didn't, so I gave him a kick; he kicked back, and over we went in a heap, donkey and all. Such a mess! I thought only of Dora, and she had hysterics; at least, she laughed till she cried, and that beast brayed, and I lost my head. Any fellow would, with a poor girl gasping in the road, and he wiping her tears and begging pardon, not knowing whether her bones were broken or not. I called her my darling, and went on like a fool in my flurry, till she grew calmer, and said, with such a look: “I forgive you, Tom. Pick me up, and let us go on again.”
'Wasn't that sweet now, after I'd upset her for the second time? It touched me to the heart; and I said I'd like to go on for ever with such an angel to steer for, and--well I don't know what I did say; but you might have knocked me down with a feather when she put her arm round my neck and whispered: “Tom, dear, with you I'm not afraid of any lions in the path.” She might have said donkeys; but she was in earnest, and she spared my feelings. Very nice of the dear girl; but there I am with two sweethearts on my hands, and in a deuce of a scrape.'
Finding it impossible to contain herself another moment, Mrs Jo laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks at this characteristic episode; and after one reproachful look, which only added to her merriment, Tom burst into a jolly roar that made the room ring.
'Tommy Bangs! Tommy Bangs! who but you could ever get into such a catastrophe?' said Mrs Jo, when she recovered her breath.
'Isn't it a muddle all round, and won't everyone chaff me to death about it? I shall have to quit old Plum for a while,' answered Tom, as he mopped his face, trying to realize the full danger of his position.
'No, indeed; I'll stand by you, for I think it the best joke of the season. But tell me how things ended. Is it really serious, or only a summer flirtation? I don't approve of them, but boys and girls will play with edged tools and cut their fingers.'
'Well, Dora considers herself engaged, and wrote to her people at once. I couldn't say a word when she took it all in solemn earnest and seemed so happy. She's only seventeen, never liked anyone before, and is sure all will be all right; as her father knows mine, and we are both well off. I was so staggered that I said: '“Why, you can't love me really when we know so little of one another?” But she answered right out of her tender little heart: “Yes, I do, dearly, Tom; you are so gay and kind and honest, I couldn't help it.” Now, after that what could I do but go ahead and make her happy while I stayed, and trust to luck to straighten the snarl out afterwards?'
'A truly Tomian way of taking things easy. I hope you told your father at once.'
'Oh yes, I wrote off and broke it to him in three lines. I said: “Dear Father, I'm engaged to Dora West, and I hope she will suit the family. She suits me tip-top. Yours ever, Tom.” He was all right, never liked Nan, you know; but Dora will suit him down to the ground.' And Tom looked entirely satisfied with his own tact and taste.
'What did Demi say to this rapid and funny lovemaking? Wasn't he scandalized?' asked Mrs Jo, trying not to laugh again as she thought of the unromantic spectacle of donkey, bicycle, boy, and girl all in the dust together.
'Not a bit. He was immensely interested and very kind; talked to me like a father; said it was a good thing to steady a fellow, only I must be honest with her and myself and not trifle a moment. Demi is a regular Solomon, especially when he is in the same boat,' answered Tom, looking wise.
'You don't mean--?' gasped Mrs Jo, in sudden alarm at the bare idea of more love-affairs just yet.
'Yes, I do, please, ma'am; it's a regular sell all the way through, and I owe Demi one for taking me into temptation blindfold. He said he went to Quitno to see Fred Wallace, but he never saw the fellow. How could he, when Wallace was off in his yacht all the time we were there? Alice was the real attraction, and I was left to my fate, while they were maundering round with that old camera. There were three donkeys in this affair, and I'm not the worst one, though I shall have to bear the laugh. Demi will look innocent and sober, and no one will say a word to him.'
'The midsummer madness has broken out, and no one knows who will be stricken next. Well, leave Demi to his mother, and let us see what you are going to do, Tom.'
'I don't know exactly; it's awkward to be in love with two girls at once. What do you advise?'
'A common-sense view of the case, by all means. Dora loves you and thinks you love her. Nan does not care for you, and you only care for her as a friend, though you have tried to do more. It is my opinion, Tom, that you love Dora, or are on the way to it; for in all these years I've never seen you look or speak about Nan as you do about Dora. Opposition has made you obstinately cling to her till accident has shown you a more attractive girl. Now, I think you had better take the old love for a friend, the new one for a sweetheart, and in due time, if the sentiment is genuine, marry her.'
If Mrs Jo had any doubts about the matter, Tom's face would have proved the truth of her opinion; for his eyes shone, his lips smiled, and in spite of dust and sunburn a new expression of happiness quite glorified him as he stood silent for a moment, trying to understand the beautiful miracle which real love works when it comes to a young man's heart.
'The fact is I meant to make Nan jealous, for she knows Dora, and I was sure would hear of our doings. I was tired of being walked on, and I thought I'd try to break away and not be a bore and a laughing-stock any more,' he said slowly, as if it relieved him to pour out his doubts and woes and hopes and joys to his old friend. 'I was regularly astonished to find it so easy and so pleasant. I didn't mean to do any harm, but drifted along beautifully, and told Demi to mention things in his letters to Daisy, so Nan might know. Then I forgot Nan altogether, and saw, heard, felt, cared for no one but Dora, till the donkey--bless his old heart! --pitched her into my arms and I found she loved me. Upon my soul, I don't see why she should! I'm not half good enough.'
'Every honest man feels that when an innocent girl puts her hand in his. Make yourself worthy of her, for she isn't an angel, but a woman with faults of her own for you to bear, and forgive, and you must help one another,' said Mrs Jo, trying to realize that this sober youth was her scapegrace Tommy.
'What troubles me is that I didn't mean it when I began, and was going to use the dear girl as an instrument of torture for Nan. It wasn't right, and I don't deserve to be so happy. If all my scrapes ended as well as this, what a state of bliss I should be in!' and Tom beamed again at the rapturous prospect.
'My dear boy, it is not a scrape, but a very sweet experience suddenly dawning upon you,' answered Mrs Jo, speaking very soberly; for she saw he was in earnest. 'Enjoy it wisely and be worthy of it, for it is a serious thing to accept a girl's love and trust, and let her look up to you for tenderness and truth in return. Don't let little Dora look in vain, but be a man in all things for her sake, and make this affection a blessing to you both.'
'I'll try. Yes, I do love her, only I can't believe it just yet. Wish you knew her. Dear little soul, I long to see her already! She cried when we parted last night and I hated to go.' Tom's hand went to his cheek as if he still felt the rosy little seal Dora had set upon his promise not to forget her, and for the first time in his happy-go-lucky life Tommy Bangs understood the difference between sentiment and sentimentality. The feeling recalled Nan, for he had never known that tender thrill when thinking of her, and the old friendship seemed rather a prosaic affair beside this delightful mingling of romance, surprise, love, and fun. 'I declare, I feel as if a weight was off me, but what the dickens will Nan say when she knows it!' he exclaimed with a chuckle.
'Knows what?' asked a clear voice that made both start and turn, for there was Nan calmly surveying them from the doorway.
Anxious to put Tom out of suspense and see how Nan would take the news, Mrs Jo answered quickly: 'Tom's engagement to Dora West.'
'Really?' and Nan looked so surprised that Mrs Jo was afraid she might be fonder of her old playmate than she knew; but her next words set the fear at rest, and made everything comfortable and merry at once.
'I knew my prescription would work wonders if he only took it long enough. Dear old Tom, I'm so glad. Bless you! bless you!' And she shook both his hands with hearty affection.
'It was an accident, Nan. I didn't mean to, but I'm always getting into messes, and I couldn't seem to get out of this any other way. Mother Bhaer will tell you all about it. I must go and make myself tidy. Going to tea with Demi. See you later.'
Stammering, blushing, and looking both sheepish and gratified, Tom suddenly bolted, leaving the elder lady to enlighten the younger at length, and have another laugh over this new sort of courtship, which might well be called accidental. Nan was deeply interested, for she knew Dora, thought her a nice little thing, and predicted that in time she would make Tom an excellent wife, since she admired and 'appreciated' him so much.
'I shall miss him of course, but it will be a relief to me and better for him; dangling is so bad for a boy. Now he will go into business with his father and do well, and everyone be happy. I shall give Dora an elegant family medicine-chest for a wedding-present, and teach her how to use it. Tom can't be trusted, and is no more fit for the profession than Silas.'
The latter part of this speech relieved Mrs Jo's mind, for Nan had looked about her as if she had lost something valuable when she began; but the medicine-chest seemed to cheer her, and the thought of Tom in a safe profession was evidently a great comfort.
'The worm has turned at last, Nan, and your bond-man is free. Let him go, and give your whole mind to your work; for you are fitted for the profession, and will be an honour to it by and by,' she said approvingly.
'I hope so. That reminds me--measles are in the village, and you had better tell the girls not to call where there are children. It would be bad to have a run of them just as term begins. Now I'm off to Daisy. Wonder what she will say to Tom. Isn't he great fun?' And Nan departed, laughing over the joke with such genuine satisfaction that it was evident no sentimental regrets disturbed her 'maiden meditation, fancy-free'.
'I shall have my eye on Demi, but won't say a word. Meg likes to manage her children in her own way, and a very good way it is. But the dear Pelican will be somewhat ruffled if her boy has caught the epidemic which seems to have broken out among us this summer.'
Mrs Jo did not mean the measles, but that more serious malady called love, which is apt to ravage communities, spring and autumn, when winter gaiety and summer idleness produce whole bouquets of engagements, and set young people to pairing off like the birds. Franz began it, Nat was a chronic and Tom a sudden case; Demi seemed to have the symptoms; and worst of all, her own Ted had only the day before calmly said to her: 'Mum, I think I should be happier if I had a sweetheart, like the other boys.' If her cherished son had asked her for dynamite to play with, she would hardly have been more startled, or have more decidedly refused the absurd request.
'Well, Barry Morgan said I ought to have one and offered to pick me out a nice one among our set. I asked Josie first, and she hooted at the idea, so I thought I'd let Barry look round. You say it steadies a fellow, and I want to be steady,' explained Ted in a serious tone, which would have convulsed his parent at any other time.
'Good lack! What are we coming to in this fast age when babes and boys make such demands and want to play with one of the most sacred things in life?' exclaimed Mrs Jo, and having in a few words set the matter in its true light, sent her son away to wholesome baseball and Octoo for a safe sweetheart.
Now, here was Tom's bomb-shell to explode in their midst, carrying widespread destruction, perhaps; for though one swallow does not make a summer, one engagement is apt to make several, and her boys were, most of them, at the inflammable age when a spark ignites the flame, which soon flickers and dies out, or burns warm and clear for life. Nothing could be done about it but to help them make wise choices, and be worthy of good mates. But of all the lessons Mrs Jo had tried to teach her boys, this great one was the hardest; for love is apt to make lunatics of even saints and sages, so young people cannot be expected to escape the delusions, disappointments, and mistakes, as well as the delights, of this sweet madness.
'I suppose it is inevitable, since we live in America, so I won't borrow trouble, but hope that some of the new ideas of education will produce a few hearty, happy, capable, and intelligent girls for my lads. Lucky for me that I haven't the whole twelve on my hands, I should lose my wits if I had, for I foresee complications and troubles ahead worse than Tom's boats, bicycles, donkeys, and Doras,' meditated Mrs Jo, as she went back to her neglected proof-sheets.
Tom was quite satisfied with the tremendous effect his engagement produced in the little community at Plumfield.
'It was paralysing,' as Demi said; and astonishment left most of Tom's mates little breath for chaff. That he, the faithful one, should turn from the idol to strange goddesses, was a shock to the romantic and a warning to the susceptible. It was comical to see the airs our Thomas put on; for the most ludicrous parts of the affair were kindly buried in oblivion by the few who knew them, and Tom burst forth as a full-blown hero who had rescued the maiden from a watery grave, and won her gratitude and love by his daring deed. Dora kept the secret, and enjoyed the fun when she came to see Mother Bhaer and pay her respects to the family generally. Everyone liked her at once, for she was a gay and winning little soul; fresh, frank, and so happy, it was beautiful to see her innocent pride in Tom, who was a new boy, or man rather; for with this change in his life a great change took place in him. Jolly he would always be, and impulsive, but he tried to become all that Dora believed him, and his best side came uppermost for everyday wear. It was surprising to see how many good traits Tom had; and his efforts to preserve the manly dignity belonging to his proud position as an engaged man was very comical. So was the entire change from his former abasement and devotion to Nan to a somewhat lordly air with his little betrothed; for Dora made an idol of him, and resented the idea of a fault or a flaw in her Tom. This new state of things suited both, and the once blighted being bloomed finely in the warm atmosphere of appreciation, love, and confidence. He was very fond of the dear girl, but meant to be a slave no longer, and enjoyed his freedom immensely, quite unconscious that the great tyrant of the world had got hold of him for life.
To his father's satisfaction he gave up his medical studies, and prepared to go into business with the old gentleman, who was a flourishing merchant, ready now to make the way smooth and smile upon his marriage with Mr West's well-endowed daughter. The only thorn in Tom's bed of roses was Nan's placid interest in his affairs, and evident relief at his disloyalty. He did not want her to suffer, but a decent amount of regret at the loss of such a lover would have gratified him; a slight melancholy, a word of reproach, a glance of envy as he passed with adoring Dora on his arm, seemed but the fitting tribute to such years of faithful service and sincere affection. But Nan regarded him with a maternal sort of air that nettled him very much, and patted Dora's curly head with a worldlywise air worthy of the withered spinster, Julia Mills, in David Copperfield.
It took some time to get the old and the new emotions comfortably adjusted, but Mrs Jo helped him, and Mr Laurie gave him some wise advice upon the astonishing gymnastic feats the human heart can perform, and be all the better for it if it only held fast to the balancing-pole of truth and common sense. At last our Tommy got his bearings, and as autumn came on Plumfield saw but little of him; for his new lode star was in the city, and business kept him hard at work. He was evidently in his right place now, and soon throve finely, to his father's great contentment; for his jovial presence pervaded the once quiet office like a gale of fresh wind, and his lively wits found managing men and affairs much more congenial employment than studying disease, or playing unseemly pranks with skeletons.
Here we will leave him for a time and turn to the more serious adventures of his mates, though this engagement, so merrily made, was the anchor which kept our mercurial Tom happy, and made a man of him.
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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10
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. DEMI SETTLES
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'Mother, can I have a little serious conversation with you?' asked Demi one evening, as they sat together enjoying the first fire of the season, while Daisy wrote letters upstairs and Josie was studying in the little library close by.
'Certainly, dear. No bad news, I hope?' and Mrs Meg looked up from her sewing with a mixture of pleasure and anxiety on her motherly face; for she dearly loved a good talk with her son, and knew that he always had something worth telling.
'It will be good news for you, I think,' answered Demi, smiling as he threw away his paper and went to sit beside her on the little sofa which just held two.
'Let me hear it, then, at once.'
'I know you don't like the reporting, and will be glad to hear that I have given it up.'
'I am very glad! It is too uncertain a business, and there is no prospect of getting on for a long time. I want you settled in some good place where you can stay, and in time make money. I wish you liked a profession; but as you don't, any clean, well-established business will do.'
'What do you say to a railroad office?'
'I don't like it. A noisy, hurried kind of place, I know, with all sorts of rough men about. I hope it isn't that, dear?'
'I could have it; but does book-keeping in a wholesale leather business please you better?'
'No; you'll get round-shouldered writing at a tall desk; and they say, once a book-keeper always a book-keeper.'
'How does a travelling agent suit your views?'
'Not at all; with all those dreadful accidents, and the exposure and bad food as you go from place to place, you are sure to get killed or lose your health.'
'I could be private secretary to a literary man; but the salary is small, and may end any time.'
'That would be better, and more what I want. It isn't that I object to honest work of any kind; but I don't want my son to spend his best years grubbing for a little money in a dark office, or be knocked about in a rough-and-tumble scramble to get on. I want to see you in some business where your tastes and talents can be developed and made useful; where you can go on rising, and in time put in your little fortune and be a partner; so that your years of apprenticeship will not be wasted, but fit you to take your place among the honourable men who make their lives and work useful and respected. I talked it all over with your dear father when you were a child; and if he had lived he would have shown you what I mean, and helped you to be what he was.'
Mrs Meg wiped away a quiet tear as she spoke; for the memory of her husband was a very tender one, and the education of his children had been a sacred task to which she gave all her heart and life, and so far she had done wonderfully well--as her good son and loving daughters tried to prove. Demi's arm was round her now, as he said, in a voice so like his father's that it was the sweetest music to her ear: 'Mother dear, I think I have got just what you want for me; and it shall not be my fault if I don't become the man you hope to see me. Let me tell you all about it. I didn't say anything till it was sure because it would only worry you; but Aunt Jo and I have been on the look-out for it some time, and now it has come. You know her publisher, Mr Tiber, is one of the most successful men in the business; also generous, kind, and the soul of honour--as his treatment of Aunty proves. Well, I've rather hankered for that place; for I love books, and as I can't make them I'd like to publish them. That needs some literary taste and judgement, it brings you in contact with fine people, and is an education in itself. Whenever I go into that large, handsome room to see Mr Tiber for Aunt Jo, I always want to stay; for it's lined with books and pictures, famous men and women come and go, and Mr Tiber sits at his desk like a sort of king, receiving his subjects; for the greatest authors are humble to him, and wait his Yes or No with anxiety. Of course I've nothing to do with all that, and may never have; but I like to see it, and the atmosphere is so different from the dark offices and hurly-burly of many other trades, where nothing but money is talked about, that it seems another world, and I feel at home in it. Yes, I'd rather beat the door-mats and make fires there than be head clerk in the great hide and leather store at a big salary.' Here Demi paused for breath; and Mrs Meg, whose face had been growing brighter and brighter, exclaimed eagerly: 'Just what I should like! Have you got it? Oh, my dear boy! your fortune is made if you go to that well-established and flourishing place, with those good men to help you along!'
'I think I have, but we mustn't be too sure of anything yet. I may not suit; I'm only on trial, and must begin at the beginning and work my way up faithfully. Mr Tiber was very kind, and will push me on as fast as is fair to the other fellows, and as I prove myself fit to go up. I'm to begin the first of next month in the book-room, filling orders; and I go round and get orders, and do various other things of the sort. I like it. I am ready to do anything about books, if it's only to dust them,' laughed Demi, well pleased with his prospects, for, after trying various things, he seemed at last to have found the sort of work he liked, and a prospect that was very inviting to him.
'You inherit that love of books from grandpa; he can't live without them. I'm glad of it. Tastes of that kind show a refined nature, and are both a comfort and a help all one's life. I am truly glad and grateful, John, that at last you want to settle, and have got such an entirely satisfactory place. Most boys begin much earlier; but I don't believe in sending them out to face the world so young, just when body and soul need home care and watchfulness. Now you are a man, and must begin your life for yourself. Do your best, and be as honest, useful, and happy as your father, and I won't care about making a fortune.'
'I'll try, mother. Couldn't have a better chance; for Tiber & Co. treat their people like gentlemen, and pay generously for faithful work. Things are done in a businesslike way there, and that suits me. I hate promises that are not kept, and shiftless or tyrannical ways anywhere. Mr Tiber said: “This is only to teach you the ropes, Brooke; I shall have other work for you by and by.” Aunty told him I had done book notices, and had rather a fancy for literature; so though I can't produce any “works of Shakespeare”, as she says, I may get up some little things later. If I don't, I think it a very honourable and noble profession to select and give good books to the world; and I'm satisfied to be a humble helper in the work.'
'I'm glad you feel so. It adds so much to one's happiness to love the task one does. I used to hate teaching; but housekeeping for my own family was always sweet, though much harder in many ways. Isn't Aunt Jo pleased about all this?' asked Mrs Meg, already seeing in her mind's eye a splendid sign with 'Tiber, Brooke & Co.' over the door of a famous publishing house.
'So pleased that I could hardly keep her from letting the cat out of the bag too soon. I've had so many plans, and disappointed you so often, I wanted to be very sure this time. I had to bribe Rob and Ted to keep her at home tonight till I'd told my news, she was eager to rush down and tell you herself. The castles that dear woman has built for me would fill all Spain, and have kept us jolly while we waited to know our fate. Mr Tiber doesn't do things in a hurry; but when he makes up his mind, you are all right; and I feel that I am fairly launched.'
'Bless you, dear, I hope so! It is a happy day for me, because I've been so anxious lest, with all my care, I have been too easy and indulgent, and my boy, with his many good gifts, might fritter his time away in harmless but unsatisfactory things. Now I am at ease about you. If only Daisy can be happy, and Josie give up her dream, I shall be quite contented.'
Demi let his mother enjoy herself for a few minutes, while he smiled over a certain little dream of his own, not ready yet for the telling; then he said, in the paternal tone which he unconsciously used when speaking of his sisters: 'I'll see to the girls; but I begin to think grandpa is right in saying we must each be what God and nature makes us. We can't change it much--only help to develop the good and control the bad elements in us. I have fumbled my way into my right place at last, I hope. Let Daisy be happy in her way, since it is a good and womanly one. If Nat comes home all right, I'd say: “Bless you, my children,” and give them a nest of their own. Then you and I will help little Jo to find out if it is to be “All the world's a stage” or “Home, sweet home”, for her.'
'I suppose we must, John; but I can't help making plans, and hoping they will come to pass. I see that Daisy is bound up in Nat; and if he is worthy of her I shall let them be happy in their own way, as my parents let me. But Josie will be a trial, I foresee; and much as I love the stage, and always did, I don't see how I can ever let my little girl be an actress, though she certainly has great talent for it.'
'Whose fault is that?' asked Demi, smiling, as he remembered his mother's early triumphs and unquenchable interest in the dramatic efforts of the young people round her.
'Mine, I know. How could it be otherwise when I acted Babes in the Wood with you and Daisy before you could speak, and taught Josie to declaim Mother Goose in her cradle. Ah, me! the tastes of the mother come out in her children, and she must atone for them by letting them have their own way, I suppose.' And Mrs Meg laughed, even while she shook her head over the undeniable fact that the Marches were a theatrical family.
'Why not have a great actress of our name, as well as an authoress, a minister, and an eminent publisher? We don't choose our talents, but we needn't hide them in a napkin because they are not just what we want. I say, let Jo have her way, and do what she can. Here am I to take care of her; and you can't deny you'd enjoy fixing her furbelows, and seeing her shine before the footlights, where you used to long to be. Come, mother, better face the music and march gaily, since your wilful children will “gang their ain gait”.'
'I don't see but I must, and “leave the consequences to the Lord”, as Marmee used to say when she had to decide, and only saw a step of the road. I should enjoy it immensely, if I could only feel that the life would not hurt my girl, and leave her unsatisfied when it was too late to change; for nothing is harder to give up than the excitements of that profession. I know something of it; and if your blessed father had not come along, I'm afraid I should have been an actress in spite of Aunt March and all our honoured ancestors.'
'Let Josie add new honour to the name, and work out the family talent in its proper place. I'll play dragon to her, and you play nurse, and no harm can come to our little Juliet, no matter how many Romeos spoon under her balcony. Really, ma'am, opposition comes badly from an old lady who is going to wring the hearts of our audience in the heroine's part in Aunty's play next Christmas. It's the most pathetic thing I ever saw, mother; and I'm sorry you didn't become an actress, though we should be nowhere if you had.'
Demi was on his legs now, with his back to the fire, in the lordly attitude men like to assume when things go well with them, or they want to lay down the law on any subject.
Mrs Meg actually blushed at her son's hearty praise, and could not deny that the sound of applause was as sweet now as when she played the Witch's Curse and The Moorish Maiden's Vow long years ago.
'It's perfectly absurd for me to do it, but I couldn't resist when Jo and Laurie made the part for me, and you children were to act in it. The minute I get on the old mother's dress I forget myself and feel the same thrill at the sound of the bell that I used to feel when we got up plays in the garret. If Daisy would only take the daughter's part it would be so complete; for with you and Josie I am hardly acting, it is all so real.'
'Especially the hospital scene, where you find the wounded son. Why, mother, do you know when we did that at last rehearsal my face was wet with real tears as you cried over me. It will bring down the house; but don't forget to wipe 'em off, or I shall sneeze,' said Demi, laughing at the recollection of his mother's hit.
'I won't; but it almost broke my heart to see you so pale and dreadful. I hope there will never be another war in my time, for I should have to let you go; and I never want to live through the same experience we had with father.'
'Don't you think Alice does the part better than Daisy would? Daisy hasn't a bit of the actress in her, and Alice puts life into the dullest words she speaks. I think the Marquise is just perfect in our piece,' said Demi, strolling about the room as if the warmth of the fire sent a sudden colour to his face.
'So do I. She is a dear girl, and I'm proud and fond of her. Where is she tonight?'
'Pegging away at her Greek, I suppose. She usually is in the evening. More's the pity,' added Demi, in a low tone, as he stared intently at the book-case, though he couldn't read a title.
'Now, there is a girl after my own heart. Pretty, well-bred, well-educated, and yet domestic, a real companion as well as help-meet for some good and intelligent man. I hope she will find one.'
'So do I,' muttered Demi.
Mrs Meg had taken up her work again, and was surveying a half-finished buttonhole with so much interest that her son's face escaped her eye. He shed a beaming smile upon the rows of poets, as if even in their glass prison they could sympathize and rejoice with him at the first rosy dawn of the great passion which they knew so well. But Demi was a wise youth, and never leaped before looking carefully. He hardly knew his own heart yet, and was contented to wait till the sentiment, the fluttering of those folded wings he began to feel, should escape from the chrysalis and be ready to soar away in the sunshine to seek and claim its lovely mate. He had said nothing; but the brown eyes were eloquent, and there was an unconscious underplot to all the little plays he and Alice Heath acted so well together. She was busy with her books, bound to graduate with high honours, and he was trying to do the same in that larger college open to all, and where each man has his own prize to win or lose. Demi had nothing but himself to offer and, being a modest youth, considered that a poor gift till he had proved his power to earn his living, and the right to take a woman's happiness into his keeping.
No one guessed that he had caught the fever except sharp-eyed Josie, and she, having a wholesome fear of her brother--who could be rather awful when she went too far--wisely contented herself with watching him like a little cat, ready to pounce on the first visible sign of weakness. Demi had taken to playing pensively upon his flute after he was in his room for the night, making this melodious friend his confidante, and breathing into it all the tender hopes and fears that filled his heart. Mrs Meg, absorbed in domestic affairs, and Daisy, who cared for no music but Nat's violin, paid no heed to these chamber concerts, but Josie always murmured to herself, with a naughty chuckle, 'Dick Swiveller is thinking of his Sophy Wackles,' and bided her time to revenge certain wrongs inflicted upon her by Demi, who always took Daisy's side when she tried to curb the spirits of her unruly little sister.
This evening she got her chance, and made the most of it. Mrs Meg was just rounding off her buttonhole, and Demi still strolling restlessly about the room, when a book was heard to slam in the study, followed by an audible yawn and the appearance of the student looking as if sleep and a desire for mischief were struggling which should be master.
'I heard my name; have you been saying anything bad about me?' she demanded, perching on the arm of an easychair.
Her mother told the good news, over which Josie duly rejoiced, and Demi received her congratulations with a benignant air which made her feel that too much satisfaction was not good for him, and incited her to put a thorn into his bed of roses at once.
'I caught something about the play just now, and I want to tell you that I'm going to introduce a song into my part to liven it up a bit. How would this do?' and seating herself at the piano she began to sing to these words the air of 'Kathleen Mavourneen': 'Sweetest of maidens, oh, how can I tell The love that transfigures the whole earth to me? The longing that causes my bosom to swell, When I dream of a life all devoted to thee?'
She got no further, for Demi, red with wrath, made a rush at her, and the next moment a very agile young person was seen dodging round tables and chairs with the future partner of Tiber & Co. in hot pursuit. 'You monkey, how dare you meddle with my papers?' cried the irate poet, making futile grabs at the saucy girl, who skipped to and fro, waving a bit of paper tantalizingly before him.
'Didn't; found it in the big “Dic”. Serves you right if you leave your rubbish about. Don't you like my song? It's very pretty.'
'I'll teach you one that you won't like if you don't give me my property.'
'Come and get it if you can'; and Josie vanished into the study to have out her squabble in peace, for Mrs Meg was already saying: 'Children, children! don't quarrel.'
The paper was in the fire by the time Demi arrived and he at once calmed down, seeing that the bone of contention was out of the way.
'I'm glad it's burnt; I don't care for it, only some verse I was trying to set to music for one of the girls. But I'll trouble you to let my papers alone, or I shall take back the advice I gave mother tonight about allowing you to act as much as you like.'
Josie was sobered at once by this dire threat, and in her most wheedling tone begged to know what he had said. By way of heaping coals of fire on her head he told her, and this diplomatic performance secured him an ally on the spot.
'You dear old boy! I'll never tease you again though you moon and spoon both day and night. If you stand by me, I'll stand by you and never say a word. See here! I've got a note for you from Alice. Won't that be a peace-offering and soothe your little feelings?'
Demi's eyes sparkled as Josie held up a paper cocked hat, but as he knew what was probably in it, he took the wind out of Josie's sails, and filled her with blank astonishment by saying carelessly: 'That's nothing; it's only to say whether she will go to the concert with us tomorrow night. You can read it if you like.'
With the natural perversity of her sex Josie ceased to be curious the moment she was told to read it, and meekly handed it over; but she watched Demi as he calmly read the two lines it contained and then threw it into the fire. 'Why, Jack, I thought you'd treasure every scrap the “sweetest maid” touched. Don't you care for her?'
'Very much; we all do; but “mooning and spooning”, as you elegantly express it, is not in my line. My dear little girl, your plays make you romantic, and because Alice and I act lovers sometimes you take it into your silly head that we are really so. Don't waste time hunting mares nests, but attend to your own affairs and leave me to mine. I forgive you, but don't do it again; it's bad taste, and tragedy queens don't romp.'
The last cut finished Josie; she humbly begged pardon and went off to bed, while Demi soon followed, feeling that he had not only settled himself but his too inquisitive little sister also. But if he had seen her face as she listened to the soft wailing of his flute he would not have been so sure, for she looked as cunning as a magpie as she said, with a scornful sniff: 'Pooh, you can't deceive me; I know Dick is serenading Sophy Wackles.'
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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11
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. EMIL'S THANKSGIVING
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The Brenda was scudding along with all sail set to catch the rising wind, and everyone on board was rejoicing, for the long voyage was drawing towards an end.
'Four weeks more, Mrs Hardy, and we'll give you a cup of tea such as you never had before,' said second mate Hoffmann, as he paused beside two ladies sitting in a sheltered corner of the deck.
'I shall be glad to get it, and still gladder to put my feet on solid ground,' answered the elder lady, smiling; for our friend Emil was a favourite, as well he might be, since he devoted himself to the captain's wife and daughter, who were the only passengers on board.
'So shall I, even if I have to wear a pair of shoes like Chinese junks. I've tramped up and down the deck so much, I shall be barefooted if we don't arrive soon,' laughed Mary, the daughter, showing two shabby little boots as she glanced up at the companion of these tramps, remembering gratefully how pleasant he had made them.
'Don't think there are any small enough in China,' answered Emil, with a sailor's ready gallantry, privately resolving to hunt up the handsomest shoes he could find the moment he landed.
'I don't know what you would have done for exercise, dear, if Mr Hoffmann had not made you walk every day. This lazy life is bad for young people, though it suits an old body like me well enough in calm weather. Is this likely to be a gale, think ye?' added Mrs Hardy, with an anxious glance at the west, where the sun was setting redly.
'Only a capful of wind, ma'am, just enough to send us along lively,' answered Emil, with a comprehensive glance aloft and alow.
'Please sing, Mr Hoffmann, it's so pleasant to have music at this time. We shall miss it very much when we get ashore,' said Mary, in a persuasive tone which would have won melody from a shark, if such a thing were possible.
Emil had often blessed his one accomplishment during these months, for it cheered the long days, and made the twilight hour his happiest time, wind and weather permitting. So now he gladly tuned his pipe, and leaning on the taffrail near the girl, watched the brown locks blowing in the wind as he sang her favourite song: 'Give me freshening breeze, my boys, A white and swelling sail, A ship that cuts the dashing waves, And weathers every gale. What life is like a sailor's life, So free, so bold, so brave? His home the ocean's wide expanse, A coral bed his grave.'
Just as the last notes of the clear, strong voice died away, Mrs Hardy suddenly exclaimed: 'What's that?' Emil's quick eye saw at once the little puff of smoke coming up a hatchway where no smoke should be, and his heart seemed to stand still for an instant as the dread word 'Fire!' flashed through his mind. Then he was quite steady, and strolled away saying quietly: 'Smoking not allowed there, I'll go and stop it.' But the instant he was out of sight his face changed, and he leaped down the hatchway, thinking, with a queer smile on his lips: 'If we are afire, shouldn't wonder if I did make a coral bed my grave!'
He was gone a few minutes, and when he came up, half stifled with smoke, he was as white as a very brown man could be, but calm and cool as he went to report to the captain.
'Fire in the hold, sir.'
'Don't frighten the women,' was Captain Hardy's first order; then both be stirred themselves to discover how strong the treacherous enemy was, and to rout it if possible.
The Brenda's cargo was a very combustible one, and in spite of the streams of water poured into the hold it was soon evident that the ship was doomed. Smoke began to ooze up between the planks everywhere, and the rising gale soon fanned the smouldering fire to flames that began to break out here and there, telling the dreadful truth too plainly for anyone to hide. Mrs Hardy and Mary bore the shock bravely when told to be ready to quit the ship at a minute's notice; the boats were hastily prepared, and the men worked with a will to batten down every loophole whence the fire might escape. Soon the poor Brenda was a floating furnace, and the order to 'Take to the boats!' came for all. The women first, of course, and it was fortunate that, being a merchantman, there were no more passengers on board, so there was no panic, and one after the other the boats pushed off. That in which the women were lingered near, for the brave captain would be the last to leave his ship.
Emil stayed by him till ordered away, and reluctantly obeyed; but it was well for him he went, for just as he had regained the boat, rocking far below, half hidden by a cloud of smoke, a mast, undermined by the fire now raging in the bowels of the ship, fell with a crash, knocking Captain Hardy overboard. The boat soon reached him as he floated out from the wreck, and Emil sprung into the sea to rescue him, for he was wounded and senseless. This accident made it necessary for the young man to take command, and he at once ordered the men to pull for their lives, as an explosion might occur at any moment.
The other boats were out of danger and all lingered to watch the splendid yet awesome spectacle of the burning ship alone on the wide sea, reddening the night and casting a lurid glare upon the water, where floated the frail boats filled with pale faces, all turned for a last look at the fated Brenda, slowly settling to her watery grave. No one saw the end, however, for the gale soon swept the watchers far away and separated them, some never to meet again till the sea gives up its dead.
The boat whose fortunes we must follow was alone when dawn came up, showing these survivors all the dangers of their situation. Food and water had been put in, and such provision for comfort and safety as time allowed; but it was evident that with a badly wounded man, two women, and seven sailors, their supply would not last long, and help was sorely needed. Their only hope was in meeting a ship, although the gale, which had raged all night, had blown them out of their course. To this hope all clung, and wiled away the weary hours, watching the horizon and cheering one another with prophecies of speedy rescue.
Second mate Hoffmann was very brave and helpful, though his unexpected responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders; for the captain's state seemed desperate, the poor wife's grief wrung his heart, and the blind confidence of the young girl in his power to save them made him feel that no sign of doubt or fear must lessen it. The men did their part readily now, but Emil knew that if starvation and despair made brutes of them, his task might be a terrible one. So he clutched his courage with both hands, kept up a manly front, and spoke so cheerily of their good chances, that all instinctively turned to him for guidance and support.
The first day and night passed in comparative comfort, but when the third came, things looked dark and hope began to fail. The wounded man was delirious, the wife worn out with anxiety and suspense, the girl weak for want of food, having put away half her biscuit for her mother, and given her share of water to wet her father's feverish lips. The sailors ceased rowing and sat grimly waiting, openly reproaching their leader for not following their advice, others demanding more food, all waxing dangerous as privation and pain brought out the animal instincts lurking in them. Emil did his best, but mortal man was helpless there, and he could only turn his haggard face from the pitiless sky, that dropped no rain for their thirst, to the boundless sea where no sail appeared to gladden their longing eyes. All day he tried to cheer and comfort them, while hunger gnawed, thirst parched, and growing fear lay heavy at his heart. He told stories to the men, implored them to bear up for the helpless women's sake, and promised rewards if they would pull while they had strength to regain the lost route, as nearly as he could make it out, and increase their chance of rescue. He rigged an awning of sailcloth over the suffering man and tended him like a son, comforted the wife, and tried to make the pale girl forget herself, by singing every song he knew or recounting his adventures by land and sea, till she smiled and took heart; for all ended well.
The fourth day came and the supply of food and water was nearly gone. Emil proposed to keep it for the sick man and the women, but two of the men rebelled, demanding their share. Emil gave up his as an example, and several of the good fellows followed it, with the quiet heroism which so often crops up in rough but manly natures. This shamed the others, and for another day an ominous peace reigned in that little world of suffering and suspense. But during the night, while Emil, worn out with fatigue, left the watch to the most trustworthy sailor, that he might snatch an hour's rest, these two men got at the stores and stole the last of the bread and water, and the one bottle of brandy, which was carefully hoarded to keep up their strength and make the brackish water drinkable. Half mad with thirst, they drank greedily and by morning one was in a stupor, from which he never woke; the other so crazed by the strong stimulant, that when Emil tried to control him, he leaped overboard and was lost. Horror-stricken by this terrible scene, the other men were submissive henceforth, and the boat floated on and on with its sad freight of suffering souls and bodies.
Another trial came to them that left all more despairing than before. A sail appeared, and for a time a frenzy of joy prevailed, to be turned to bitterest disappointment when it passed by, too far away to see the signals waved to them or hear the frantic cries for help that rang across the sea. Emil's heart sank then, for the captain seemed dying, and the women could not hold out much longer. He kept up till night came; then in the darkness, broken only by the feeble murmuring of the sick man, the whispered prayers of the poor wife, the ceaseless swash of waves, Emil hid his face, and had an hour of silent agony that aged him more than years of happy life could have done. It was not the physical hardship that daunted him, though want and weakness tortured him; it was his dreadful powerlessness to conquer the cruel fate that seemed hanging over them. The men he cared little for, since these perils were but a part of the life they chose; but the master he loved, the good woman who had been so kind to him, the sweet girl whose winsome presence had made the long voyage so pleasant for them all--if he could only save these dear and innocent creatures from a cruel death, he felt that he could willingly give his life for them.
As he sat there with his head in his hands, bowed down by the first great trial of his young life, the starless sky overhead, the restless sea beneath, and all around him suffering, for which he had no help, a soft sound broke the silence, and he listened like one in a dream. It was Mary singing to her mother, who lay sobbing in her arms, spent with this long anguish. A very faint and broken voice it was, for the poor girl's lips were parched with thirst; but the loving heart turned instinctively to the great Helper in this hour of despair, and He heard her feeble cry. It was a sweet old hymn often sung at Plumfield; and as he listened, all the happy past came back so clearly that Emil forgot the bitter present, and was at home again. His talk on the housetop with Aunt Jo seemed but yesterday, and, with a pang of self-reproach, he thought: 'The scarlet strand! I must remember it, and do my duty to the end. Steer straight, old boy; and if you can't come into port, go down with all sail set.'
Then, as the soft voice crooned on to lull the weary woman to a fitful sleep, Emil for a little while forgot his burden in a dream of Plumfield. He saw them all, heard the familiar voices, felt the grip of welcoming hands, and seemed to say to himself: 'Well, they shall not be ashamed of me if I never see them any more.'
A sudden shout startled him from that brief rest, and a drop on his forehead told him that the blessed rain had come at last, bringing salvation with it; for thirst is harder to bear than hunger, heat, or cold. Welcomed by cries of joy, all lifted up their parched lips, held out their hands, and spread their garments to catch the great drops that soon came pouring down to cool the sick man's fever, quench the agony of thirst, and bring refreshment to every weary body in the boat. All night it fell, all night the castaways revelled in the saving shower, and took heart again, like dying plants revived by heaven's dew. The clouds broke away at dawn, and Emil sprung up, wonderfully braced and cheered by those hours of silent gratitude for this answer to their cry for help. But this was not all; as his eye swept the horizon, clear against the rosy sky shone the white sails of a ship, so near that they could see the pennon at her mast-head and black figures moving on the deck.
One cry broke from all those eager throats, and rang across the sea, as every man waved hat or handkerchief and the women stretched imploring hands towards this great white angel of deliverance coming down upon them as if the fresh wind filled every sail to help her on.
No disappointment now; answering signals assured them of help; and in the rapture of that moment the happy women fell on Emil's neck, giving him his reward in tears and blessings as their grateful hearts overflowed. He always said that was the proudest moment of his life, as he stood there holding Mary in his arms; for the brave girl, who had kept up so long, broke down then, and clung to him half fainting; while her mother busied herself about the invalid, who seemed to feel the joyful stir, and gave an order, as if again on the deck of his lost ship.
It was soon over; and then all were safely aboard the good Urania, homeward bound. Emil saw his friends in tender hands, his men among their mates, and told the story of the wreck before he thought of himself. The savoury odour of the soup, carried by to the cabin for the ladies, reminded him that he was starving, and a sudden stagger betrayed his weakness. He was instantly borne away, to be half killed by kindness, and being fed, clothed, and comforted, was left to rest. Just as the surgeon left the state-room, he asked in his broken voice: 'What day is this? My head is so confused, I've lost my reckoning.'
'Thanksgiving Day, man! And we'll give you a regular New England dinner, if you'll eat it,' answered the surgeon heartily.
But Emil was too spent to do anything, except lie still and give thanks, more fervently and gratefully than ever before, for the blessed gift of life, which was the sweeter for a sense of duty faithfully performed.
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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12
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. DAN'S CHRISTMAS
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Where was Dan? In prison. Alas for Mrs Jo! how her heart would have ached if she had known that while old Plum shone with Christmas cheer her boy sat alone in his cell, trying to read the little book she gave him, with eyes dimmed now and then by the hot tears no physical suffering had ever wrung from him, and longing with a homesick heart for all that he had lost.
Yes, Dan was in prison; but no cry for help from him as he faced the terrible strait he was in with the dumb despair of an Indian at the stake; for his own bosom sin had brought him there, and this was to be the bitter lesson that tamed the lawless spirit and taught him self-control.
The story of his downfall is soon told; for it came, as so often happens, just when he felt unusually full of high hopes, good resolutions, and dreams of a better life. On his journey he met a pleasant young fellow, and naturally felt an interest in him, as Blair was on his way to join his elder brothers on a ranch in Kansas. Card-playing was going on in the smoking-car, and the lad--for he was barely twenty--tired with the long journey, beguiled the way with such partners as appeared, being full of spirits, and a little intoxicated with the freedom of the West. Dan, true to his promise, would not join, but watched with intense interest the games that went on, and soon made up his mind that two of the men were sharpers anxious to fleece the boy, who had imprudently displayed a well-filled pocket-book. Dan always had a soft spot in his heart for any younger, weaker creature whom he met, and something about the lad reminded him of Teddy; so he kept an eye on Blair, and warned him against his new friends.
Vainly, of course; for when all stopped overnight in one of the great cities, Dan missed the boy from the hotel whither he had taken him for safe-keeping; and learning who had come for him, went to find him, calling himself a fool for his pains, yet unable to leave the confiding boy to the dangers that surrounded him.
He found him gambling in a low place with the men, who were bound to have his money; and by the look of relief on Blair's anxious face when he saw him Dan knew without words that things were going badly with him, and he saw the peril too late.
'I can't come yet--I've lost; it's not my money; I must get it back, or I dare not face my brothers,' whispered the poor lad, when Dan begged him to get away without further loss. Shame and fear made him desperate; and he played on, sure that he could recover the money confided to his care. Seeing Dan's resolute face, keen eye, and travelled air, the sharpers were wary, played fair, and let the boy win a little; but they had no mind to give up their prey, and finding that Dan stood sentinel at the boy's back, an ominous glance was exchanged between them, which meant: 'We must get this fellow out of the way.'
Dan saw it, and was on his guard; for he and Blair were strangers, evil deeds are easily done in such places, and no tales told. But he would not desert the boy, and still kept watch of every card till he plainly detected false play, and boldly said so. High words passed, Dan's indignation overcame his prudence; and when the cheat refused to restore his plunder with insulting words and drawn pistol, Dan's hot temper flashed out, and he knocked the man down with a blow that sent him crashing head first against a stove, to roll senseless and bleeding to the floor. A wild scene followed, but in the midst of it Dan whispered to the boy: 'Get away, and hold your tongue. Don't mind me.'
Frightened and bewildered, Blair quitted the city at once, leaving Dan to pass the night in the lock-up, and a few days later to stand in court charged with manslaughter; for the man was dead. Dan had no friends, and having once briefly told the story, held his peace, anxious to keep all knowledge of this sad affair from those at home. He even concealed his name--giving that of David Kent, as he had done several times before in emergencies. It was all over very soon; but as there were extenuating circumstances his sentence was a year in prison, with hard labour.
Dazed by the rapidity with which this horrible change in his life came upon him, Dan did not fully realize it till the iron door clanged behind him and he sat alone in a cell as narrow, cold, and silent as a tomb. He knew that a word would bring Mr Laurie to help and comfort him; but he could not bear to tell of this disgrace, or see the sorrow and the shame it would cause the friends who hoped so much for him.
'No,' he said, clenching his fist, 'I'll let them think me dead first. I shall be if I am kept here long'; and he sprang up to pace the stone floor like a caged lion, with a turmoil of wrath and grief, rebellion and remorse, seething in heart and brain, till he felt as if he should go mad and beat upon the walls that shut him away from the liberty which was his life. For days he suffered terribly, then worn out, sank into a black melancholy sadder to see than his excitement.
The warden of this prison was a rough man who had won the ill will of all by unnecessary harshness, but the chaplain was full of sympathy, and did his hard duty faithfully and tenderly. He laboured with poor Dan, but seemed to make no impression, and was forced to wait till work had soothed the excited nerves and captivity tamed the proud spirit that would suffer but not complain.
Dan was put in the brush-shop, and feeling that activity was his only salvation, worked with a feverish energy that soon won the approval of the master and the envy of less skilful mates. Day after day he sat in his place, watched by an armed overseer, forbidden any but necessary words, no intercourse with the men beside him, no change but from cell to shop, no exercise but the dreary marches to and fro, each man's hand on the other's shoulder keeping step with the dreary tramp so different from the ringing tread of soldiers. Silent, gaunt, and grim, Dan did his daily task, ate his bitter bread, and obeyed commands with a rebellious flash of the eye, that made the warden say: 'That's a dangerous man. Watch him. He'll break out some day.'
There were others more dangerous than he, because older in crime and ready for any desperate outbreak to change the monotony of long sentences. These men soon divined Dan's mood, and in the mysterious way convicts invent, managed to convey to him before a month was over that plans were being made for a mutiny at the first opportunity. Thanksgiving Day was one of the few chances for them to speak together as they enjoyed an hour of freedom in the prison yard. Then all would be settled and the rash attempt made if possible, probably to end in bloodshed and defeat for most, but liberty for a few. Dan had already planned his own escape and bided his time, growing more and more moody, fierce, and rebellious, as loss of liberty wore upon soul and body; for this sudden change from his free, healthy life to such a narrow, gloomy, and miserable one, could not but have a terrible effect upon one of Dan's temperament and age.
He brooded over his ruined life, gave up all his happy hopes and plans, felt that he could never face dear old Plumfield again, or touch those friendly hands, with the stain of blood upon his own. He did not care for the wretched man whom he had killed, for such a life was better ended, he thought; but the disgrace of prison would never be wiped out of his memory, though the cropped hair would grow again, the grey suit easily be replaced, and the bolts and bars left far behind.
'It's all over with me; I've spoilt my life, now let it go. I'll give up the fight and get what pleasure I can anywhere, anyhow. They shall think me dead and so still care for me, but never know what I am. Poor Mother Bhaer! she tried to help me, but it's no use; the firebrand can't be saved.'
And dropping his head in his hands as he sat on his low bed, Dan would mourn over all he had lost in tearless misery, till merciful sleep would comfort him with dreams of the happy days when the boys played together, or those still later and happier ones when all smiled on him, and Plumfield seemed to have gained a new and curious charm.
There was one poor fellow in Dan's shop whose fate was harder than his, for his sentence expired in the spring, but there was little hope of his living till that time; and the coldest-hearted man pitied poor Mason as he sat coughing his life away in that close place and counting the weary days yet to pass before he could see his wife and little child again. There was some hope that he might be pardoned out, but he had no friends to bestir themselves in the matter, and it was evident that the great Judge's pardon would soon end his patient pain for ever.
Dan pitied him more than he dared to show, and this one tender emotion in that dark time was like the little flower that sprung up between the stones of the prison yard and saved the captive from despair, in the beautiful old story. Dan helped Mason with his work when he was too feeble to finish his task, and the grateful look that thanked him was a ray of sunshine to cheer his cell when he was alone. Mason envied the splendid health of his neighbour, and mourned to see it wasting there. He was a peaceful soul and tried, as far as a whispered word or warning glance could do it, to deter Dan from joining the 'bad lot', as the rebels were called. But having turned his face from the light, Dan found the downward way easy, and took a grim satisfaction in the prospect of a general outbreak during which he might revenge himself upon the tyrannical warden, and strike a blow for his own liberty, feeling that an hour of insurrection would be a welcome vent for the pent-up passions that tormented him. He had tamed many a wild animal, but his own lawless spirit was too much for him, till he found the curb that made him master of himself.
The Sunday before Thanksgiving, as he sat in chapel, Dan observed several guests in the seats reserved for them, and looked anxiously to see if any familiar face was there; for he had a mortal fear that someone from home would suddenly confront him. No, all were strangers, and he soon forgot them in listening to the chaplain's cheerful words, and the sad singing of many heavy hearts. People often spoke to the convicts, so it caused no surprise when, on being invited to address them, one of the ladies rose and said she would tell them a little story; which announcement caused the younger listeners to pack up their ears, and even the older ones to look interested; for any change in their monotonous life was welcome.
The speaker was a middle-aged woman in black, with a sympathetic face, eyes full of compassion, and a voice that seemed to warm the heart, because of certain motherly tones in it. She reminded Dan of Mrs Jo, and he listened intently to every word, feeling that each was meant for him, because by chance, they came at the moment when he needed a softening memory to break up the ice of despair which was blighting all the good impulses of his nature.
It was a very simple little story, but it caught the men's attention at once, being about two soldiers in a hospital during the late war, both badly wounded in the right arm, and both anxious to save these breadwinners and go home unmaimed. One was patient, docile, and cheerfully obeyed orders, even when told that the arm must go. He submitted and after much suffering recovered, grateful for life, though he could fight no more. The other rebelled, would listen to no advice, and having delayed too long, died a lingering death, bitterly regretting his folly when it was too late. 'Now, as all stories should have a little moral, let me tell you mine,' added the lady, with a smile, as she looked at the row of young men before her, sadly wondering what brought them there.
'This is a hospital for soldiers wounded in life's battle; here are sick souls, weak wills, insane passions, blind consciences, all the ills that come from broken laws, bringing their inevitable pain and punishment with them. There is hope and help for every one, for God's mercy is infinite and man's charity is great; but penitence and submission must come before the cure is possible. Pay the forfeit manfully, for it is just; but from the suffering and shame wring new strength for a nobler life. The scar will remain, but it is better for a man to lose both arms than his soul; and these hard years, instead of being lost, may be made the most precious of your lives, if they teach you to rule yourselves. O friends, try to outlive the bitter past, to wash the sin away, and begin anew. If not for your own sakes, for that of the dear mothers, wives, and children, who wait and hope so patiently for you. Remember them, and do not let them love and long in vain. And if there be any here so forlorn that they have no friend to care for them, never forget the Father whose arms are always open to receive, forgive, and comfort His prodigal sons, even at the eleventh hour.' There the little sermon ended; but the preacher of it felt that her few hearty words had not been uttered in vain, for one boy's head was down, and several faces wore the softened look which told that a tender memory was touched. Dan was forced to set his lips to keep them steady, and drop his eyes to hide the sudden dew that dimmed them when waiting, hoping friends were spoken of. He was glad to be alone in his cell again, and sat thinking deeply, instead of trying to forget himself in sleep. It seemed as if those words were just what he needed to show him where he stood and how fateful the next few days might be to him. Should he join the 'bad lot', and perhaps add another crime to the one already committed, lengthen the sentence already so terrible to bear, deliberately turn his back on all that was good, and mar the future that might yet be redeemed? Or should he, like the wiser man in the story, submit, bear the just punishment, try to be better for it; and though the scar would remain, it might serve as a reminder of a battle not wholly lost, since he had saved his soul though innocence was gone? Then he would dare go home, perhaps, confess, and find fresh strength in the pity and consolation of those who never gave him up.
Good and evil fought for Dan that night as did the angel and the devil for Sintram, and it was hard to tell whether lawless nature or loving heart would conquer. Remorse and resentment, shame and sorrow, pride and passion, made a battle-field of that narrow cell, and the poor fellow felt as if he had fiercer enemies to fight now than any he had met in all his wanderings. A little thing turned the scale, as it so often does in these mysterious hearts of ours, and a touch of sympathy helped Dan decide the course which would bless or ban his life.
In the dark hour before the dawn, as he lay wakeful on his bed, a ray of light shone through the bars, the bolts turned softly, and a man came in. It was the good chaplain, led by the same instinct that brings a mother to her sick child's pillow; for long experience as nurse of souls had taught him to see the signs of hope in the hard faces about him, and to know when the moment came for a helpful word and the cordial of sincere prayer that brings such comfort and healing to tried and troubled hearts. He had been to Dan before at unexpected hours, but always found him sullen, indifferent, or rebellious, and had gone away to patiently bide his time. Now it had come; a look of relief was in the prisoner's face as the light shone on it, and the sound of a human voice was strangely comfortable after listening to the whispers of the passions, doubts, and fears which had haunted the cell for hours, dismaying Dan by their power, and showing him how much he needed help to fight the good fight, since he had no armour of his own.
'Kent, poor Mason has gone. He left a message for you, and I felt impelled to come and give it now, because I think you were touched by what we heard today, and in need of the help Mason tried to give you,' said the chaplain, taking the one seat and fixing his kind eyes on the grim figure in the bed.
'Thank you, sir, I'd like to hear it,' was all Dan's answer; but he forgot himself in pity for the poor fellow dead in prison, with no last look at wife or child.
He went suddenly, but remembered you, and begged me to say these words: “Tell him not to do it, but to hold on, do his best, and when his time is out go right to Mary, and she'll make him welcome for my sake. He's got no friends in these parts and will feel lonesome, but a woman's always safe and comfortable when a fellow's down on his luck. Give him my love and good-bye for he was kind to me, and God will bless him for it.” Then he died quietly, and tomorrow will go home with God's pardon, since man's came too late.'
Dan said nothing, but laid his arm across his face and lay quite still. Seeing that the pathetic little message had done its work even better than he hoped, the chaplain went on, unconscious how soothing his paternal voice was to the poor prisoner who longed to 'go home', but felt he had forfeited the right.
'I hope you won't disappoint this humble friend whose last thought was for you. I know that there is trouble brewing, and fear that you may be tempted to lend a hand on the wrong side. Don't do it, for the plot will not succeed--it never does--and it would be a pity to spoil your record which is fair so far. Keep up your courage, my son, and go out at the year's end better, not worse, for this hard experience. Remember a grateful woman waits to welcome and thank you if you have no friends of your own; if you have, do your best for their sake, and let us ask God to help you as He only can.'
Then waiting for no answer the good man prayed heartily, and Dan listened as he never had before; for the lonely hour, the dying message, the sudden uprising of his better self, made it seem as if some kind angel had come to save and comfort him. After that night there was a change in Dan, though no one knew it but the chaplain; for to all the rest he was the same silent, stern, unsocial fellow as before, and turning his back on the bad and the good alike, found his only pleasure in the books his friend brought him. Slowly, as the steadfast drop wears away the rock, the patient kindness of this man won Dan's confidence, and led by him he began to climb out of the Valley of Humiliation towards the mountains, whence, through the clouds, one can catch glimpses of the Celestial City whither all true pilgrims sooner or later turn their wistful eyes and stumbling feet. There were many back-slidings, many struggles with Giant Despair and fiery Apollyon, many heavy hours when life did not seem worth living and Mason's escape the only hope. But through all, the grasp of a friendly hand, the sound of a brother's voice, the unquenchable desire to atone for the past by a better future, and win the right to see home again, kept poor Dan to his great task as the old year drew to its end, and the new waited to turn another leaf in the book whose hardest lesson he was learning now.
At Christmas he yearned so for Plumfield that he devised a way to send a word of greeting to cheer their anxious hearts, and comfort his own. He wrote to Mary Mason, who lived in another State, asking her to mail the letter he enclosed. In it he merely said he was well and busy, had given up the farm, and had other plans which he would tell later; would not be home before autumn probably, nor write often, but was all right, and sent love and merry Christmas to everyone.
Then he took up his solitary life again, and tried to pay his forfeit manfully.
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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13
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. NAT'S NEW YEAR
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'I don't expect to hear from Emil yet, and Nat writes regularly, but where is Dan? Only two or three postals since he went. Such an energetic fellow as he is could buy up all the farms in Kansas by this time,' said Mrs Jo one morning when the mail came in and no card or envelope bore Dan's dashing hand.
'He never writes often, you know, but does his work and then comes home. Months and years seem to mean little to him, and he is probably prospecting in the wilderness, forgetful of time,' answered Mr Bhaer, deep in one of Nat's long letters from Leipzig.
'But he promised he would let me know how he got on, and Dan keeps his word if he can. I'm afraid something has happened to him'; and Mrs Jo comforted herself by patting Don's head, as he came at the sound of his master's name to look at her with eyes almost human in their wistful intelligence.
'Don't worry, Mum dear, nothing ever happens to the old fellow. He'll turn up all right, and come stalking in some day with a gold-mine in one pocket and a prairie in the other, as jolly as a grig,' said Ted, who was in no haste to deliver Octoo to her rightful owner.
'Perhaps he has gone to Montana and given up the farm plan. He seemed to like Indians best, I thought'; and Rob went to help his mother with her pile of letters and his cheerful suggestions.
'I hope so, it would suit him best. But I am sure he would have told us his change of plan and sent for some money to work with. No, I feel in my prophetic bones that something is wrong,' said Mrs Jo, looking as solemn as Fate in a breakfast-cap.
'Then we shall hear; ill news always travels fast. Don't borrow trouble, Jo, but hear how well Nat is getting on. I'd no idea the boy would care for anything but music. My good friend Baumgarten has launched him well, and it will do him good if he lose not his head. A good lad, but new to the world, and Leipzig is full of snares for the unwary. Gott be with him!'
The Professor read Nat's enthusiastic account of certain literary and musical parties he had been to, the splendours of the opera, the kindness of his new friends, the delight of studying under such a master as Bergmann, his hopes of rapid gain, and his great gratitude to those who had opened this enchanted world to him.
'That, now, is satisfactory and comfortable. I felt that Nat had unsuspected power in him before he went away; he was so manly and full of excellent plans,' said Mrs Jo, in a satisfied tone.
'We shall see. He will doubtless get his lesson and be the better for it. That comes to us all in our young days. I hope it will not be too hard for our good Jungling,' answered the Professor, with a wise smile, remembering his own student life in Germany.
He was right; and Nat was already getting his lesson in life with a rapidity which would have astonished his friends at home. The manliness over which Mrs Jo rejoiced was developing in unexpected ways, and quiet Nat had plunged into the more harmless dissipations of the gay city with all the ardour of an inexperienced youth taking his first sip of pleasure. The entire freedom and sense of independence was delicious, for many benefits began to burden him, and he longed to stand on his own legs and make his own way. No one knew his past here; and with a well-stocked wardrobe, a handsome sum at his banker's, and the best teacher in Leipzig, he made his debut as a musical young gentleman, presented by the much-respected Professor Bhaer and the wealthy Mr Laurence, who had many friends glad to throw open their houses to his protege. Thanks to these introductions, his fluent German, modest manners, and undeniable talent, the stranger was cordially welcomed, and launched at once into a circle which many an ambitious young man strove in vain to enter.
All this rather turned Nat's head; and as he sat in the brilliant opera-house, chatted among the ladies at some select coffee-party, or whisked an eminent professor's amiable daughter down the room, trying to imagine she was Daisy, he often asked himself if this gay fellow could be the poor homeless little Street musician who once stood waiting in the rain at the gates of Plumfield. His heart was true, his impulses good, and his ambitions high; but the weak side of his nature came uppermost here; vanity led him astray, pleasure intoxicated him, and for a time he forgot everything but the delights of this new and charming life. Without meaning to deceive, he allowed people to imagine him a youth of good family and prospects; he boasted a little of Mr Laurie's wealth and influence, of Professor Bhaer's eminence, and the flourishing college at which he himself had been educated. Mrs Jo was introduced to the sentimental Frauleins who read her books, and the charms and virtues of his own dear Madchen confided to sympathetic mammas. All these boyish boastings and innocent vanities were duly circulated among the gossips, and his importance much increased thereby, to his surprise and gratification, as well as some shame.
But they bore fruit that was bitter in the end; for, finding that he was considered one of the upper class, it very soon became impossible for him to live in the humble quarters he had chosen, or to lead the studious, quiet life planned for him. He met other students, young officers, and gay fellows of all sorts, and was flattered at being welcomed among them; though it was a costly pleasure, and often left a thorn of regret to vex his honest conscience. He was tempted to take better rooms in a more fashionable street, leaving good Frau Tetzel to lament his loss, and his artist neighbour, Fraulein Vogelstein, to shake her grey ringlets and predict his return, a sadder and a wiser man.
The sum placed at his disposal for expenses and such simple pleasures as his busy life could command seemed a fortune to Nat, though it was smaller than generous Mr Laurie first proposed. Professor Bhaer wisely counselled prudence, as Nat was unused to the care of money, and the good man knew the temptations that a well-filled purse makes possible at this pleasure-loving age. So Nat enjoyed his handsome little apartment immensely, and insensibly let many unaccustomed luxuries creep in. He loved his music and never missed a lesson; but the hours he should have spent in patient practice were too often wasted at theatre, ball, beer-garden, or club--doing no harm beyond that waste of precious time, and money not his own; for he had no vices, and took his recreation like a gentleman, so far. But slowly a change for the worse was beginning to show itself, and he felt it. These first steps along the flowery road were downward, not upward; and the constant sense of disloyalty which soon began to haunt him made Nat feel, in the few quiet hours he gave himself, that all was not well with him, spite of the happy whirl in which he lived.
'Another month, and then I will be steady,' he said more than once, trying to excuse the delay by the fact that all was new to him, that his friends at home wished him to be happy, and that society was giving him the polish he needed. But as each month slipped away it grew harder to escape; he was inevitably drawn on, and it was so easy to drift with the tide that he deferred the evil day as long as possible. Winter festivities followed the more wholesome summer pleasures, and Nat found them more costly; for the hospitable ladies expected some return from the stranger; and carriages, bouquets, theatre tickets, and all the little expenses a young man cannot escape at such times, told heavily on the purse which seemed bottomless at first. Taking Mr Laurie for his model, Nat became quite a gallant, and was universally liked; for through all the newly acquired airs and graces the genuine honesty and simplicity of his character plainly shone, winning confidence and affection from all who knew him.
Among these was a certain amiable old lady with a musical daughter--well-born but poor, and very anxious to marry the aforesaid daughter to some wealthy man. Nat's little fictions concerning his prospects and friends charmed the gnadige Frau as much as his music and devoted manners did the sentimental Minna. Their quiet parlour seemed homelike and restful to Nat, when tired of gayer scenes; and the motherly interest of the elder lady was sweet and comfortable to him; while the tender blue eyes of the pretty girl were always so full of welcome when he came, of regret when he left, and of admiration when he played to her, that he found it impossible to keep away from this attractive spot. He meant no harm, and feared no danger, having confided to the Frau Mamma that he was betrothed; so he continued to call, little dreaming what ambitious hopes the old lady cherished, nor the peril there was in receiving the adoration of a romantic German girl, till it was too late to spare her pain and himself great regret.
Of course some inkling of these new and agreeable experiences got into the voluminous letters he never was too gay, too busy, or too tired to write each week; and while Daisy rejoiced over his happiness and success, and the boys laughed at the idea of 'old Chirper coming out as a society man', the elders looked sober, and said among themselves: 'He is going too fast; he must have a word of warning, or trouble may come.'
But Mr Laurie said: 'Oh, let him have his fling; he's been dependent and repressed long enough. He can't go far with the money he has, and I've no fear of his getting into debt. He's too timid and too honest to be reckless. It is his first taste of freedom; let him enjoy it, and he'll work the better by and by; I know--and I'm sure I'm right.'
So the warnings were very gentle, and the good people waited anxiously to hear more of hard study, and less of 'splendid times'. Daisy sometimes wondered, with a pang of her faithful heart, if one of the charming Minnas, Hildegardes, and Lottchens mentioned were not stealing her Nat away from her; but she never asked, always wrote calmly and cheerfully, and looked in vain for any hint of change in the letters that were worn out with much reading.
Month after month slipped away, till the holidays came with gifts, good wishes, and brilliant festivities. Nat expected to enjoy himself very much, and did at first; for a German Christmas is a spectacle worth seeing. But he paid dearly for the abandon with which he threw himself into the gaieties of that memorable week; and on New Year's Day the reckoning came. It seemed as if some malicious fairy had prepared the surprises that arrived, so unwelcome were they, so magical the change they wrought, turning his happy world into a scene of desolation and despair as suddenly as a transformation at the pantomime.
The first came in the morning when, duly armed with costly bouquets and bon-bons, he went to thank Minna and her mother for the braces embroidered with forget-me-nots and the silk socks knit by the old lady's nimble fingers, which he had found upon his table that day. The Frau Mamma received him graciously; but when he asked for the daughter the good lady frankly demanded what his intentions were, adding that certain gossip which had reached her ear made it necessary for him to declare himself or come no more, as Minna's peace must not be compromised.
A more panic-stricken youth was seldom seen than Nat as he received this unexpected demand. He saw too late that his American style of gallantry had deceived the artless girl, and might be used with terrible effect by the artful mother, if she chose to do it. Nothing but the truth could save him, and he had the honour and honesty to tell it faithfully. A sad scene followed; for Nat was obliged to strip off his fictitious splendour, confess himself only a poor student, and humbly ask pardon for the thoughtless freedom with which he had enjoyed their too confiding hospitality. If he had any doubts of Frau Schomburg's motives and desires, they were speedily set at rest by the frankness with which she showed her disappointment, the vigour with which she scolded him, and the scorn with which she cast him off when her splendid castles in the air collapsed.
The sincerity of Nat's penitence softened her a little and she consented to a farewell word with Minna, who had listened at the keyhole, and was produced drenched in tears, to fall on Nat's bosom, crying: 'Ah, thou dear one, never can I forget thee, though my heart is broken!'
This was worse than the scolding; for the stout lady also wept, and it was only after much German gush and twaddle that he escaped, feeling like another Werther; while the deserted Lotte consoled herself with the bonbons, her mother with the more valuable gifts.
The second surprise arrived as he dined with Professor Baumgarten. His appetite had been effectually taken away by the scene of the morning, and his spirits received another damper when a fellow student cheerfully informed him that he was about to go to America, and should make it his agreeable duty to call on the 'lieber Herr Professor Bhaer', to tell him how gaily his protege was disporting himself at Leipzig. Nat's heart died within him as he imagined the effect these glowing tales would have at Plumfield--not that he had wilfully deceived them, but in his letters many things were left untold; and when Carlsen added, with a friendly wink, that he would merely hint at the coming betrothal of the fair Minna and his 'heart's friend', Nat found himself devoutly hoping that this other inconvenient heart's friend might go to the bottom of the sea before he reached Plumfield to blast all his hopes by these tales of a mis-spent winter. Collecting his wits, he cautioned Carlsen with what he flattered himself was Mephistophelian art, and gave him such confused directions that it would be a miracle if he ever found Professor Bhaer. But the dinner was spoilt for Nat, and he got away as soon as possible, to wander disconsolately about the streets, with no heart for the theatre or the supper he was to share with some gay comrades afterwards. He comforted himself a little by giving alms to sundry beggars, making two children happy with gilded gingerbread, and drinking a lonely glass of beer, in which he toasted his Daisy and wished himself a better year than the last had been.
Going home at length, he found a third surprise awaiting him in the shower of bills which had descended upon him like a snowstorm, burying him in an avalanche of remorse, despair, and self-disgust. These bills were so many and so large that he was startled and dismayed; for, as Mr Bhaer wisely predicted, he knew little about the value of money. It would take every dollar at the bankers to pay them all at once, and leave him penniless for the next six months, unless he wrote home for more. He would rather starve than do that; and his first impulse was to seek help at the gaming-table, whither his new friends had often tempted him. But he had promised Mr Bhaer to resist what then had seemed an impossible temptation; and now he would not add another fault to the list already so long. Borrow he would not, nor beg. What could he do? For these appalling bills must be paid, and the lessons go on; or his journey was an ignominious failure. But he must live meantime. And how? Bowed down with remorse for the folly of these months, he saw too late whither he was drifting, and for hours paced up and down his pretty rooms, floundering in a Slough of Despond, with no helping hand to pull him out--at least he thought so till letters were brought in, and among fresh bills lay one well-worn envelope with an American stamp in the corner.
Ah, how welcome it was! how eagerly he read the long pages full of affectionate wishes from all at home! For everyone had sent a line, and as each familiar name appeared, his eyes grew dimmer and dimmer till, as he read the last--'God bless my boy! Mother Bhaer'--he broke down; and laying his head on his arms, blistered the paper with a rain of tears that eased his heart and washed away the boyish sins that now lay so heavy on his conscience.
'Dear people, how they love and trust me! And how bitterly they would be disappointed if they knew what a fool I've been! I'll fiddle in the streets again before I'll ask for help from them!' cried Nat, brushing away the tears of which he was ashamed, although he felt the good they had done.
Now he seemed to see more clearly what to do; for the helping hand had been stretched across the sea, and Love, the dear Evangelist, had lifted him out of the slough and shown him the narrow gate, beyond which deliverance lay. When the letter had been reread, and one corner where a daisy was painted, passionately kissed, Nat felt strong enough to face the worst and conquer it. Every bill should be paid, every salable thing of his own sold, these costly rooms given up; and once back with thrifty Frau Tetzel, he would find work of some sort by which to support himself, as many another student did. He must give up the new friends, turn his back on the gay life, cease to be a butterfly, and take his place among the grubs. It was the only honest thing to do, but very hard for the poor fellow to crush his little vanities, renounce the delights so dear to the young, own his folly, and step down from his pedestal to be pitied, laughed at, and forgotten.
It took all Nat's pride and courage to do this, for his was a sensitive nature; esteem was very precious to him, failure very bitter, and nothing but the inborn contempt for meanness and deceit kept him from asking help or trying to hide his need by some dishonest device. As he sat alone that night, Mr Bhaer's words came back to him with curious clearness, and he saw himself a boy again at Plumfield, punishing his teacher as a lesson to himself, when timidity had made him lie.
'He shall not suffer for me again, and I won't be a sneak if I am a fool. I'll go and tell Professor Baumgarten all about it and ask his advice. I'd rather face a loaded cannon; but it must be done. Then I'll sell out, pay my debts, and go back where I belong. Better be an honest pauper than a jackdaw among peacocks'; and Nat smiled in the midst of his trouble, as he looked about him at the little elegancies of his room, remembering what he came from.
He kept his word manfully, and was much comforted to find that his experience was an old story to the professor, who approved his plan, thinking wisely that the discipline would be good for him, and was very kind in offering help and promising to keep the secret of his folly from his friend Bhaer till Nat had redeemed himself.
The first week of the new year was spent by our prodigal in carrying out his plan with penitent dispatch, and his birthday found him alone in the little room high up at Frau Tetzel's, with nothing of his former splendour, but sundry unsalable keepsakes from the buxom maidens, who mourned his absence deeply. His male friends had ridiculed, pitied, and soon left him alone, with one or two exceptions, who offered their purses generously and promised to stand by him. He was lonely and heavy-hearted, and sat brooding over his small fire as he remembered the last New Year's Day at Plumfield, when at this hour he was dancing with his Daisy.
A tap at the door roused him, and with a careless 'Herein', he waited to see who had climbed so far for his sake. It was the good Frau proudly bearing a tray, on which stood a bottle of wine and an astonishing cake bedecked with sugar-plums of every hue, and crowned with candles. Fraulein Vogelstein followed, embracing a blooming rose-tree, above which her grey curls waved and her friendly face beamed joyfully as she cried: 'Dear Herr Blak, we bring you greetings and a little gift or two in honour of this ever-to-be-remembered day. Best wishes! and may the new year bloom for you as beautifully as we your heart-warm friends desire.'
'Yes, yes, in truth we do, dear Herr,' added Frau Tetzel. 'Eat of this with-joy-made Kuchen, and drink to the health of the far-away beloved ones in the good wine.'
Amused, yet touched by the kindness of the good souls, Nat thanked them both, and made them stay to enjoy the humble feast with him. This they gladly did, being motherly women full of pity for the dear youth, whose straits they knew, and having substantial help to offer, as well as kind words and creature comforts.
Frau Tetzel, with some hesitation, mentioned a friend of hers who, forced by illness to leave his place in the orchestra of a second-rate theatre, would gladly offer it to Nat, if he could accept so humble a position. Blushing and toying with the roses like a shy girl, good old Vogelstein asked if in his leisure moments he could give English lessons in the young ladies' school where she taught painting, adding that a small but certain salary would be paid him.
Gratefully Nat accepted both offers, finding it less humiliating to be helped by women than by friends of his own sex. This work would support him in a frugal way, and certain musical drudgery promised by his master assured his own teaching. Delighted with the success of their little plot, these friendly neighbours left him with cheery words, warm hand-grasps, and faces beaming with feminine satisfaction at the hearty kiss Nat put on each faded cheek, as the only return he could make for all their helpful kindness.
It was strange how much brighter the world looked after that; for hope was a better cordial than the wine, and good resolutions bloomed as freshly as the little rose-tree that filled the room with fragrance, as Nat woke the echoes with the dear old airs, finding now as always his best comforter in music, to whom henceforth he swore to be a more loyal subject.
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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14
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. PLAYS AT PLUMFIELD
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As it is as impossible for the humble historian of the March family to write a story without theatricals in it as for our dear Miss Yonge to get on with less than twelve or fourteen children in her interesting tales, we will accept the fact, and at once cheer ourselves after the last afflicting events, by proceeding to the Christmas plays at Plumfield; for they influence the fate of several of our characters, and cannot well be skipped.
When the college was built Mr Laurie added a charming little theatre which not only served for plays, but declamations, lectures, and concerts. The drop-curtain displayed Apollo with the Muses grouped about him; and as a compliment to the donor of the hall the artist had given the god a decided resemblance to our friend, which was considered a superb joke by everyone else. Home talent furnished stars, stock company, orchestra, and scene painter; and astonishing performances were given on this pretty little stage.
Mrs Jo had been trying for some time to produce a play which should be an improvement upon the adaptations from the French then in vogue, curious mixtures of fine toilettes, false sentiment, and feeble wit, with no touch of nature to redeem them. It was easy to plan plays full of noble speeches and thrilling situations, but very hard to write them; so she contented herself with a few scenes of humble life in which the comic and pathetic were mingled; and as she fitted her characters to her actors, she hoped the little venture would prove that truth and simplicity had not entirely lost their power to charm. Mr Laurie helped her, and they called themselves Beaumont and Fletcher, enjoying their joint labour very much; for Beaumont's knowledge of dramatic art was of great use in curbing Fletcher's too-aspiring pen, and they flattered themselves that they had produced a neat and effective bit of work as an experiment.
All was ready now; and Christmas Day was much enlivened by last rehearsals, the panics of timid actors, the scramble for forgotten properties, and the decoration of the theatre. Evergreen and holly from the woods, blooming plants from the hothouse on Parnassus, and flags of all nations made it very gay that night in honour of the guests who were coming, chief among them, Miss Cameron, who kept her promise faithfully. The orchestra tuned their instruments with unusual care, the scene-shifters set their stage with lavish elegance, the prompter heroically took his seat in the stifling nook provided for him, and the actors dressed with trembling hands that dropped the pins, and perspiring brows whereon the powder wouldn't stick. Beaumont and Fletcher were everywhere, feeling that their literary reputation was at stake; for sundry friendly critics were invited, and reporters, like mosquitoes, cannot be excluded from any earthly scene, be it a great man's death-bed or a dime museum.
'Has she come?' was the question asked by every tongue behind the curtain; and when Tom, who played an old man, endangered his respectable legs among the footlights to peep, announced that he saw Miss Cameron's handsome head in the place of honour, a thrill pervaded the entire company, and Josie declared with an excited gasp that she was going to have stage fright for the first time in her life.
'I'll shake you if you do,' said Mrs Jo, who was in such a wild state of dishevelment with her varied labours that she might have gone on as Madge Wildlife, without an additional rag or crazy elf-lock.
'You'll have time to get your wits together while we do our piece. We are old stagers and calm as clocks,' answered Demi, with a nod towards Alice, ready in her pretty dress and all her properties at hand.
But both clocks were going rather faster than usual, as heightened colour, brilliant eyes, and a certain flutter under the laces and velvet coat betrayed. They were to open the entertainment with a gay little piece which they had played before and did remarkably well. Alice was a tall girl, with dark hair and eyes, and a face which intelligence, health, and a happy heart made beautiful. She was looking her best now, for the brocades, plumes, and powder of the Marquise became her stately figure; and Demi in his court suit, with sword, three-cornered hat, and white wig, made as gallant a Baron as one would wish to see. Josie was the maid, and looked her part to the life, being as pretty, pert, and inquisitive as any French soubrette. These three were all the characters; and the success of the piece depended on the spirit and skill with which the quickly changing moods of the quarrelsome lovers were given, their witty speeches made to tell, and by-play suited to the courtly period in which the scene was laid.
Few would have recognized sober John and studious Alice in the dashing gentleman and coquettish lady, who kept the audience laughing at their caprices; while they enjoyed the brilliant costumes, and admired the ease and grace of the young actors. Josie was a prominent figure in the plot, as she listened at keyholes, peeped into notes, and popped in and out at all the most inopportune moments, with her nose in the air, her hands in her apron-pockets, and curiosity pervading her little figure from the topmost bow of her jaunty cap to the red heels of her slippers. All went smoothly; and the capricious Marquise, after tormenting the devoted Baron to her heart's content, owned herself conquered in the war of wits, and was just offering the hand he had fairly won, when a crash startled them, and a heavily decorated side-scene swayed forward, ready to fall upon Alice. Demi saw it and sprung before her to catch and hold it up, standing like a modern Samson with the wall of a house on his back. The danger was over in a moment, and he was about to utter his last speech, when the excited young scene-shifter, who had flown up a ladder to repair the damage, leaned over to whisper 'All right', and release Demi from his spread-eagle attitude: as he did so, a hammer slipped out of his pocket, to fall upon the upturned face below, inflicting a smart blow and literally knocking the Baron's part out of his head.
'A quick curtain,' robbed the audience of a pretty little scene not down on the bill; for the Marquise flew to staunch the blood with a cry of alarm: 'Oh! John, you are hurt! Lean on me'--which John gladly did for a moment, being a trifle dazed yet quite able to enjoy the tender touch of the hands busied about him and the anxiety of the face so near his own; for both told him something which he would have considered cheaply won by a rain of hammers and the fall of the whole college on his head.
Nan was on the spot in a moment with the case that never left her pocket; and the wound was neatly plastered up by the time Mrs Jo arrived, demanding tragically: 'Is he too much hurt to go on again? If he is, my play is lost!'
'I'm all the fitter for it, Aunty; for here's a real instead of a painted wound. I'll be ready; don't worry about me.' And catching up his wig, Demi was off, with only a very eloquent look of thanks to the Marquise, who had spoilt her gloves for his sake, but did not seem to mind it at all, though they reached above her elbows, and were most expensive.
'How are your nerves, Fletcher?' asked Mr Laurie as they stood together during the breathless minute before the last bell rings.
'About as calm as yours, Beaumont,' answered Mrs Jo, gesticulating wildly to Mrs Meg to set her cap straight.
'Bear up, partner! I'll stand by you whatever comes!'
'I feel that it ought to go; for, though it's a mere trifle, a good deal of honest work and truth have gone into it. Doesn't Meg look the picture of a dear old country woman?'
She certainly did, as she sat in the farmhouse kitchen by a cheery fire, rocking a cradle and darning stockings, as if she had done nothing else all her life. Grey hair, skilfully drawn lines on the forehead, and a plain gown, with cap, little shawl, and check apron, changed her into a comfortable, motherly creature who found favour the moment the curtain went up and discovered her rocking, darning, and crooning an old song. In a short soliloquy about Sam, her boy, who wanted to enlist; Dolly, her discontented little daughter, who longed for city ease and pleasures; and poor 'Elizy', who had married badly, and came home to die, bequeathing her baby to her mother, lest its bad father should claim it, the little story was very simply opened, and made effective by the real boiling of the kettle on the crane, the ticking of a tall clock, and the appearance of a pair of blue worsted shoes which waved fitfully in the air to the soft babble of a baby's voice. Those shapeless little shoes won the first applause; and Mr Laurie, forgetting elegance in satisfaction, whispered to his coadjutor: 'I thought the baby would fetch them!'
'If the dear thing won't squall in the wrong place, we are saved. But it is risky. Be ready to catch it if all Meg's cuddlings prove in vain,' answered Mrs Jo, adding, with a clutch at Mr Laurie's arm as a haggard face appeared at the window: 'Here's Demi! I hope no one will recognize him when he comes on as the son. I'll never forgive you for not doing the villain yourself.'
'Can't run the thing and act too. He's capitally made up, and likes a bit of melodrama.'
'This scene ought to have come later; but I wanted to show that the mother was the heroine as soon as possible. I'm tired of love-sick girls and runaway wives. We'll prove that there's romance in old women also. Now he's coming!'
And in slouched a degraded-looking man, shabby, unshaven, and evil-eyed, trying to assume a masterful air as he dismayed the tranquil old woman by demanding his child. A powerful scene followed; and Mrs Meg surprised even those who knew her best by the homely dignity with which she at first met the man she dreaded; then, as he brutally pressed his claim, she pleaded with trembling voice and hands to keep the little creature she had promised the dying mother to protect; and when he turned to take it by force, quite a thrill went through the house as the old woman sprung to snatch it from the cradle, and holding it close, defied him in God's name to tear it from that sacred refuge. It was really well done; and the round of applause that greeted the fine tableau of the indignant old woman, the rosy, blinking baby clinging to her neck, and the daunted man who dared not execute his evil purpose with such a defender for helpless innocence, told the excited authors that their first scene was a hit.
The second was quieter, and introduced Josie as a bonny country lass setting the supper-table in a bad humour. The pettish way in which she slapped down the plates, hustled the cups, and cut the big brown loaf, as she related her girlish trials and ambitions, was capital. Mrs Jo kept her eye on Miss Cameron, and saw her nod approval several times at some natural tone or gesture, some good bit of by-play or a quick change of expression in the young face, which was as variable as an April day. Her struggle with the toasting-fork made much merriment; so did her contempt for the brown sugar, and the relish with which she sweetened her irksome duties by eating it; and when she sat, like Cinderella, on the hearth, tearfully watching the flames dance on the homely room, a girlish voice was heard to exclaim impulsively: 'Poor little thing! she ought to have some fun!'
The old woman enters; and mother and daughter have a pretty scene, in which the latter coaxes and threatens, kisses and cries, till she wins the reluctant consent of the former to visit a rich relation in the city; and from being a little thunder-cloud Dolly becomes bewitchingly gay and good, as soon as her wilful wish is granted. The poor old soul has hardly recovered from this trial when the son enters, in army blue, tells he has enlisted and must go. That is a hard blow; but the patriotic mother bears it well, and not till the thoughtless young folks have hastened away to tell their good news elsewhere does she break down. Then the country kitchen becomes pathetic as the old mother sits alone mourning over her children, till the grey head is hidden in the hands as she kneels down by the cradle to weep and pray, with only Baby to comfort her fond and faithful heart.
Sniffs were audible all through the latter part of this scene; and when the curtain fell, people were so busy wiping their eyes that for a moment they forgot to applaud. That silent moment was more flattering than noise; and as Mrs Jo wiped the real tears off her sister's face, she said as solemnly as an unconscious dab of rouge on her nose permitted: 'Meg, you have saved my play! Oh, why aren't you a real actress, and I a real playwright?'
'Don't gush now, dear, but help me dress Josie; she's in such a quiver of excitement, I can't manage her, and this is her best scene, you know.'
So it was; for her aunt had written it especially for her, and little Jo was happy in a gorgeous dress, with a train long enough to satisfy her wildest dreams. The rich relation's parlour was in festival array, and the country cousin sails in, looking back at her sweeping flounces with such artless rapture that no one had the heart to laugh at the pretty jay in borrowed plumes. She has confidences with herself in the mirror, from which it is made evident that she had discovered all is not gold that glitters, and has found greater temptations than those a girlish love of pleasure, luxury, and flattery bring her. She is sought by a rich lover; but her honest heart resists the allurements he offers, and in its innocent perplexity wishes 'mother' was there to comfort and counsel.
A gay little dance, in which Dora, Nan, Bess, and several of the boys took part, made a good background for the humble figure of the old woman in her widow's bonnet, rusty shawl, big umbrella, and basket. Her naive astonishment, as she surveys the spectacle, feels the curtains, and smooths her old gloves during the moment she remains unseen, was very good; but Josie's unaffected start when she sees her, and the cry: 'Why, there's mother!' was such a hearty little bit of nature, it hardly needed the impatient tripping over her train as she ran into the arms that seemed now to be her nearest refuge.
The lover plays his part; and ripples of merriment greeted the old woman's searching questions and blunt answers during the interview which shows the girl how shallow his love is, and how near she had been to ruining her life as bitterly as poor 'Elizy' did. She gives her answer frankly, and when they are alone, looks from her own bedizened self to the shabby dress, work-worn hands, and tender face, crying with a repentant sob and kiss: 'Take me home, mother, and keep me safe. I've had enough of this!'
'That will do you good, Maria; don't forget it,' said one lady to her daughter as the curtain went down; and the girl answered: 'Well, I'm sure I don't see why it's touching; but it is,' as she spread her lace handkerchief to dry.
Tom and Nan came out strong in the next scene; for it was a ward in an army hospital, and surgeon and nurse went from bed to bed, feeling pulses, administering doses, and hearing complaints with an energy and gravity which convulsed the audience. The tragic element, never far from the comic at such times and places, came in when, while they bandaged an arm, the doctor told the nurse about an old woman who was searching through the hospital for her son, after days and nights on battlefields, through ambulances, and among scenes which would have killed most women.
'She will be here directly, and I dread her coming, for I'm afraid the poor lad who has just gone is her boy. I'd rather face a cannon than these brave women, with their hope and courage and great sorrow,' says the surgeon.
'Ah, these poor mothers break my heart!' adds the nurse, wiping her eyes on her big apron; and with the words Mrs Meg came in.
There was the same dress, the basket and umbrella, the rustic speech, the simple manners; but all were made pathetic by the terrible experience which had changed the tranquil old woman to that haggard figure with wild eyes, dusty feet, trembling hands, and an expression of mingled anguish, resolution, and despair which gave the homely figure a tragic dignity and power that touched all hearts. A few broken words told the story of her vain search, and then the sad quest began again. People held their breath as, led by the nurse, she went from bed to bed, showing in her face the alternations of hope, dread, and bitter disappointment as each was passed. On a narrow cot was a long figure covered with a sheet, and here she paused to lay one hand on her heart and one on her eyes, as if to gather courage to look at the nameless dead. Then she drew down the sheet, gave a long shivering sigh of relief, saying softly: 'Not my son, thank God! but some mother's boy.' And stooping down, she kissed the cold forehead tenderly.
Somebody sobbed there, and Miss Cameron shook two tears out of her eyes, anxious to lose no look or gesture as the poor soul, nearly spent with the long strain, struggled on down the long line. But her search was happily ended for, as if her voice had roused him from his feverish sleep, a gaunt, wild-eyed man sat up in his bed, and stretching his arms to her, cried in a voice that echoed through the room: 'Mother, mother! I knew you'd come to me!'
She did go to him, with a cry of love and joy that thrilled every listener, as she gathered him in her arms with the tears and prayers and blessing such as only a fond and faithful old mother could give.
The last scene was a cheerful contrast to this; for the country kitchen was bright with Christmas cheer, the wounded hero, with black patch and crutches well displayed, sat by the fire in the old chair whose familiar creak was soothing to his ear; pretty Dolly was stirring about, gaily trimming dresser, settle, high chimney-piece, and old-fashioned cradle with mistletoe and holly; while the mother rested beside her son, with that blessed baby on her knee. Refreshed by a nap and nourishment, this young actor now covered himself with glory by his ecstatic prancings, incoherent remarks to the audience, and vain attempts to get to the footlights, as he blinked approvingly at these brilliant toys. It was good to see Mrs Meg pat him on the back, cuddle the fat legs out of sight, and appease his vain longings with a lump of sugar, till Baby embraced her with a grateful ardour that brought him a round of applause all for his little self.
A sound of singing outside disturbs the happy family, and, after a carol in the snowy moonlight, a flock of neighbours troop in with Christmas gifts and greetings. Much by-play made this a lively picture; for Sam's sweetheart hovered round him with a tenderness the Marquise did not show the Baron; and Dolly had a pretty bit under the mistletoe with her rustic adorer, who looked so like Ham Peggotty in his cowhide boots, rough jacket, and dark beard and wig, that no one would have recognized Ted but for the long legs, which no extent of leather could disguise. It ended with a homely feast, brought by the guests; and as they sat round the table covered with doughnuts and cheese, pumpkin-pie, and other delicacies, Sam rises on his crutches to propose the first toast, and holding up his mug of cider, says, with a salute, and a choke in his voice: 'Mother, God bless her!' All drink it standing, Dolly with her arm round the old woman's neck, as she hides her happy tears on her daughter's breast; while the irrepressible baby beat rapturously on the table with a spoon, and crowed audibly as the curtain went down.
They had it up again in a jiffy to get a last look at the group about that central figure, which was showered with bouquets, to the great delight of the infant Roscius; till a fat rosebud hit him on the nose, and produced the much-dreaded squall, which, fortunately, only added to the fun at that moment.
'Well, that will do for a beginning,' said Beaumont, with a sigh of relief, as the curtain descended for the last time, and the actors scattered to dress for the closing piece.
'As an experiment, it is a success. Now we can venture to begin our great American drama,' answered Mrs Jo, full of satisfaction and grand ideas for the famous play--which, we may add, she did not write that year, owing to various dramatic events in her own family.
The Owlsdark Marbles closed the entertainment, and, being something new, proved amusing to this very indulgent audience. The gods and goddesses on Parnassus were displayed in full conclave; and, thanks to Mrs Amy's skill in draping and posing, the white wigs and cotton-flannel robes were classically correct and graceful, though sundry modern additions somewhat marred the effect, while adding point to the showman's learned remarks. Mr Laurie was Professor Owlsdark in cap and gown; and, after a high-flown introduction, he proceeded to exhibit and explain his marbles. The first figure was a stately Minerva; but a second glance produced a laugh, for the words 'Women's Rights' adorned her shield, a scroll bearing the motto 'Vote early and often' hung from the beak of the owl perched on her lance, and a tiny pestle and mortar ornamented her helmet. Attention was drawn to the firm mouth, the piercing eye, the awe-inspiring brow, of the strong-minded woman of antiquity, and some scathing remarks made upon the degeneracy of her modern sisters who failed to do their duty. Mercury came next, and was very fine in his airy attitude, though the winged legs quivered as if it was difficult to keep the lively god in his place. His restless nature was dilated upon, his mischievous freaks alluded to, and a very bad character given to the immortal messenger-boy; which delighted his friends and caused the marble nose of the victim to curl visibly with scorn when derisive applause greeted a particularly hard hit. A charming little Hebe stood next, pouring nectar from a silver teapot into a blue china tea-cup. She also pointed a moral; for the Professor explained that the nectar of old was the beverage which cheers but does not inebriate, and regretted that the excessive devotion of American women to this classic brew proved so harmful, owing to the great development of brain their culture produced. A touch at modern servants, in contrast to this accomplished table-girl, made the statue's cheeks glow under the chalk, and brought her a hearty round as the audience recognized Dolly and the smart soubrette.
Jove in all his majesty followed, as he and his wife occupied the central pedestals in the half-circle of immortals. A splendid Jupiter, with hair well set up off the fine brow, ambrosial beard, silver thunderbolts in one hand, and a well-worn ferule in the other. A large stuffed eagle from the museum stood at his feet; and the benign expression of his august countenance showed that he was in a good humour--as well he might be, for he was paid some handsome compliments upon his wise rule, the peaceful state of his kingdom, and the brood of all-accomplished Pallases that yearly issued from his mighty brain. Cheers greeted this and other pleasant words, and caused the thunderer to bow his thanks; for 'Jove nods', as everyone knows, and flattery wins the heart of gods and men.
Mrs Juno, with her peacocks, darning-needle, pen, and cooking-spoon, did not get off so easily; for the Professor was down on her with all manner of mirth-provoking accusations, criticisms, and insults even. He alluded to her domestic infelicity, her meddlesome disposition, sharp tongue, bad temper, and jealousy, closing, however, with a tribute to her skill in caring for the wounds and settling the quarrels of belligerent heroes, as well as her love for youths in Olympus and on earth. Gales of laughter greeted these hits, varied by hisses from some indignant boys, who would not bear, even in joke, any disrespect to dear Mother Bhaer, who, however, enjoyed it all immensely, as the twinkle in her eye and the irrepressible pucker of her lips betrayed.
A jolly Bacchus astride of his cask took Vulcan's place, and appeared to be very comfortable with a beer-mug in one hand, a champagne bottle in the other, and a garland of grapes on his curly head. He was the text of a short temperance lecture, aimed directly at a row of smart young gentlemen who lined the walls of the auditorium. George Cole was seen to dodge behind a pillar at one point, Dolly nudged his neighbour at another, and there was laughter all along the line as the Professor glared at them through his big glasses, and dragged their bacchanalian orgies to the light and held them up to scorn.
Seeing the execution he had done, the learned man turned to the lovely Diana, who stood as white and still as the plaster stag beside her, with sandals, bow, and crescent; quite perfect, and altogether the best piece of statuary in the show. She was very tenderly treated by the paternal critic who, merely alluding to her confirmed spinsterhood, fondness for athletic sports, and oracular powers, gave a graceful little exposition of true art and passed on to the last figure.
This was Apollo in full fig, his curls skilfully arranged to hide a well-whitened patch over the eye, his handsome legs correctly poised, and his gifted fingers about to draw divine music from the silvered gridiron which was his lyre. His divine attributes were described, as well as his little follies and failings, among which were his weakness for photography and flute-playing, his attempts to run a newspaper, and his fondness for the society of the Muses; which latter slap produced giggles and blushes among the girl-graduates, and much mirth among the stricken youths; for misery loves company, and after this they began to rally.
Then, with a ridiculous conclusion, the Professor bowed his thanks; and after several recalls the curtain fell, but not quickly enough to conceal Mercury, wildly waving his liberated legs, Hebe dropping her teapot, Bacchus taking a lovely roll on his barrel, and Mrs Juno rapping the impertinent Owlsdark on the head with Jove's ruler.
While the audience filed out to supper in the hall, the stage was a scene of dire confusion as gods and goddesses, farmers and barons, maids and carpenters, congratulated one another on the success of their labours. Assuming various costumes, actors and actresses soon joined their guests, to sip bounteous draughts of praise with their coffee, and cool their modest blushes with ice-cream. Mrs Meg was a proud and happy woman when Miss Cameron came to her as she sat by Josie, with Demi serving both, and said, so cordially that it was impossible to doubt the sincerity of her welcome words: 'Mrs Brooke, I no longer wonder where your children get their talent. I make my compliments to the Baron and next summer you must let me have little “Dolly” as a pupil when we are at the beach.'
One can easily imagine how this offer was received, as well as the friendly commendation bestowed by the same kind critic on the work of Beaumont and Fletcher, who hastened to explain that this trifle was only an attempt to make nature and art go hand in hand, with little help from fine writing or imposing scenery. Everybody was in the happiest mood, especially 'little Dolly', who danced like a will-o'-the-wisp with light-footed Mercury and Apollo as he promenaded with the Marquise on his arm, who seemed to have left her coquetry in the green room with her rouge.
When all was over, Mrs Juno said to Jove, to whose arm she clung as they trudged home along the snowy paths: 'Fritz dear, Christmas is a good time for new resolutions, and I've made one never to be impatient or fretful with my beloved husband again. I know I am, though you won't own it; but Laurie's fun had some truth in it, and I felt hit in a tender spot. Henceforth I am a model wife, else I don't deserve the dearest, best man ever born'; and being in a dramatic mood, Mrs Juno tenderly embraced her excellent Jove in the moonlight, to the great amusement of sundry lingerers behind them.
So all three plays might be considered successes, and that merry Christmas night a memorable one in the March family; for Demi got an unspoken question answered, Josie's fondest wish was granted, and, thanks to Professor Owlsdark's jest, Mrs Jo made Professor Bhaer's busy life quite a bed of roses by the keeping of her resolution. A few days later she had her reward for this burst of virtue in Dan's letter, which set her fears at rest and made her very happy, though she was unable to tell him so, because he sent her no address.
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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15
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. WAITING
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'My wife, I have bad news for thee,' said Professor Bhaer, coming in one day early in January.
'Please tell it at once. I can't bear to wait, Fritz,' cried Mrs Jo, dropping her work and standing up as if to take the shot bravely.
'But we must wait and hope, heart's-dearest. Come and let us bear it together. Emil's ship is lost, and as yet no news of him.'
It was well Mr Bhaer had taken his wife into his strong arms, for she looked ready to drop, but bore up after a moment, and sitting by her good man, heard all that there was to tell. Tidings had been sent to the shipowners at Hamburg by some of the survivors, and telegraphed at once by Franz to his uncle. As one boat-load was safe, there was hope that others might also escape, though the gale had sent two to the bottom. A swift-sailing steamer had brought these scanty news, and happier ones might come at any hour; but kind Franz had not added that the sailors reported the captain's boat as undoubtedly wrecked by the falling mast, since the smoke hid its escape, and the gale soon drove all far asunder. But this sad rumour reached Plumfield in time; and deep was the mourning for the happyhearted Commodore, never to come singing home again. Mrs Jo refused to believe it, stoutly insisting that Emil would outlive any storm and yet turn up safe and gay. It was well she clung to this hopeful view, for poor Mr Bhaer was much afflicted by the loss of his boy, because his sister's sons had been his so long he scarcely knew a different love for his very own. Now was a chance for Mrs Juno to keep her word; and she did, speaking cheerily of Emil, even when hope waxed faint and her heart was heavy. If anything could comfort the Bhaers for the loss of one boy, it would have been the affection and sorrow shown by all the rest. Franz kept the cable busy with his varying messages, Nat sent loving letters from Leipzig, and Tom harassed the shipping agents for news. Even busy Jack wrote them with unusual warmth; Dolly and George came often, bearing the loveliest flowers and the daintiest bon-bons to cheer Mrs Bhaer and sweeten Josie's grief; while good-hearted Ned travelled all the way from Chicago to press their hands and say, with a tear in his eye: 'I was so anxious to hear all about the dear old boy, I couldn't keep away.'
'That's right comfortable, and shows me that if I didn't teach my boys anything else, I did give them the brotherly love that will make them stand by one another all their lives,' said Mrs Jo, when he had gone.
Rob answered reams of sympathizing letters, which showed how many friends they had; and the kindly praises of the lost man would have made Emil a hero and a saint, had they all been true. The elders bore it quietly, having learned submission in life's hard school; but the younger people rebelled; some hoped against hope and kept up, others despaired at once, and little Josie, Emil's pet cousin and playmate, was so broken-hearted nothing could comfort her. Nan dosed in vain, Daisy's cheerful words went by like the wind, and Bess's devices to amuse her all failed utterly. To cry in mother's arms and talk about the wreck, which haunted her even in her sleep, was all she cared to do; and Mrs Meg was getting anxious when Miss Cameron sent Josie a kind note bidding her learn bravely her first lesson in real tragedy, and be like the self-sacrificing heroines she loved to act. That did the little girl good, and she made an effort in which Teddy and Octoo helped her much; for the boy was deeply impressed by this sudden eclipse of the firefly whose light and life all missed when they were gone, and lured her out every day for long drives behind the black mare, who shook her silvery bells till they made such merry music Josie could not help listening to it, and whisked her over the snowy roads at a pace which set the blood dancing in her veins and sent her home strengthened and comforted by sunshine, fresh air, and congenial society--three aids young sufferers seldom can resist.
As Emil was helping nurse Captain Hardy, safe and well, aboard the ship, all this sorrow would seem wasted; but it was not, for it drew many hearts more closely together by a common grief, taught some patience, some sympathy, some regret for faults that lie heavy on the conscience when the one sinned against is gone, and all of them the solemn lesson to be ready when the summons comes. A hush lay over Plumfield for weeks, and the studious faces on the hill reflected the sadness of those in the valley. Sacred music sounded from Parnassus to comfort all who heard; the brown cottage was beseiged with gifts for the little mourner, and Emil's flag hung at half-mast on the roof where he last sat with Mrs Jo.
So the weeks went heavily by till suddenly, like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, came the news, 'All safe, letters on the way.' Then up went the flag, out rang the college bells, bang went Teddy's long-unused cannon, and a chorus of happy voices cried 'Thank God', as people went about, laughing, crying, and embracing one another in a rapture of delight. By and by the longed-for letters came, and all the story of the wreck was told; briefly by Emil, eloquently by Mrs Hardy, gratefully by the captain, while Mary added a few tender words that went straight to their hearts and seemed the sweetest of all. Never were letters so read, passed round, admired, and cried over as these; for Mrs Jo carried them in her pocket when Mr Bhaer did not have them in his, and both took a look at them when they said their prayers at night. Now the Professor was heard humming like a big bee again as he went to his classes, and the lines smoothed out of Mother Bhaer's forehead, while she wrote this real story to anxious friends and let her romances wait. Now messages of congratulation flowed in, and beaming faces showed everywhere. Rob amazed his parents by producing a poem which was remarkably good for one of his years, and Demi set it to music that it might be sung when the sailor boy returned. Teddy stood on his head literally, and tore about the neighbourhood on Octoo, like a second Paul Revere--only his tidings were good. But best of all, little Josie lifted up her head as the snowdrops did, and began to bloom again, growing tall and quiet, with the shadow of past sorrow to tone down her former vivacity and show that she had learned a lesson in trying to act well her part on the real stage, where all have to take their share in the great drama of life.
Now another sort of waiting began; for the travellers were on their way to Hamburg, and would stay there awhile before coming home, as Uncle Hermann owned the Brenda, and the captain must report to him. Emil must remain to Franz's wedding, deferred till now because of the season of mourning, so happily ended. These plans were doubly welcome and pleasant after the troublous times which went before, and no spring ever seemed so beautiful as this one; for, as Teddy put it: 'Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious by these sons of Bhaer!'
Franz and Emil being regarded in the light of elder brothers by the real 'sons of Bhaer'.
There was great scrubbing and dusting among the matrons as they set their houses in order not only for Class Day, but to receive the bride and groom, who were to come to them for the honeymoon trip. Great plans were made, gifts prepared, and much joy felt at the prospect of seeing Franz again; though Emil, who was to accompany them, would be the greater hero. Little did the dear souls dream what a surprise was in store for them, as they innocently laid their plans and wished all the boys could be there to welcome home their eldest and their Casablanca.
While they wait and work so happily, let us see how our other absent boys are faring as they too wait and work and hope for better days. Nat was toiling steadily along the path he had wisely chosen, though it was by no means strewn with flowers--quite thorny was it, in fact, and hard to travel, after the taste of ease and pleasure he had got when nibbling at forbidden fruit. But his crop of wild oats was a light one, and he resolutely reaped what he had sowed, finding some good wheat among the tares. He taught by day; he fiddled night after night in the dingy little theatre, and he studied so diligently that his master was well pleased, and kept him in mind as one to whom preferment was due, if any chance occurred. Gay friends forgot him; but the old ones stood fast, and cheered him up when Heimweh and weariness made him sad. As spring came on things mended--expenses grew less, work pleasanter, and life more bearable than when wintry storms beat on his thinly clad back, and frost pinched the toes that patiently trudged in old boots. No debts burdened him; the year of absence was nearly over; and if he chose to stay, Herr Bergmann had hopes for him that would bring independence for a time at least. So he walked under the lindens with a lighter heart, and in the May evenings went about the city with a band of strolling students, making music before houses where he used to sit as guest. No one recognized him in the darkness, though old friends often listened to the band; and once Minna threw him money, which he humbly received as part of his penance, being morbid on the subject of his sins.
His reward came sooner than he expected, and was greater than he deserved, he thought, though his heart leaped with joy when his master one day informed him that he was chosen, with several other of his most promising pupils, to join the musical society which was to take part in the great festival in London the next July. Here was not only honour for the violinist but happiness for the man, as it brought him nearer home, and would open a chance of further promotion and profit in his chosen profession.
'Make thyself useful to Bachmeister there in London with thy English, and if all goes well with him, he will be glad to take thee to America, whither he goes in the early autumn for winter concerts. Thou hast done well these last months, and I have hopes of thee.'
As the great Bergmann seldom praised his pupils, these words filled Nat's soul with pride and joy, and he worked yet more diligently than before to fulfil his master's prophecy. He thought the trip to England happiness enough, but found room for more when, early in June, Franz and Emil paid him a flying visit, bringing all sorts of good news, kind wishes, and comfortable gifts for the lonely fellow, who could have fallen on their necks and cried like a girl at seeing his old mates again. How glad he was to be found in his little room busy at his proper work, not living like an idle gentleman on borrowed money! How proud he was to tell his plans, assure them that he had no debts, and receive their praises for his improvement in music, their respect for his economy and steadfastness in well-doing! How relieved when, having honestly confessed his shortcomings, they only laughed, and owned that they also had known like experiences, and were the wiser for them. He was to go to the wedding late in June, and join his comrades in London. As best man, he could not refuse the new suit Franz insisted on ordering for him; and a cheque from home about that time made him feel like a millionaire--and a happy one; for this was accompanied by such kind letters full of delight in his success, he felt that he had earned it, and waited for his joyful holiday with the impatience of a boy.
Dan meantime was also counting the weeks till August, when he would be free. But neither marriage-bells nor festival music awaited him; no friends would greet him as he left the prison; no hopeful prospect lay before him; no happy home-going was to be his. Yet his success was far greater than Nat's, though only God and one good man saw it. It was a hard-won battle; but he would never have to fight so terrible a one again; for though enemies would still assail from within and from without, he had found the little guide-book that Christian carried in his bosom, and Love, Penitence, and Prayer, the three sweet sisters, had given him the armour which would keep him safe. He had not learned to wear it yet, and chafed against it, though he felt its value, thanks to the faithful friend who had stood by him all that bitter year.
Soon he was to be free again, worn and scarred in the fray, but out among men in the blessed sun and air. When he thought of it Dan felt as if he could not wait, but must burst that narrow cell and fly away, as the caddis-worms he used to watch by the brookside shed their stony coffins, to climb the ferns and soar into the sky. Night after night he lulled himself to sleep with planning how, when he had seen Mary Mason according to his promise, he would steer straight for his old friends, the Indians, and in the wilderness hide his disgrace and heal his wounds. Working to save the many would atone for the sin of killing one, he thought; and the old free life would keep him safe from the temptations that beset him in cities.
'By and by, when I'm all right again, and have something to tell that I'm not ashamed of, I'll go home,' he said, with a quicker beat of the impetuous heart that longed to be there so intensely, he found it as hard to curb as one of his unbroken horses on the plains. 'Not yet. I must get over this first. They'd see and smell and feel the prison taint on me, if I went now, and I couldn't look them in the face and hide the truth. I can't lose Ted's love, Mother Bhaer's confidence, and the respect of the girls, for they did respect my strength, anyway; but now they wouldn't touch me.' And poor Dan looked with a shudder at the brown fist he clenched involuntarily as he remembered what it had done since a certain little white hand had laid in it confidingly. 'I'll make 'em proud of me yet; and no one shall ever know of this awful year. I can wipe it out, and I will, so help me God!' And the clenched hand was held up as if to take a solemn oath that this lost year should yet be made good, if resolution and repentance could work the miracle.
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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16
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. IN THE TENNIS-COURT
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Athletic sports were in high favour at Plumfield; and the river where the old punt used to wabble about with a cargo of small boys, or echo to the shrill screams of little girls trying to get lilies, now was alive with boats of all kinds, from the slender wherry to the trim pleasure-craft, gay with cushions, awnings, and fluttering pennons. Everyone rowed, and the girls as well as the youths had their races, and developed their muscles in the most scientific manner. The large, level meadow near the old willow was now the college playground, and here baseball battles raged with fury, varied by football, leaping, and kindred sports fitted to split the fingers, break the ribs, and strain the backs of the too ambitious participants. The gentler pastimes of the damsels were at a safe distance from this Champ de Mars; croquet mallets clicked under the elms that fringed the field, rackets rose and fell energetically in several tennis-courts, and gates of different heights were handy to practise the graceful bound by which every girl expected to save her life some day when the mad bull, which was always coming but never seemed to arrive, should be bellowing at her heels.
One of these tennis grounds was called 'Jo's Court', and here the little lady ruled like a queen; for she was fond of the game, and being bent on developing her small self to the highest degree of perfection, she was to be found at every leisure moment with some victim hard at it. On a certain pleasant Saturday afternoon she had been playing with Bess and beating her; for, though more graceful, the Princess was less active than her cousin, and cultivated her roses by quieter methods.
'Oh dear! you are tired, and every blessed boy is at that stupid baseball match. 'What shall I do?' sighed Josie, pushing back the great red hat she wore, and gazing sadly round her for more worlds to conquer.
'I'll play presently, when I'm a little cooler. But it is dull work for me, as I never win,' answered Bess, fanning herself with a large leaf.
Josie was about to sit down beside her on the rustic seat and wait, when her quick eye saw afar off two manly forms arrayed in white flannel; their blue legs seemed bearing them towards the battle going on in the distance; but they never reached the fray; for with a cry of joy, Jo raced away to meet them, bent on securing this heaven-sent reinforcement. Both paused as she came flying up, and both raised their hats; but oh, the difference there was in the salutes! The stout youth pulled his off lazily and put it on again at once, as if glad to get the duty over; the slender being, with the crimson tie, lifted his with a graceful bend, and held it aloft while he accosted the rosy, breathless maid, thus permitting her to see his raven locks smoothly parted, with one little curl upon the brow. Dolly prided himself upon that bow, and practised it before his glass, but did not bestow it upon all alike, regarding it as a work of art, fit only for the fairest and most favoured of his female admirers; for he was a pretty youth, and fancied himself an Adonis.
Eager Josie evidently did not appreciate the honour he did her, for with a nod she begged them both to 'come along and play tennis, not go and get all hot and dirty with the boys'. These two adjectives won the day; for Stuffy was already warmer than he liked to be, and Dolly had on a new suit which he desired to keep immaculate as long as possible, conscious that it was very becoming.
'Charmed to oblige,' answered the polite one, with another bend.
'You play, I'll rest,' added the fat boy, yearning for repose and gentle converse with the Princess in the cooling shade.
'Well, you can comfort Bess, for I've beaten her all to bits and she needs amusing. I know you've got something nice in your pocket, George; give her some, and 'Dolphus can have her racket. Now then, fly round'; and driving her prey before her, Josie returned in triumph to the court.
Casting himself ponderously upon the bench, which creaked under his weight, Stuffy--as we will continue to call him, though no one else dared to use the old name now--promptly produced the box of confectionery, without which he never travelled far, and regaled Bess with candied violets and other dainties, while Dolly worked hard to hold his own against a most accomplished antagonist. He would have beaten her if an unlucky stumble, which produced an unsightly stain upon the knee of those new shorts, had not distracted his mind and made him careless. Much elated at her victory, Josie permitted him to rest, and offered ironical consolation for the mishap which evidently weighed upon his mind.
'Don't be an old Betty; it can be cleaned. You must have been a cat in some former state, you are so troubled about dirt; or a tailor, and lived for clothes.'
'Come now, don't hit a fellow when he is down,' responded Dolly from the grass where he and Stuffy now lay to make room for both girls on the seat. One handkerchief was spread under him, and his elbow leaned upon another, while his eyes were sadly fixed upon the green and brown spot which afflicted him. 'I like to be neat; don't think it civil to cut about in old shoes and grey flannel shirts before ladies. Our fellows are gentlemen, and dress as such,' he added, rather nettled at the word 'tailor'; for he owed one of those too attractive persons an uncomfortably big bill.
'So are ours; but good clothes alone don't make a gentleman here. We require a good deal more,' flashed Josie, in arms at once to defend her college. 'You will hear of some of the men in “old boots and grey flannel” when you and your fine gentlemen are twiddling your ties and scenting your hair in obscurity. I like old boots and wear them, and I hate dandies; don't you, Bess?'
'Not when they are kind to me, and belong to our old set,' answered Bess, with a nod of thanks to Dolly, who was carefully removing an inquisitive caterpillar from one of her little russet shoes.
'I like a lady who is always polite, and doesn't snap a man's head off if he has a mind of his own; don't you, George?' asked Dolly, with his best smile for Bess and a Harvard stare of disapprobation for Josie.
A tranquil snore was Stuffy's sole reply, and a general laugh restored peace for the moment. But Josie loved to harass the lords of creation who asserted themselves too much, and bided her time for another attack till she had secured more tennis. She got another game; for Dolly was a sworn knight of dames, so he obeyed her call, leaving Bess to sketch George as he lay upon his back, his stout legs crossed, and his round red face partially eclipsed by his hat. Josie got beaten this time and came back rather cross, so she woke the peaceful sleeper by tickling his nose with a straw till he sneezed himself into a sitting posture, and looked wrathfully about for 'that confounded fly'.
'Come, sit up and let us have a little elegant conversation; you “howling swells” ought to improve our minds and manners, for we are only poor “country girls in dowdy gowns and hats”,' began the gad-fly, opening the battle with a sly quotation from one of Dolly's unfortunate speeches about certain studious damsels who cared more for books than finery.
'I didn't mean you! Your gowns are all right, and those hats the latest thing out,' began poor 'Dolphus, convicting himself by the incautious exclamation.
'Caught you that time; I thought you fellows were all gentlemen, civil as well as nice. But you are always sneering at girls who don't dress well and that is a very unmanly thing to do; my mother said so'; and Josie felt that she had dealt a shrewd blow at the elegant youth who bowed at many shrines if they were well-decorated ones.
'Got you there, old boy, and she's right. You never hear me talk about clothes and such twaddle,' said Stuffy, suppressing a yawn, and feeling for another bon-bon wherewith to refresh himself.
'You talk about eating, and that is even worse for a man. You will marry a cook and keep a restaurant some day,' laughed Josie, down on him at once.
This fearful prediction kept him silent for several moments; but Dolly rallied, and wisely changing the subject, carried war into the enemy's camp.
'As you wanted us to improve your manners, allow me to say that young ladies in good society don't make personal remarks or deliver lectures. Little girls who are not out do it, and think it witty; but I assure you it's not good form.'
Josie paused a moment to recover from the shock of being called 'a little girl', when all the honours of her fourteenth birthday were fresh upon her; and Bess said, in the lofty tone which was infinitely more crushing than Jo's impertinence: 'That is true; but we have lived all our lives with superior people, so we have no society talk like your young ladies. We are so accustomed to sensible conversation, and helping one another by telling our faults, that we have no gossip to offer you.'
When the Princess reproved, the boys seldom resented it; so Dolly held his peace, and Josie burst out, following her cousin's lead, which she thought a happy one: 'Our boys like to have us talk with them, and take kindly any hints we give. They don't think they know everything and are quite perfect at eighteen, as I've observed the Harvard men do, especially the very young ones.'
Josie took immense satisfaction in that return shot; and Dolly showed that he was hit, by the nettled tone in which he answered, with a supercilious glance at the hot, dusty, and noisy crowd on the baseball ground: 'The class of fellows you have here need all the polish and culture you can give them; and I'm glad they get it. Our men are largely from the best families all over the country, so we don't need girls to teach us anything.'
'It's a pity you don't have more of such “fellows” as ours. They value and use well what college gives them, and aren't satisfied to slip through, getting all the fun they can and shirking the work. Oh, I've heard you “men” talk, and heard your fathers say they wish they hadn't wasted time and money just that you might say you'd been through college. As for the girls, you'll be much better off in all ways when they do get in, and keep you lazy things up to the mark, as we do here.'
'If you have such a poor opinion of us, why do you wear our colour?' asked Dolly, painfully conscious that he was not improving the advantages his Alma Mater offered him, but bound to defend her.
'I don't; my hat is scarlet, not crimson. Much you know about a colour,' scoffed Josie.
'I know that a cross cow would soon set you scampering, if you flaunted that red tile under her nose,' retorted Dolly.
'I'm ready for her. Can your fine young ladies do this? or you either?' and burning to display her latest accomplishment, Josie ran to the nearest gate, put one hand on the top rail, and vaulted over as lightly as a bird.
Bess shook her head, and Stuffy languidly applauded; but Dolly scorning to be braved by a girl, took a flying leap and landed on his feet beside Josie, saying calmly: 'Can you do that?'
'Not yet; but I will by and by.'
As his foe looked a little crestfallen, Dolly relented, and affably added sundry feats of a like nature, quite unconscious that he had fallen into a dreadful snare; for the dull red paint on the gate, not being used to such vigorous handling, came off in streaks upon his shoulders when he turned a backward swing and came up smiling, to be rewarded with the aggravating remark: 'If you want to know what crimson is, look at your back; it's nicely stamped on and won't wash out, I think.'
'The deuce it won't!' cried Dolly, trying to get an impossible view, and giving it up in great disgust.
'I guess we'd better be going, Dolf,' said peaceable Stuffy, feeling that it would be wise to retreat before another skirmish took place, as his side seemed to be getting the worst of it.
'Don't hurry, I beg; stay and rest; you must need it after the tremendous amount of brain work you've done this week. It is time for our Greek. Come, Bess. Good afternoon, gentlemen.' And, with a sweeping courtesy, Josie led the way, with her hat belligerently cocked up, and her racket borne like a triumphal banner over one shoulder; for having had the last word, she felt that she could retire with the honours of war.
Dolly gave Bess his best bow, with the chill on; and Stuffy subsided luxuriously, with his legs in the air, murmuring in a dreamy tone: 'Little Jo is as cross as two sticks today. I'm going in for another nap: too hot to play anything.'
'So it is. Wonder if Spitfire was right about these beastly spots?' And Dolly sat down to try dry cleansing with one of his handkerchiefs. 'Asleep?' he asked, after a few moments of this cheerful occupation, fearing that his chum might be too comfortable when he was in a fume himself.
'No. I was thinking that Jo wasn't far wrong about shirking. 'Tis a shame to get so little done, when we ought to be grinding like Morton and Torry and that lot. I never wanted to go to college; but my governor made me. Much good it will do either of us!' answered Stuffy, with a groan; for he hated work, and saw two more long years of it before him.
'Gives a man prestige, you know. No need to dig. I mean to have a gay old time, and be a “howling swell”, if I choose. Between you and me though, it would be no end jolly to have the girls along. Study be hanged! But if we've got to turn the grindstone, it would be mighty nice to have some of the little dears to lend a hand. Wouldn't it now?'
'I'd like three this minute--one to fan me, one to kiss me, and one to give me some iced lemonade!' sighed Stuffy, with a yearning glance towards the house, whence no succour appeared.
'How would root-beer do?' asked a voice behind them, which made Dolly spring to his feet and Stuffy roll over like a startled porpoise.
Sitting on the stile that crossed the wall near by was Mrs Jo, with two jugs slung over her shoulder by a strap, several tin mugs in her hand, and an old-fashioned sun-bonnet on her head.
'I knew the boys would be killing themselves with ice-water; so I strolled down with some of my good, wholesome beer. They drank like fishes. But Silas was with me; so my cruse still holds out. Have some?'
'Yes, thanks, very much. Let us pour it.' And Dolly held the cup while Stuffy joyfully filled it; both very grateful, but rather afraid she had heard what went before the wish she fulfilled.
She proved that she had by saying, as they stood drinking her health, while she sat between them, looking like a middle-aged vivandiere, with her jugs and mugs: 'I was glad to hear you say you would like to have girls at your college; but I hope you will learn to speak more respectfully of them before they come; for that will be the first lesson they will teach you.'
'Really, ma'am, I was only joking,' began Stuffy, gulping down his beer in a hurry.
'So was I. I'm sure I--I'm devoted to 'em,' stuttered Dolly, panic-stricken; for he saw that he was in for a lecture of some sort.
'Not in the right way. Frivolous girls may like to be called “little dears” and things of that sort; but the girls who love study wish to be treated like reasonable beings, not dolls to flirt with. Yes, I'm going to preach; that's my business; so stand up and take it like men.'
Mrs Jo laughed; but she was in earnest; for by various hints and signs during the past winter she knew that the boys were beginning to 'see life' in the way she especially disapproved. Both were far from home, had money enough to waste, and were as inexperienced, curious, and credulous as most lads of their age. Not fond of books, therefore without the safeguard which keeps many studious fellows out of harm; one self-indulgent, indolent, and so used to luxury that pampering of the senses was an easy thing; the other vain, as all comely boys are, full of conceit, and so eager to find favour in the eyes of his comrades that he was ready for anything which would secure it. These traits and foibles made both peculiarly liable to the temptations which assail pleasure-loving and weak-willed boys. Mrs Jo knew them well, and had dropped many a warning word since they went to college; but till lately they seemed not to understand some of her friendly hints; now she was sure they would, and meant to speak out: for long experience with boys made her both bold and skilful in handling some of the dangers usually left to silence, till it is too late for anything but pity and reproach.
'I'm going to talk to you like a mother, because yours are far away; and there are things that mothers can manage best, if they do their duty,' she solemnly began from the depths of the sunbonnet.
'Great Scott! We're in for it now!' thought Dolly, in secret dismay; while Stuffy got the first blow by trying to sustain himself with another mug of beer.
'That won't hurt you; but I must warn you about drinking other things, George. Overeating is an old story; and a few more fits of illness will teach you to be wise. But drinking is a more serious thing, and leads to worse harm than any that can afflict your body alone. I hear you talk about wines as if you knew them and cared more for them than a boy should; and several times I've heard jokes that meant mischief. For heaven's sake, don't begin to play with this dangerous taste “for fun”, as you say, or because it's the fashion, and the other fellows do. Stop at once, and learn that temperance in all things is the only safe rule.'
'Upon my honour, I only take wine and iron. I need a tonic, mother says, to repair the waste of brain-tissue while I'm studying,' protested Stuffy, putting down the mug as if it burnt his fingers.
'Good beef and oatmeal will repair your tissues much better than any tonic of that sort. Work and plain fare are what you want; and I wish I had you here for a few months out of harm's way. I'd Banting you, and fit you to run without puffing, and get on without four or five meals a day. What an absurd hand that is for a man! You ought to be ashamed of it!' And Mrs Jo caught up the plump fist, with deep dimples at each knuckle, which was fumbling distressfully at the buckle of the belt girt about a waist far too large for a youth of his age.
'I can't help it--we all grow fat; it's in the family,' said Stuffy in self-defence.
'All the more reason you should live carefully. Do you want to die early, or be an invalid all your life?'
'No, ma'am!'
Stuffy looked so scared that Mrs Jo could not be hard upon his budding sins, for they lay at his overindulgent mother's door line in a great measure; so she softened the tone of her voice, and added, with a little slap on the fat hand, as she used to do when it was small enough to pilfer lumps of sugar from her bowl: 'Then be careful; for a man writes his character in his face; and you don't want gluttony and intemperance in yours, I know.'
'I'm sure I don't! Please make out a wholesome bill of fare, and I'll stick to it, if I can. I am getting stout, and I don't like it; and my liver's torpid, and I have palpitations and headache. Overwork, mother says; but it may be overeating.' And Stuffy gave a sigh of mingled regret for the good things he renounced, and relief as he finished loosening his belt as soon as his hand was free.
'I will; follow it, and in a year you'll be a man and not a meal-bag. Now, Dolly'; and Mrs Jo turned to the other culprit, who shook in his shoes and wished he hadn't come.
'Are you studying French as industriously as you were last winter?'
'No ma'am; I don't care for it--that is, I, I'm busy with G-Greek just now,' answered Dolly, beginning bravely, quite in the dark as to what that odd question meant till a sudden memory made him stutter and look at his shoes with deep interest.
'Oh, he doesn't study it; only reads French novels and goes to the theatre when the opera bouffe is here,' said Stuffy, innocently confirming Mrs Jo's suspicions.
'So I understood; and that is what I want to speak about. Ted had a sudden desire to learn French in that way, from something you said, Dolly; so I went myself, and was quite satisfied that it was no place for a decent boy. Your men were out in full force; and I was glad to see that some of the younger ones looked as ashamed as I felt. The older fellows enjoyed it, and when we came out were waiting to take those painted girls to supper. Did you ever go with them?'
'Once.'
'Did you like it?'
'No 'm; I--I came away early,' stammered Dolly, with a face as red as his splendid tie.
'I'm glad you have not lost the grace of blushing yet; but you will soon, if you keep up this sort of study and forget to be ashamed. The society of such women will unfit you for that of good ones, and lead you into trouble and sin and shame. Oh, why don't the city fathers stop that evil thing, when they know the harm it does? It made my heart ache to see those boys, who ought to be at home and in their beds, going off for a night of riot which would help to ruin some of them for ever.'
The youths looked scared at Mrs Jo's energetic protest against one of the fashionable pleasures of the day, and waited in conscience-stricken silence--Stuffy glad that he never went to those gay suppers, and Dolly deeply grateful that he 'came away early'. With a hand on either shoulder, and all the terrors smoothed from her brow, Mrs Jo went on in her most motherly tone, anxious to do for them what no other woman would, and do it kindly: 'My dear boys, if I didn't love you, I would not say these things. I know they are not pleasant; but my conscience won't let me hold my peace when a word may keep you from two of the great sins that curse the world and send so many young men to destruction. You are just beginning to feel the allurement of them, and soon it will be hard to turn away. Stop now, I beg of you, and not only save yourselves but help others by a brave example. Come to me if things worry you; don't be afraid or ashamed; I have heard many sadder confessions than any you are ever likely to bring me, and been able to comfort many poor fellows, gone wrong for want of a word in time. Do this, and you will be able to kiss your mothers with clean lips, and by and by have the right to ask innocent girls to love you.'
'Yes'm, thank you. I suppose you're right; but it's pretty hard work to toe the mark when ladies give you wine and gentlemen take their daughters to see Aimee,' said Dolly, foreseeing tribulations ahead though he knew it was time to 'pull up'.
'So it is; but all the more honour to those who are brave and wise enough to resist public opinion, and the easy-going morals of bad or careless men and women. Think of the persons whom you respect most, and in imitating them you will secure the respect of those who look up to you. I'd rather my boys should be laughed at and cold-shouldered by a hundred foolish fellows than lose what, once gone, no power can give them back--innocence and self-respect. I don't wonder you find it “hard to toe the mark”, when books, pictures, ball-rooms, theatres, and streets offer temptations; yet you can resist, if you try. Last winter Mrs Brooke used to worry about John's being out so late reporting; but when she spoke to him about the things he must see and hear on his way to and fro from the office at midnight, he said in his sober way, “I know what you mean, mother; but no fellow need to go wrong unless he wants to.”
'That's like the Deacon!' exclaimed Stuffy, with an approving smile on his fat face.
'I'm glad you told me that. He's right; and it's because he doesn't want to go wrong we all respect him so,' added Dolly, looking up now with an expression which assured his Mentor that the right string had been touched, and a spirit of emulation roused, more helpful, perhaps, than any words of hers. Seeing this, she was satisfied, and said, as she prepared to leave the bar before which her culprits had been tried and found guilty, but recommended to mercy: 'Then be to others what John is to you--a good example. Forgive me for troubling you, my dear lads, and remember my little preachment. I think it will do you good, though I may never know it. Chance words spoken in kindness often help amazingly; and that's what old people are here for--else their experience is of little use. Now, come and find the young folk. I hope I shall never have to shut the gates of Plumfield upon you, as I have on some of your “gentlemen”. I mean to keep my boys and girls safe if I can, and this a wholesome place where the good old-fashioned virtues are lived and taught.'
Much impressed by that dire threat, Dolly helped her from her perch with deep respect; and Stuffy relieved her of her empty jugs, solemnly vowing to abstain from all fermented beverages except root-beer, as long as feeble flesh could hold out. Of course they made light of 'Mother Bhaer's lecture' when they were alone--that was to be expected of 'men of our class' but in their secret souls they thanked her for giving their boyish consciences a jog, and more than once afterward had cause to remember gratefully that half-hour in the tennis court.
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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17
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. AMONG THE MAIDS
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Although this story is about Jo's boys, her girls cannot be neglected, because they held a high place in this little republic, and especial care was taken to fit them to play their parts worthily in the great republic which offered them wider opportunities and more serious duties. To many the social influence was the better part of the training they received; for education is not confined to books, and the finest characters often graduate from no college, but make experience their master, and life their book. Others cared only for the mental culture, and were in danger of over-studying, under the delusion which pervades New England that learning must be had at all costs, forgetting that health and real wisdom are better. A third class of ambitious girls hardly knew what they wanted, but were hungry for whatever could fit them to face the world and earn a living, being driven by necessity, the urgency of some half-conscious talent, or the restlessness of strong young natures to break away from the narrow life which no longer satisfied.
At Plumfield all found something to help them; for the growing institution had not yet made its rules as fixed as the laws of the Medes and Persians, and believed so heartily in the right of all sexes, colours, creeds, and ranks to education, that there was room for everyone who knocked, and a welcome to the shabby youths from up country, the eager girls from the West, the awkward freedman or woman from the South, or the well-born student whose poverty made this college a possibility when other doors were barred. There still was prejudice, ridicule, neglect in high places, and prophecies of failure to contend against; but the Faculty was composed of cheerful, hopeful men and women who had seen greater reforms spring from smaller roots, and after stormy seasons blossom beautifully, to add prosperity and honour to the nation. So they worked on steadily and bided their time, full of increasing faith in their attempt as year after year their numbers grew, their plans succeeded, and the sense of usefulness in this most vital of all professions blessed them with its sweet rewards.
Among the various customs which had very naturally sprung up was one especially useful and interesting to 'the girls', as the young women liked to be called. It all grew out of the old sewing hour still kept up by the three sisters long after the little work-boxes had expanded into big baskets full of household mending. They were busy women, yet on Saturdays they tried to meet in one of the three sewing-rooms; for even classic Parnassus had its nook where Mrs Amy often sat among her servants, teaching them to make and mend, thereby giving them a respect for economy, since the rich lady did not scorn to darn her hose, and sew on buttons. In these household retreats, with books and work, and their daughters by them, they read and sewed and talked in the sweet privacy that domestic women love, and can make so helpful by a wise mixture of cooks and chemistry, table linen and theology, prosaic duties and good poetry.
Mrs Meg was the first to propose enlarging this little circle; for as she went her motherly rounds among the young women she found a sad lack of order, skill, and industry in this branch of education. Latin, Greek, the higher mathematics, and science of all sorts prospered finely; but the dust gathered on the work-baskets, frayed elbows went unheeded, and some of the blue stockings sadly needed mending. Anxious lest the usual sneer at learned women should apply to 'our girls', she gently lured two or three of the most untidy to her house, and made the hour so pleasant, the lesson so kindly, that they took the hint, were grateful for the favour, and asked to come again. Others soon begged to make the detested weekly duty lighter by joining the party, and soon it was a privilege so much desired that the old museum was refitted with sewing-machines, tables, rocking-chair, and a cheerful fireplace, so that, rain or shine, the needles might go on undisturbed.
Here Mrs Meg was in her glory, and stood wielding her big shears like a queen as she cut out white work, fitted dresses, and directed Daisy, her special aide, about the trimming of hats, and completing the lace and ribbon trifles which add grace to the simplest costume and save poor or busy girls so much money and time. Mrs Amy contributed taste, and decided the great question of colours and complexions; for few women, even the most learned, are without that desire to look well which makes many a plain face comely, as well as many a pretty one ugly for want of skill and knowledge of the fitness of things. She also took her turn to provide books for the readings, and as art was her forte she gave them selections from Ruskin, Hamerton, and Mrs Jameson, who is never old. Bess read these aloud as her contribution, and Josie took her turn at the romances, poetry, and plays her uncles recommended. Mrs Jo gave little lectures on health, religion, politics, and the various questions in which all should be interested, with copious extracts from Miss Cobbe's Duties of Women, Miss Brackett's Education of American Girls, Mrs Duffy's No Sex in Education, Mrs Woolson's Dress Reform, and many of the other excellent books wise women write for their sisters, now that they are waking up and asking: 'What shall we do?'
It was curious to see the prejudices melt away as ignorance was enlightened, indifference change to interest, and intelligent minds set thinking, while quick wits and lively tongues added spice to the discussions which inevitably followed. So the feet that wore the neatly mended hose carried wiser heads than before, the pretty gowns covered hearts warmed with higher purposes, and the hands that dropped the thimbles for pens, lexicons, and celestial globes, were better fitted for life's work, whether to rock cradles, tend the sick, or help on the great work of the world.
One day a brisk discussion arose concerning careers for women. Mrs Jo had read something on the subject and asked each of the dozen girls sitting about the room, what she intended to do on leaving college. The answers were as usual: 'I shall teach, help mother, study medicine, art,' etc.; but nearly all ended with: 'Till I marry.'
'But if you don't marry, what then?' asked Mrs Jo, feeling like a girl again as she listened to the answers, and watched the thoughtful, gay, or eager faces.
'Be old maids, I suppose. Horrid, but inevitable, since there are so many superfluous women,' answered a lively lass, too pretty to fear single blessedness unless she chose it.
'It is well to consider that fact, and fit yourselves to be useful, not superfluous women. That class, by the way, is largely made up of widows, I find; so don't consider it a slur on maidenhood.'
'That's a comfort! Old maids aren't sneered at half as much as they used to be, since some of them have grown famous and proved that woman isn't a half but a whole human being, and can stand alone.'
'Don't like it all the same. We can't all be like Miss Nightingale, Miss Phelps, and the rest.'
So what can we do but sit in a corner and look on?' asked a plain girl with a dissatisfied expression.
'Cultivate cheerfulness and content, if nothing else. But there are so many little odd jobs waiting to be done that nobody need “sit idle and look on”, unless she chooses,' said Mrs Meg, with a smile, laying on the girl's head the new hat she had just trimmed.
'Thank you very much. Yes, Mrs Brooke, I see; it's a little job, but it makes me neat and happy--and grateful,' she added, looking up with brighter eyes as she accepted the labour of love and the lesson as sweetly as they were given.
'One of the best and most beloved women I know has been doing odd jobs for the Lord for years, and will keep at it till her dear hands are folded in her coffin. All sorts of things she does--picks up neglected children and puts them in safe homes, saves lost girls, nurses poor women in trouble, sews, knits, trots, begs, works for the poor day after day with no reward but the thanks of the needy, the love and honour of the rich who make Saint Matilda their almoner. That's a life worth living; and I think that quiet little woman will get a higher seat in Heaven than many of those of whom the world has heard.'
'I know it's lovely, Mrs Bhaer; but it's dull for young folks. We do want a little fun before we buckle to,' said a Western girl with a wide-awake face.
'Have your fun, my dear; but if you must earn your bread, try to make it sweet with cheerfulness, not bitter with the daily regret that it isn't cake. I used to think mine was a very hard fate because I had to amuse a somewhat fretful old lady; but the books I read in that lonely library have been of immense use to me since, and the dear old soul bequeathed me Plumfield for my “cheerful service and affectionate care”. I didn't deserve it, but I did use to try to be jolly and kind, and get as much honey out of duty as I could, thanks to my dear mother's help and advice.'
'Gracious! if I could earn a place like this, I'd sing all day and be an angel; but you have to take your chance, and get nothing for your pains, perhaps. I never do,' said the Westerner, who had a hard time with small means and large aspirations.
'Don't do it for the reward; but be sure it will come, though not in the shape you expect. I worked hard for fame and money one winter; but I got neither, and was much disappointed. A year afterwards I found I had earned two prizes: skill with my pen, and Professor Bhaer.'
Mrs Jo's laugh was echoed blithely by the girls, who liked to have these conversations enlivened by illustrations from life.
'You are a very lucky woman,' began the discontented damsel, whose soul soared above new hats, welcome as they were, but did not quite know where to steer.
'Yet her name used to be “Luckless Jo”, and she never had what she wanted till she had given up hoping for it,' said Mrs Meg.
'I'll give up hoping, then, right away, and see if my wishes will come. I only want to help my folks, and get a good school.'
'Take this proverb for your guide: “Get the distaff ready, and the Lord will send the flax”,' answered Mrs Jo.
'We'd better all do that, if we are to be spinsters,' said the pretty one, adding gaily, 'I think I should like it, on the whole--they are so independent. My Aunt Jenny can do just what she likes, and ask no one's leave; but Ma has to consult Pa about everything. Yes, I'll give you my chance, Sally, and be a “superfluum”, as Mr Plock says.'
'You'll be one of the first to go into bondage, see if you aren't. Much obliged, all the same.'
'Well, I'll get my distaff ready, and take whatever flax the Fates send--single, or double-twisted, as the powers please.'
'That is the right spirit, Nelly. Keep it up, and see how happy life will be with a brave heart, a willing hand, and plenty to do.'
'No one objects to plenty of domestic work or fashionable pleasure, I find; but the minute we begin to study, people tell us we can't bear it, and warn us to be very careful. I've tried the other things, and got so tired I came to college; though my people predict nervous exhaustion and an early death. Do you think there is any danger?' asked a stately girl, with an anxious glance at the blooming face reflected in the mirror opposite.
'Are you stronger or weaker than when you came two years ago, Miss Winthrop?'
'Stronger in body, and much happier in mind. I think I was dying of ennui; but the doctors called it inherited delicacy of constitution. That is why mamma is so anxious, and I wish not to go too fast.'
'Don't worry, my dear; that active brain of yours was starving for good food; it has plenty now, and plain living suits you better than luxury and dissipation. It is all nonsense about girls not being able to study as well as boys. Neither can bear cramming; but with proper care both are better for it; so enjoy the life your instinct led you to, and we will prove that wise headwork is a better cure for that sort of delicacy than tonics, and novels on the sofa, where far too many of our girls go to wreck nowadays. They burn the candle at both ends; and when they break down they blame the books, not the balls.'
'Dr Nan was telling me about a patient of hers who thought she had heart-complaint, till Nan made her take off her corsets, stopped her coffee and dancing all night, and made her eat, sleep, walk, and live regularly for a time; and now she's a brilliant cure. Common sense versus custom, Nan said.'
'I've had no headaches since I came here, and can do twice as much studying as I did at home. It's the air, I think, and the fun of going ahead of the boys,' said another girl, tapping her big forehead with her thimble, as if the lively brain inside was in good working order and enjoyed the daily gymnastics she gave it.
'Quality, not quantity, wins the day, you know. Our brains may be smaller, but I don't see that they fall short of what is required of them; and if I'm not mistaken, the largest-headed man in our class is the dullest,' said Nelly, with a solemn air which produced a gale of merriment; for all knew that the young Goliath she mentioned had been metaphorically slain by this quick-witted David on many a battle-field, to the great disgust of himself and his mates.
'Mrs Brooke, do I gauge on the right or the wrong side?' asked the best Greek scholar of her class, eyeing a black silk apron with a lost expression.
'The right, Miss Pierson; and leave a space between the tucks; it looks prettier so.'
'I'll never make another; but it will save my dresses from ink-stains, so I'm glad I've got it'; and the erudite Miss Pierson laboured on, finding it a harder task than any Greek root she ever dug up.
'We paper-stainers must learn how to make shields, or we are lost. I'll give you a pattern of the pinafore I used to wear in my “blood-and-thunder days”, as we call them,' said Mrs Jo, trying to remember what became of the old tin-kitchen which used to hold her works.
'Speaking of writers reminds me that my ambition is to be a George Eliot, and thrill the world! It must be so splendid to know that one has such power, and to hear people own that one possesses a “masculine intellect”! I don't care for most women's novels, but hers are immense; don't you think so, Mrs Bhaer?' asked the girl with the big forehead, and torn braid on her skirt.
'Yes; but they don't thrill me as little Charlotte Bronte's books do. The brain is there, but the heart seems left out. I admire, but I don't love, George Eliot; and her life is far sadder to me than Miss Bronte's, because, in spite of the genius, love, and fame, she missed the light without which no soul is truly great, good, or happy.'
'Yes'm, I know; but still it's so romantic and sort of new and mysterious, and she was great in one sense. Her nerves and dyspepsia do rather destroy the illusion; but I adore famous people and mean to go and see all I can scare up in London some day.'
'You will find some of the best of them busy about just the work I recommend to you; and if you want to see a great lady, I'll tell you that Mrs Laurence means to bring one here today. Lady Abercrombie is lunching with her, and after seeing the college is to call on us. She especially wanted to see our sewing-school, as she is interested in things of this sort, and gets them up at home.'
'Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,' exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered.
'Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools--both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I've met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don't expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: “Now, my man, what do you want here?” Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: “Why didn't he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord.”'
The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy.
'Shall we all rise?' asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour.
'It would be courteous.'
'Shall we shake hands?'
'No, I'll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.'
'I wish I'd worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,' whispered Sally.
'Won't my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?' said another.
'Don't look as if you'd never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,' added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe.
'Hush, she's coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!' cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest.
It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped.
A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady's work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth.
It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe's eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God's name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be--truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a 'dear old home', and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered: 'I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman's education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I've seen in America--Penelope among her maids.'
A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on.
'I feel better about the “odd jobs” now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,' said one.
'I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: “Quite workmanlike, upon my word,” added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour.
'Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke's. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.'
Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said: 'I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I'm glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don't want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don't waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.'
'We will do our best, ma'am,' answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow.
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{
"id": "3499"
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18
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. CLASS DAY
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The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex.
College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President's lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best.
Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were 'no end nobby'; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane: 'My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn't hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don't ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.'
Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before--like Beau Brummel--he turned from a heap of 'failures' with the welcome words: 'That will do.' Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was 'a thing of beauty', if not 'a joy for ever'. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens's afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the 'long, black clothes-pin'--as Josie called him---and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and--oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy! --an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy.
'How's that for style?' he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion.
A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat.
'Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?' said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son.
'Let him wear it, Aunty; it's so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn't eighteen at least,' cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming.
'Father won't observe it; he'll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he'll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I'm in full fig'; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker.
'My son, obey me!' and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom.
Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the 'little gardens' in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March's fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while 'the original Plums', as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold.
The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were--as usual on such occasions--of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men's faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman's heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever.
Alice Heath's oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to 'march shoulder to shoulder', as if she had chanted the 'Marseillaise' then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President's remarks.
They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year.
Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President's reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school.
Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer's hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor's nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey.
She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement: 'Uncle, Aunt Jo, here's another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?'
There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun.
'But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?' asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening.
'Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie's marriage, and I thought I'd give you another nice little surprise,' laughed Emil. 'I'm off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn't fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.'
'Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,' cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him.
An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk--Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil's graphic words, with Mary's soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance.
'I never hear the patter of rain now that I don't want to say my prayers; and as for women, I'd like to take my hat off to every one of 'em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,' said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone.
'If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl's pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!' cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her.
'Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn't that an awful night?' And Emil shuddered as he recalled it.
'Don't think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,' said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience.
Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his 'dear lass', in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale.
'Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn't do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made 'em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn't part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I'm bound straight for glory now.'
'Hush! that's silly, dear,' whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship.
'The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren't like to see any rougher weather than we'd pulled through together, and if we didn't know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn't be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!'
'Shall you really sail with him?' asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water.
'I'm not afraid,' answered Mary, with a loyal smile. 'I've proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I'd rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.'
'A true woman, and a born sailor's wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I'm sure this trip will be a prosperous one,' cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. 'Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you'd come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea'; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture.
'Of course I was!' answered Emil heartily; 'and my “main-top jib” in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember--English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.'
'And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward'; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was.
Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: 'Odd, isn't it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, “Boys, boys, it's time to get up!” I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia's ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you've got any, do give me one!'
A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat.
'The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he's paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.'
'I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,' said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded.
'I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!' cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past.
'I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,' answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair.
But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat's trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming.
'This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn't it?' she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat's letter brought the news.
'Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister's orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: “Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it.” I'll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and “Mendelssohnian brow”, as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.'
This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend's sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat's patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful 'We shall see' to a cordial 'He has done well; be happy, dear'.
In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins: 'My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.'
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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19
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. WHITE ROSES
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While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought.
'Sophy Wackles,' said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked her thumb just pricked by a too eager pull at the thorny branches.
'What are you at here, Mischief?' asked Demi, with an Irvingesque start, as he felt rather than saw a disturbing influence in his day-dream.
'Getting flowers for “our brides”. Don't you wish you had one?' answered Josie, to whom the word 'mischief' suggested her favourite amusement.
'A bride or a flower?' asked Demi calmly, though he eyed the blooming bush as if it had a sudden and unusual interest for him.
'Both; you get the one, and I'll give you the other.'
'Wish I could!' and Demi picked a little bud, with a sigh that went to Josie's warm heart.
'Why don't you, then? It's lovely to see people so happy. Now's a good time to do it if you ever mean to. She will be going away for ever soon.'
'Who?' and Demi pulled a half-opened bud, with a sudden colour in his own face; which sign of confusion delighted little Jo.
'Don't be a hypocrite. You know I mean Alice. Now, Jack, I'm fond of you, and want to help; it's so interesting--all these lovers and weddings and things, and we ought to have our share. So you take my advice and speak up like a man, and make sure of Alice before she goes.'
Demi laughed at the seriousness of the small girl's advice; but he liked it, and showed that it suited him by saying blandly, instead of snubbing her as usual: 'You are very kind, child. Since you are so wise, could you give me a hint how I'd better 'speak up', as you elegantly express it?'
'Oh, well, there are various ways, you know. In plays the lovers go down on their knees; but that's awkward when they have long legs. Ted never does it well, though I drill him for hours. You could say, “Be mine, be mine!” like the old man who threw cucumbers over the wall to Mrs Nickleby, if you want to be gay and easy; or you could write a poetical pop. You've tried it, I dare say.'
'But seriously, Jo, I do love Alice, and I think she knows it. I want to tell her so; but I lose my head when I try, and don't care to make a fool of myself. Thought you might suggest some pretty way; you read so much poetry and are so romantic.'
Demi tried to express himself clearly, but forgot his dignity and his usual reserve in the sweet perplexity of his love, and asked his little sister to teach him how to put the question which a single word can answer. The arrival of his happy cousins had scattered all his wise plans and brave resolutions to wait still longer. The Christmas play had given him courage to hope, and the oration today had filled him with tender pride; but the sight of those blooming brides and beaming grooms was too much for him, and he panted to secure his Alice without an hour's delay. Daisy was his confidante in all things but this; a brotherly feeling of sympathy had kept him from telling her his hopes, because her own were forbidden. His mother was rather jealous of any girl he admired; but knowing that she liked Alice, he loved on and enjoyed his secret alone, meaning soon to tell her all about it.
Now suddenly Josie and the rose-bush seemed to suggest a speedy end to his tender perplexities; and he was moved to accept her aid as the netted lion did that of the mouse.
'I think I'll write,' he was slowly beginning, after a pause during which both were trying to strike out a new and brilliant idea.
'I've got it! perfectly lovely! just suit her, and you too, being a poet!' cried Josie, with a skip.
'What is it? Don't be ridiculous, please,' begged the bashful lover, eager, but afraid of this sharp-tongued bit of womanhood.
'I read in one of Miss Edgeworth's stories about a man who offers three roses to his lady--a bud, a half-blown, and a full-blown rose. I don't remember which she took; but it's a pretty way; and Alice knows about it because she was there when we read it. Here are all kinds; you've got the two buds, pick the sweetest rose you can find, and I'll tie them up and put them in her room. She is coming to dress with Daisy, so I can do it nicely.'
Demi mused a moment with his eyes on the bridal bush, and a smile came over his face so unlike any it had ever worn before, that Josie was touched, and looked away as if she had no right to see the dawn of the great passion which, while it lasts, makes a young man as happy as a god.
'Do it,' was all he said, and gathered a full-blown rose to finish his floral love-message.
Charmed to have a finger in this romantic pie, Josie tied a graceful bow of ribbon about the stems, and finished her last nosegay with much content, while Demi wrote upon a card: DEAR ALICE, You know what the flowers mean. Will you wear one, or all tonight, and make me still prouder, fonder, and happier than I am?
Yours entirely, JOHN Offering this to his sister, he said in a tone that made her feel the deep importance of her mission: 'I trust you, Jo. This means everything to me. No jokes, dear, if you love me.'
Josie's answer was a kiss that promised all things; and then she ran away to do her 'gentle spiriting', like Ariel, leaving Demi to dream among the roses like Ferdinand.
Mary and Ludmilla were charmed with their bouquets; and the giver had the delight of putting some of the flowers into the dark hair and the light as she played maid at the toilettes of 'our brides', which consoled her for a disappointment in the matter of veils.
No one helped Alice dress; for Daisy was in the next room with her mother; and not even their loving eyes saw the welcome which the little posy received, nor the tears and smiles and blushes that came and went as she read the note and pondered what answer she should give. There was no doubt about the one she wished to give; but duty held her back; for at home there was an invalid mother and an old father. She was needed there, with all the help she could now bring by the acquirements four years of faithful study had given her. Love looked very sweet, and a home of her own with John a little heaven on earth; but not yet. And she slowly laid away the full-blown rose as she sat before the mirror, thinking over the great question of her life.
Was it wise and kind to ask him to wait, to bind him by any promise, or even to put into words the love and honour she felt for him? No; it would be more generous to make the sacrifice alone, and spare him the pain of hope deferred. He was young; he would forget; and she would do her duty better, perhaps, if no impatient lover waited for her. With eyes that saw but dimly, and a hand that lingered on the stem he had stripped of thorns, she laid the half-blown flower by the rose, and asked herself if even the little bud might be worn. It looked very poor and pale beside the others; yet being in the self-sacrificing mood which real love brings, she felt that even a small hope was too much to give, if she could not follow it up with more.
As she sat looking sadly down on the symbols of an affection that grew dearer every moment, she listened half unconsciously to the murmur of voices in the adjoining room. Open windows, thin partitions, and the stillness of summer twilight made it impossible to help hearing, and in a few moments more she could not refrain; for they were talking of John.
'So nice of Ludmilla to bring us all bottles of real German cologne! Just what we need after this tiring day! Be sure John has his! He likes it so!'
'Yes, mother. Did you see him jump up when Alice ended her oration? He'd have gone to her if I hadn't held him back. I don't wonder he was pleased and proud. I spoilt my gloves clapping, and quite forgot my dislike of seeing women on platforms, she was so earnest and unconscious and sweet after the first moment.'
'Has he said anything to you, dear?'
'No; and I guess why. The kind boy thinks it would make me unhappy. It wouldn't. But I know his ways; so I wait, and hope all will go well with him.'
'It must. No girl in her senses would refuse our John, though he isn't rich, and never will be. Daisy, I've been longing to tell you what he did with his money. He told me last night, and I've had no time since to tell you. He sent poor young Barton to the hospital, and kept him there till his eyes were saved--a costly thing to do. But the man can work now and care for his old parents. He was in despair, sick and poor, and too proud to beg; and our dear boy found it out, and took every penny he had, and never told even his mother till she made him.'
Alice did not hear what Daisy answered, for she was busy with her own emotions--happy ones now, to judge from the smile that shone in her eyes and the decided gesture with which she put the little bud in her bosom, as if she said: 'He deserves some reward for that good deed, and he shall have it.'
Mrs Meg was speaking, and still of John, when she could hear again: 'Some people would call it unwise and reckless, when John has so little; but I think his first investment a safe and good one, for “he who giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord”; and I was so pleased and proud, I wouldn't spoil it by offering him a penny.'
'It is his having nothing to offer that keeps him silent, I think. He is so honest, he won't ask till he has much to give. But he forgets that love is everything. I know he's rich in that; I see and feel it; and any woman should be glad to get it.'
'Right, dear. I felt just so, and was willing to work and wait with and for my John.'
'So she will be, and I hope they will find it out. But she is so dutiful and good, I'm afraid she won't let herself be happy. You would like it, mother?'
'Heartily; for a better, nobler girl doesn't live. She is all I want for my son; and I don't mean to lose the dear, brave creature if I can help it. Her heart is big enough for both love and duty; and they can wait more happily if they do it together--for wait they must, of course.'
'I'm so glad his choice suits you, mother, and he is spared the saddest sort of disappointment.'
Daisy's voice broke there; and a sudden rustle, followed by a soft murmur, seemed to tell that she was in her mother's arms, seeking and finding comfort there.
Alice heard no more, and shut her window with a guilty feeling but a shining face; for the proverb about listeners failed here, and she had learned more than she dared to hope. Things seemed to change suddenly; she felt that her heart was large enough for both love and duty; she knew now that she would be welcomed by mother and sister; and the memory of Daisy's less happy fate, Nat's weary probation, the long delay, and possible separation for ever--all came before her so vividly that prudence seemed cruelty; self-sacrifice, sentimental folly; and anything but the whole truth, disloyalty to her lover. As she thought thus, the half-blown rose went to join the bud; and then, after a pause, she slowly kissed the perfect rose, and added it to the tell-tale group, saying to herself with a sort of sweet solemnity, as if the words were a vow: 'I'll love and work and wait with and for my John.'
It was well for her that Demi was absent when she stole down to join the guests who soon began to flow through the house in a steady stream. The new brightness which touched her usually thoughtful face was easily explained by the congratulations she received as orator, and the slight agitation observable, when a fresh batch of gentlemen approached soon passed, as none of them noticed the flowers she wore over a very happy heart. Demi meantime was escorting certain venerable personages about the college, and helping his grandfather entertain them with discussion of the Socratic method of instruction, Pythagoras, Pestalozzi, Froebel, and the rest, whom he devoutly wished at the bottom of the Red Sea, and no wonder, for his head and his heart were full of love and roses, hopes and fears. He piloted the 'potent, grave, and reverend seigniors' safely down to Plumfield at last, and landed them before his uncle and aunt Bhaer, who were receiving in state, the one full of genuine delight in all men and things, the other suffering martyrdom with a smile, as she stood shaking hand after hand, and affecting utter unconsciousness of the sad fact that ponderous Professor Plock had camped upon the train of her state and festival velvet gown.
With a long sigh of relief Demi glanced about him for the beloved girl. Most persons would have looked some time before any particular angel could be discovered among the white-robed throng in parlours, hall, and study; but his eye went--like the needle to the pole--to the corner where a smooth dark head, with its braided crown, rose like a queen's, he thought, above the crowd which surrounded her. Yes, she has a flower at her throat; one, two, oh, blessed sight! he saw it all across the room, and gave a rapturous sigh which caused Miss Perry's frizzled crop to wave with a sudden gust. He did not see the rose, for it was hidden by a fold of lace; and it was well, perhaps, that bliss came by instalments, or he might have electrified the assembled multitude by flying to his idol, there being no Daisy to clutch him by the coat-tail. A stout lady, thirsting for information, seized him at that thrilling moment, and he was forced to point out celebrities with a saintly patience which deserved a better reward than it received; for a certain absence of mind and incoherence of speech at times caused the ungrateful dowager to whisper to the first friend she met after he had escaped: 'I saw no wine at any of the spreads; but it is plain that young Brooke has had too much. Quite gentlemanly, but evidently a trifle intoxicated, my dear.'
Ah, so he was! but with a diviner wine than any that ever sparkled at a class-day lunch, though many collegians know the taste of it; and when the old lady was disposed of, he gladly turned to find the young one, bent on having a single word. He saw her standing by the piano now, idly turning over music as she talked with several gentlemen. Hiding his impatience under an air of scholastic repose, Demi hovered near, ready to advance when the happy moment came, wondering meantime why elderly persons persisted in absorbing young ones instead of sensibly sitting in corners with their contemporaries. The elderly persons in question retired at length, but only to be replaced by two impetuous youths who begged Miss Heath to accompany them to Parnassus and join the dance. Demi thirsted for their blood, but was appeased by hearing George and Dolly say, as they lingered a moment after her refusal: 'Really, you know, I'm quite converted to co-education and almost wish I'd remained here. It gives a grace to study, a sort of relish even to Greek to see charming girls at it,' said Stuffy, who found the feast of learning so dry, any sauce was welcome; and he felt as if he had discovered a new one.
'Yes, by Jove! we fellows will have to look out or you'll carry off all the honours. You were superb today, and held us all like magic, though it was so hot there, I really think I couldn't have stood it for anyone else,' added Dolly, labouring to be gallant and really offering a touching proof of devotion; for the heat melted his collar, took the curl out of his hair, and ruined his gloves.
'There is room for all; and if you will leave us the books, we will cheerfully yield the baseball, boating, dancing, and flirting, which seem to be the branches you prefer,' answered Alice sweetly.
'Ah, now you are too hard upon us! We can't grind all the time and you ladies don't seem to mind taking a turn at the two latter “branches” you mention,' returned Dolly, with a glance at George which plainly said, 'I had her there.'
'Some of us do in our first years. Later we give up childish things, you see. Don't let me keep you from Parnassus'; and a smiling nod dismissed them, smarting under the bitter consciousness of youth.
'You got it there, Doll. Better not try to fence with these superior girls. Sure to be routed, horse, foot, and dragoons,' said Stuffy, lumbering away, somewhat cross with too many spreads.
'So deuced sarcastic! Don't believe she's much older than we are. Girls grow up quicker, so she needn't put on airs and talk like a grandmother,' muttered Dolly, feeling that he had sacrificed his kids upon the altar of an ungrateful Pallas.
'Come along and let's find something to eat. I'm faint with so much talking. Old Plock cornered me and made my head spin with Kant and Hegel and that lot.'
'I promised Dora West I'd give her a turn. Must look her up; she's a jolly little thing, and doesn't bother about anything but keeping in step.'
And arm in arm the boys strolled away, leaving Alice to read music as diligently as if society had indeed no charms for her. As she bent to turn a page, the eager young man behind the piano saw the rose and was struck speechless with delight. A moment he gazed, then hastened to seize the coveted place before a new detachment of bores arrived.
'Alice, I can't believe it--did you understand--how shall I ever thank you?' murmured Demi, bending as if he, too, read the song, not a note or word of which did he see, however.
'Hush! not now. I understood--I don't deserve it--we are too young, we must wait, but--I'm very proud and happy, John!'
What would have happened after that tender whisper I tremble to think, if Tom Bangs had not come bustling up, with the cheerful remark: 'Music? just the thing. People are thinning out, and we all want a little refreshment. My brain fairly reels with the 'ologies and 'isms I've heard discussed tonight. Yes, give us this; sweet thing! Scotch songs are always charming.'
Demi glowered; but the obtuse boy never saw it, and Alice, feeling that this would be a safe vent for sundry unruly emotions, sat down at once, and sang the song which gave her answer better than she could have done: BIDE A WEE 'The puir auld folk at home, ye mind, Are frail and failing sair; And weel I ken they'd miss me, lad, Gin I come hame nae mair. The grist is out, the times are hard, The kine are only three; I canna leave the auld folk now. We'd better bide a wee.
'I fear me sair they're failing baith; For when I sit apart, They talk o' Heaven so earnestly, It well nigh breaks my heart. So, laddie, dinna urge me now, It surely winna be; I canna leave the auld folk yet. We'd better bide a wee.'
The room was very still before the first verse ended; and Alice skipped the next, fearing she could not get through; for John's eyes were on her, showing that he knew she sang for him and let the plaintive little ballad tell what her reply must be. He took it as she meant it, and smiled at her so happily that her heart got the better of her voice, and she rose abruptly, saying something about the heat.
'Yes, you are tired; come out and rest, my dearest'; and with a masterful air Demi took her into the starlight, leaving Tom to stare after them winking as if a sky-rocket had suddenly gone off under his nose.
'Bless my soul! the Deacon really meant business last summer and never told me. Won't Dora laugh?' And Tom departed in hot haste to impart and exult over his discovery.
What was said in the garden was never exactly known; but the Brooke family sat up very late that night, and any curious eye at the window would have seen Demi receiving the homage of his womankind as he told his little romance. Josie took great credit to herself in the matter, insisting that she had made the match; Daisy was full of the sweetest sympathy and joy, and Mrs Meg so happy that when Jo had gone to dream of bridal veils, and Demi sat in his room blissfully playing the air of 'Bide a Wee', she had her talk about Nat, ending with her arms round her dutiful daughter and these welcome words as her reward: 'Wait till Nat comes home, and then my good girl shall wear white roses too.'
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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20
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. LIFE FOR LIFE
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The summer days that followed were full of rest and pleasure for young and old, as they did the honours of Plumfield to their happy guests. While Franz and Emil were busy with the affairs of Uncle Hermann and Captain Hardy, Mary and Ludmilla made friends everywhere; for, though very unlike, both were excellent and charming girls. Mrs Meg and Daisy found the German bride a Hausfrau after their own hearts, and had delightful times learning new dishes, hearing about the semi-yearly washes and the splendid linen-room at Hamburg, or discussing domestic life in all its branches. Ludmilla not only taught, but learned, many things, and went home with many new and useful ideas in her blonde head.
Mary had seen so much of the world that she was unusually lively for an English girl; while her various accomplishments made her a most agreeable companion. Much good sense gave her ballast; and the late experiences of danger and happiness added a sweet gravity at times, which contrasted well with her natural gaiety. Mrs Jo was quite satisfied with Emil's choice, and felt sure this true and tender pilot would bring him safe to port through fair or stormy weather. She had feared that Franz would settle down into a comfortable, moneymaking burgher, and be content with that; but she soon saw that his love of music and his placid Ludmilla put much poetry into his busy life, and kept it from being too prosaic. So she felt at rest about these boys, and enjoyed their visit with real, maternal satisfaction; parting with them in September most regretfully, yet hopefully, as they sailed away to the new life that lay before them.
Demi's engagement was confided to the immediate family only, as both were pronounced too young to do anything but love and wait. They were so happy that time seemed to stand still for them, and after a blissful week they parted bravely--Alice to home duties, with a hope that sustained and cheered her through many trials; and John to his business, full of a new ardour which made all things possible when such a reward was offered.
Daisy rejoiced over them, and was never tired of hearing her brother's plans for the future. Her own hope soon made her what she used to be--a cheery, busy creature, with a smile, kind word, and helping hand for all; and as she went singing about the house again, her mother felt that the right remedy for past sadness had been found. The dear Pelican still had doubts and fears, but kept them wisely to herself, preparing sundry searching tests to be applied when Nat came home, and keeping a sharp eye on the letters from London; for some mysterious hint had flown across the sea, and Daisy's content seemed reflected in Nat's present cheerful state of mind.
Having passed through the Werther period, and tried a little Faust--of which experience he spoke to his Marguerite as if it had included an acquaintance with Mephistopheles, Blocksburg, and Auerbach's wine-cellar--he now felt that he was a Wilhelm Meister, serving his apprenticeship to the great masters of life. As she knew the truth of his small sins and honest repentance, Daisy only smiled at the mixture of love and philosophy he sent her, knowing that it was impossible for a young man to live in Germany without catching the German spirit.
'His heart is all right; and his head will soon grow clear when he gets out of the fog of tobacco, beer, and metaphysics he's been living in. England will wake up his common sense, and good salt air blow his little follies all away,' said Mrs Jo, much pleased with the good prospects of her violinist--whose return was delayed till spring, to his private regret, but professional advancement.
Josie had a month with Miss Cameron at the seaside, and threw herself so heartily into the lesson given her that her energy, promise, and patience laid the foundation of a friendship which was of infinite value to her in the busy, brilliant years to come; for little Jo's instincts were right; and the dramatic talent of the Marches was to blossom by and by into an actress, virtuous, and beloved.
Tom and his Dora were peacefully ambling altar-ward; for Bangs senior was so afraid his son would change his mind again and try a third profession, that he gladly consented to an early marriage, as a sort of anchor to hold the mercurial Thomas fast. Aforesaid Thomas could not complain of cold shoulders now; for Dora was a most devoted and adoring little mate, and made life so pleasant to him that his gift for getting into scrapes seemed lost, and he bade fair to become a thriving man, with undeniable talent for the business he had chosen.
'We shall be married in the autumn, and live with my father for a while. The governor is getting on, you know, and my wife and I must look after him. Later we shall have an establishment of our own,' was a favourite speech of his about this time, and usually received with smiles; for the idea of Tommy Bangs at the head of an 'establishment' was irresistibly funny to all who knew him.
Things were in this flourishing condition, and Mrs Jo was beginning to think her trials were over for that year, when a new excitement came. Several postal cards had arrived at long intervals from Dan, who gave them 'Care of M. Mason, etc.', as his address. By this means he was able to gratify his longing for home news, and to send brief messages to quiet their surprise at his delay in settling. The last one, which came in September, was dated 'Montana', and simply said: Here at last, trying mining again; but not going to stay long. All sorts of luck. Gave up the farm idea. Tell plans soon. Well, busy, and very happy. D. K.
If they had known what the heavy dash under 'happy' meant, that postal would have been a very eloquent bit of pasteboard; for Dan was free, and had gone straight away to the liberty he panted for. Meeting an old friend by accident, he obliged him at a pinch by acting as overseer for a time, finding the society even of rough miners very sweet, and something in the muscular work wonderfully pleasant, after being cooped up in the brush-shop so long. He loved to take a pick and wrestle with rock and earth till he was weary--which was very soon; for that year of captivity had told upon his splendid physique. He longed to go home, but waited week after week to get the prison taint off him and the haggard look out of his face. Meanwhile he made friends of masters and men; and as no one knew his story, he took his place again in the world gratefully and gladly--with little pride now, and no plans but to do some good somewhere, and efface the past.
Mrs Jo was having a grand clearing-out of her desk one October day, while the rain poured outside, and peace reigned in her mansion. Coming across the postals, she pondered over them, and then put them carefully away in the drawer labelled 'Boys' Letters', saying to herself, as she bundled eleven requests for autographs into the waste-paper basket: 'It is quite time for another card, unless he is coming to tell his plans. I'm really curious to know what he has been about all this year, and how he's getting on now.'
That last wish was granted within an hour; for Ted came rushing in, with a newspaper in one hand, a collapsed umbrella in the other, and a face full of excitement, announcing, all in one breathless jumble: 'Mine caved in--twenty men shut up--no way out--wives crying--water rising--Dan knew the old shaft--risked his life--got 'em out--most killed--papers full of it--I knew he'd be a hero--hurray for old Dan!'
'What? Where? When? Who? Stop roaring, and let me read!' commanded his mother, entirely bewildered.
Relinquishing the paper, Ted allowed her to read for herself, with frequent interruptions from him--and Rob, who soon followed, eager for the tale. It was nothing new; but courage and devotion always stir generous hearts, and win admiration; so the account was both graphic and enthusiastic; and the name of Daniel Kean, the brave man who saved the lives of others at the risk of his own, was on many lips that day. Very proud were the faces of these friends as they read how their Dan was the only one who, in the first panic of the accident, remembered the old shaft that led into the mine--walled up, but the only hope of escape, if the men could be got out before the rising water drowned them; how he was lowered down alone, telling the others to keep back till he saw if it was safe; how he heard the poor fellows picking desperately for their lives on the other side, and by knocks and calls guided them to the right spot; then headed the rescue party, and working like a hero, got the men out in time. On being drawn up last of all, the worn rope broke, and he had a terrible fall, being much hurt, but was still alive. How the grateful women kissed his blackened face and bloody hands, as the men bore him away in triumph, and the owners of the mine promised a handsome reward, if he lived to receive it!
'He must live; he shall, and come home to be nursed as soon as he can stir, if I go and bring him myself! I always knew he'd do something fine and brave, if he didn't get shot or hung for some wild prank instead,' cried Mrs Jo, much excited.
'Do go, and take me with you, Mum. I ought to be the one, Dan's so fond of me and I of him,' began Ted, feeling that this would be an expedition after his own heart.
Before his mother could reply, Mr Laurie came in, with almost as much noise and flurry as Teddy the second, exclaiming as he waved the evening paper: 'Seen the news, Jo? What do you think? Shall I go off at once, and see after that brave boy?'
'I wish you would. But the thing may not be all true--rumour lies so. Perhaps a few hours will bring an entirely new version of the story.'
'I've telephoned to Demi for all he can find out; and if it's true, I'll go at once. Should like the trip. If he's able, I'll bring him home; if not, I'll stay and see to him. He'll pull through. Dan will never die of a fall on his head. He's got nine lives, and not lost half of them yet.'
'If you go, uncle, mayn't I go with you? I'm just spoiling for a journey; and it would be such larks to go out there with you, and see the mines and Dan, and hear all about it, and help. I can nurse. Can't I, Rob?' cried Teddy, in his most wheedlesome tones.
'Pretty well. But if mother can't spare you, I'm ready if uncle needs anyone,' answered Rob, in his quiet way, looking much fitter for the trip than excitable Ted.
'I can't spare either of you. My boys get into trouble, unless I keep them close at home. I've no right to hold the others; but I won't let you out of my sight, or something will happen. Never saw such a year, with wrecks and weddings and floods and engagements, and every sort of catastrophe!' exclaimed Mrs Jo.
'If you deal in girls and boys, you must expect this sort of thing, ma'am. The worst is over, I hope, till these lads begin to go off. Then I'll stand by you; for you'll need every kind of support and comfort, specially if Ted bolts early,' laughed Mr Laurie, enjoying her lamentations.
'I don't think anything can surprise me now; but I am anxious about Dan, and feel that someone had better go to him. It's a rough place out there, and he may need careful nursing. Poor lad, he seems to get a good many hard knocks! But perhaps he needs them as “a mellerin' process”, as Hannah used to say.'
'We shall hear from Demi before long, and then I'll be off.' With which cheerful promise Mr Laurie departed; and Ted, finding his mother firm, soon followed, to coax his uncle to take him.
Further inquiry confirmed and added interest to the news. Mr Laurie was off at once; and Ted went into town with him, still vainly imploring to be taken to his Dan. He was absent all day; but his mother said, calmly: 'Only a fit of the sulks because he is thwarted. He's safe with Tom or Demi, and will come home hungry and meek at night. I know him.'
But she soon found that she could still be surprised; for evening brought no Ted, and no one had seen him. Mr Bhaer was just setting off to find his lost son, when a telegram arrived, dated at one of the way-stations on Mr Laurie's route: Found Ted in the cars. Take him along. Write tomorrow.
T. LAURENCE 'Ted bolted sooner than you expected, mother. Never mind--uncle will take good care of him, and Dan be very glad to see him,' said Rob, as Mrs Jo sat, trying to realize that her youngest was actually on his way to the wild West.
'Disobedient boy! He shall be severely punished, if I ever get him again. Laurie winked at this prank; I know he did. Just like him. Won't the two rascals have a splendid time? Wish I was with them! Don't believe that crazy boy took even a night-gown with him, or an overcoat. Well, there will be two patients for us to nurse when they get back, if they ever do. Those reckless express trains always go down precipices, and burn up, or telescope. Oh! my Ted, my precious boy, how can I let him go so far away from me?'
And mother-like, Mrs Jo forgot the threatened chastisement in tender lamentations over the happy scapegrace, now whizzing across the continent in high feather at the success of his first revolt. Mr Laurie was much amused at his insisting that those words, 'when Ted bolts', put the idea into his head; and therefore the responsibility rested upon his shoulders. He assumed it kindly from the moment he came upon the runaway asleep in a car, with no visible luggage but a bottle of wine for Dan and a blacking-brush for himself; and as Mrs Jo suspected, the 'two rascals' did have a splendid time. Penitent letters arrived in due season, and the irate parents soon forgot to chide in their anxiety about Dan, who was very ill, and did not know his friends for several days. Then he began to mend; and everyone forgave the bad boy when he proudly reported that the first conscious words Dan said were: 'Hallo, Ted!' with a smile of pleasure at seeing a familiar face bent over him.
'Glad he went, and I won't scold any more. Now, what shall we put in the box for Dan?' And Mrs Jo worked off her impatience to get hold of the invalid by sending comforts enough for a hospital.
Cheering accounts soon began to come, and at length Dan was pronounced able to travel, but seemed in no haste to go home, though never tired of hearing his nurses talk of it.
'Dan is strangely altered,' wrote Laurie to Jo; 'not by this illness alone, but by something which has evidently gone before. I don't know what, and leave you to ask; but from his ravings when delirious I fear he has been in some serious trouble the past year. He seems ten years older, but improved, quieter, and so grateful to us. It is pathetic to see the hunger in his eyes as they rest on Ted, as if he couldn't see enough of him. He says Kansas was a failure, but can't talk much; so I bide my time. The people here love him very much, and he cares for that sort of thing now; used to scorn any show of emotion, you know; now he wants everyone to think well of him, and can't do enough to win affection and respect. I may be all wrong. You will soon find out. Ted is in clover, and the trip has done him a world of good. Let me take him to Europe when we go? Apron-strings don't agree with him any better than they did with me when I proposed to run away to Washington with you some century ago. Aren't you sorry you didn't?'
This private letter set Mrs Jo's lively fancy in a ferment, and she imagined every known crime, affliction, and complication which could possibly have befallen Dan. He was too feeble to be worried with questions now, but she promised herself most interesting revelations when she got him safe at home; for the 'firebrand' was her most interesting boy. She begged him to come, and spent more time in composing a letter that should bring him, than she did over the most thrilling episodes in her 'works'.
No one but Dan saw the letter; but it did bring him, and one November day Mr Laurie helped a feeble man out of a carriage at the door of Plumfield, and Mother Bhaer received the wanderer like a recovered son; while Ted, in a disreputable-looking hat and an astonishing pair of boots, performed a sort of war-dance round the interesting group.
'Right upstairs and rest; I'm nurse now, and this ghost must eat before he talks to anyone,' commanded Mrs Jo, trying not to show how shocked she was at this shorn and shaven, gaunt and pallid shadow of the stalwart man she parted with.
He was quite content to obey, and lay on the long lounge in the room prepared for him, looking about as tranquilly as a sick child restored to its own nursery and mother's arms, while his new nurse fed and refreshed him, bravely controlling the questions that burned upon her tongue. Being weak and weary, he soon fell asleep; and then she stole away to enjoy the society of the 'rascals', whom she scolded and petted, pumped and praised, to her heart's content.
'Jo, I think Dan has committed some crime and suffered for it,' said Mr Laurie, when Ted had departed to show his boots and tell glowing tales of the dangers and delights of the miners' life to his mates. 'Some terrible experience has come to the lad, and broken his spirit. He was quite out of his head when we arrived, and I took the watching, so I heard more of those sad wanderings than anyone else. He talked of the “warden”, some trail, a dead man, and Blair and Mason, and would keep offering me his hand, asking me if I would take it and forgive him. Once, when he was very wild, I held his arms, and he quieted in a moment, imploring me not to “put the handcuffs on”. I declare, it was quite awful sometimes to hear him in the night talk of old Plum and you, and beg to be let out and go home to die.'
'He isn't going to die, but live to repent of anything he may have done; so don't harrow me up with these dark hints, Teddy. I don't care if he's broken the Ten Commandments, I'll stand by him, and so will you, and we'll set him on his feet and make a good man of him yet. I know he's not spoilt, by the look in his poor face. Don't say a word to anyone, and I'll have the truth before long,' answered Mrs Jo, still loyal to her bad boy, though much afflicted by what she had heard.
For some days Dan rested, and saw few people; then good care, cheerful surroundings, and the comfort of being at home began to tell, and he seemed more like himself, though still very silent as to his late experiences, pleading the doctor's orders not to talk much. Everyone wanted to see him; but he shrank from any but old friends, and 'wouldn't lionize worth a cent', Ted said, much disappointed that he could not show off his brave Dan.
'Wasn't a man there who wouldn't have done the same, so why make a row over me?' asked the hero, feeling more ashamed than proud of the broken arm, which looked so interesting in a sling.
'But isn't it pleasant to think that you saved twenty lives, Dan, and gave husbands, sons, and fathers back to the women who loved them?' asked Mrs Jo one evening as they were alone together after several callers had been sent away.
'Pleasant! it's all that kept me alive, I do believe; yes, I'd rather have done it than be made president or any other big bug in the world. No one knows what a comfort it is to think I've saved twenty men to more than pay for--' There Dan stopped short, having evidently spoken out of some strong emotion to which his hearer had no key.
'I thought you'd feel so. It is a splendid thing to save life at the risk of one's own, as you did, and nearly lose it,' began Mrs Jo, wishing he had gone on with that impulsive speech which was so like his old manner. ' “He that loseth his life shall gain it”,' muttered Dan, staring at the cheerful fire which lighted the room, and shone on his thin face with a ruddy glow.
Mrs Jo was so startled at hearing such words from his lips that she exclaimed joyfully: 'Then you did read the little book I gave you, and kept your promise?'
'I read it a good deal after a while. I don't know much yet, but I'm ready to learn; and that's something.'
'It's everything. Oh, my dear, tell me about it! I know something lies heavy on your heart; let me help you bear it, and so make the burden lighter.'
'I know it would; I want to tell; but some things even you couldn't forgive; and if you let go of me, I'm afraid I can't keep afloat.'
'Mothers can forgive anything! Tell me all, and be sure that I will never let you go, though the whole world should turn from you.'
Mrs Jo took one of the big wasted hands in both of hers and held it fast, waiting silently till that sustaining touch warmed poor Dan's heart, and gave him courage to speak. Sitting in his old attitude, with his head in his hands, he slowly told it all, never once looking up till the last words left his lips.
'Now you know; can you forgive a murderer, and keep a jail-bird in your house?'
Her only answer was to put her arms about him, and lay the shorn head on her breast, with eyes so full of tears they could but dimly see the hope and fear that made his own so tragical.
That was better than any words; and poor Dan clung to her in speechless gratitude, feeling the blessedness of mother love--that divine gift which comforts, purifies, and strengthens all who seek it. Two or three great, bitter drops were hidden in the little woollen shawl where Dan's cheek rested, and no one ever knew how soft and comfortable it felt to him after the hard pillows he had known so long. Suffering of both mind and body had broken will and pride, and the lifted burden brought such a sense of relief that he paused a moment to enjoy it in dumb delight.
'My poor boy, how you have suffered all this year, when we thought you free as air! Why didn't you tell us, Dan, and let us help you? Did you doubt your friends?' asked Mrs Jo, forgetting all other emotions in sympathy, as she lifted up the hidden face, and looked reproachfully into the great hollow eyes that met her own frankly now.
'I was ashamed. I tried to bear it alone rather than shock and disappoint you, as I know I have, though you try not to show it. Don't mind; I must get used to it'; and Dan's eyes dropped again as if they could not bear to see the trouble and dismay his confession painted on his best friend's face.
'I am shocked and disappointed by the sin, but I am also very glad and proud and grateful that my sinner has repented, atoned, and is ready to profit by the bitter lesson. No one but Fritz and Laurie need ever know the truth; we owe it to them, and they will feel as I do,' answered Mrs Jo, wisely thinking that entire frankness would be a better tonic than too much sympathy.
'No, they won't; men never forgive like women. But it's right. Please tell 'em for me, and get it over. Mr Laurence knows it, I guess. I blabbed when my wits were gone; but he was very kind all the same. I can bear their knowing; but oh, not Ted and the girls!' Dan clutched her arm with such an imploring face that she hastened to assure him no one should know except the two old friends, and he calmed down as if ashamed of his sudden panic.
'It wasn't murder, mind you, it was in self-defence; he drew first, and I had to hit him. Didn't mean to kill him; but it doesn't worry me as much as it ought, I'm afraid. I've more than paid for it, and such a rascal is better out of the world than in it, showing boys the way to hell. Yes, I know you think that's awful in me; but I can't help it. I hate a scamp as I do a skulking coyote, and always want to get a shot at 'em. Perhaps it would have been better if he had killed me; my life is spoilt.'
All the old prison gloom seemed to settle like a black cloud on Dan's face as he spoke, and Mrs Jo was frightened at the glimpse it gave her of the fire through which he had passed to come out alive, but scarred for life. Hoping to turn his mind to happier things, she said cheerfully: 'No, it isn't; you have learned to value it more and use it better for this trial. It is not a lost year, but one that may prove the most helpful of any you ever know. Try to think so, and begin again; we will help, and have all the more confidence in you for this failure. We all do the same and struggle on.'
'I never can be what I was. I feel about sixty, and don't care for anything now I've got here. Let me stay till I'm on my legs, then I'll clear out and never trouble you any more,' said Dan despondently.
'You are weak and low in your mind; that will pass, and by and by you will go to your missionary work among the Indians with all the old energy and the new patience, self-control, and knowledge you have gained. Tell me more about that good chaplain and Mary Mason and the lady whose chance word helped you so much. I want to know all about the trials of my poor boy.'
Won by her tender interest, Dan brightened up and talked on till he had poured out all the story of that bitter year, and felt better for the load he lifted off.
If he had known how it weighed upon his hearer's heart, he would have held his peace; but she hid her sorrow till she had sent him to bed, comforted and calm; then she cried her heart out, to the great dismay of Fritz and Laurie, till they heard the tale and could mourn with her; after which they all cheered up and took counsel together how best to help this worst of all the 'catastrophes' the year had brought them.
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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21
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. ASLAUGA'S KNIGHT
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It was curious to see the change which came over Dan after that talk. A weight seemed off his mind; and though the old impetuous spirit flashed out at times, he seemed intent on trying to show his gratitude and love and honour to these true friends by a new humility and confidence very sweet to them, very helpful to him. After hearing the story from Mrs Jo, the Professor and Mr Laurie made no allusion to it beyond the hearty hand-grasp, the look of compassion, the brief word of good cheer in which men convey sympathy, and a redoubled kindness which left no doubt of pardon. Mr Laurie began at once to interest influential persons in Dan's mission, and set in motion the machinery which needs so much oiling before anything can be done where Government is concerned. Mr Bhaer, with the skill of a true teacher, gave Dan's hungry mind something to do, and helped him understand himself by carrying on the good chaplain's task so paternally that the poor fellow often said he felt as if he had found a father. The boys took him to drive, and amused him with their pranks and plans; while the women, old and young, nursed and petted him till he felt like a sultan with a crowd of devoted slaves, obedient to his lightest wish. A very little of this was enough for Dan, who had a masculine horror of 'molly-coddling', and so brief an acquaintance with illness that he rebelled against the doctor's orders to keep quiet; and it took all Mrs Jo's authority and the girls' ingenuity to keep him from leaving his sofa long before strained back and wounded head were well. Daisy cooked for him; Nan attended to his medicines; Josie read aloud to while away the long hours of inaction that hung so heavily on his hands; while Bess brought all her pictures and casts to amuse him, and, at his special desire, set up a modelling-stand in his parlour and began to mould the buffalo head he gave her. Those afternoons seemed the pleasantest part of his day; and Mrs Jo, busy in her study close by, could see the friendly trio and enjoy the pretty pictures they made. The girls were much flattered by the success of their efforts, and exerted themselves to be very entertaining, consulting Dan's moods with the feminine tact most women creatures learn before they are out of pinafores. When he was gay, the room rang with laughter; when gloomy, they read or worked in respectful silence till their sweet patience cheered him up again; and when in pain they hovered over him like 'a couple of angels', as he said. He often called Josie 'little mother', but Bess was always 'Princess'; and his manner to the two cousins was quite different. Josie sometimes fretted him with her fussy ways, the long plays she liked to read, and the maternal scoldings she administered when he broke the rules; for having a lord of creation in her power was so delightful to her that she would have ruled him with a rod of iron if he had submitted. To Bess, in her gentler ministrations, he never showed either impatience or weariness, but obeyed her least word, exerted himself to seem well in her presence, and took such interest in her work that he lay looking at her with unwearied eyes; while Josie read to him in her best style unheeded.
Mrs Jo observed this, and called them 'Una and the Lion', which suited them very well, though the lion's mane was shorn, and Una never tried to bridle him. The elder ladies did their part in providing delicacies and supplying all his wants; but Mrs Meg was busy at home, Mrs Amy preparing for the trip to Europe in the spring, and Mrs Jo hovering on the brink of a 'vortex'--for the forthcoming book had been sadly delayed by the late domestic events. As she sat at her desk, settling papers or meditatively nibbling her pen while waiting for the divine afflatus to descend upon her, she often forgot her fictitious heroes and heroines in studying the live models before her, and thus by chance looks, words, and gestures discovered a little romance unsuspected by anyone else.
The portiere between the rooms was usually drawn aside, giving a view of the group in the large bay-window--Bess at one side, in her grey blouse, busy with her tools; Josie at the other side with her book; and between, on the long couch, propped with many cushions, lay Dan in a many-hued eastern dressing-gown presented by Mr Laurie and worn to please the girls, though the invalid much preferred an old jacket 'with no confounded tail to bother over'. He faced Mrs Jo's room, but never seemed to see her, for his eyes were on the slender figure before him, with the pale winter sunshine touching her golden head, and the delicate hands that shaped the clay so deftly. Josie was just visible, rocking violently in a little chair at the head of the couch, and the steady murmur of her girlish voice was usually the only sound that broke the quiet of the room, unless a sudden discussion arose about the book or the buffalo.
Something in the big eyes, bigger and blacker than ever in the thin white face, fixed, so steadily on one object, had a sort of fascination for Mrs Jo after a time, and she watched the changes in them curiously; for Dan's mind was evidently not on the story, and he often forgot to laugh or exclaim at the comic or exciting crises. Sometimes they were soft and wistful, and the watcher was very glad that neither damsel caught that dangerous look for when they spoke it vanished; sometimes it was full of eager fire, and the colour came and went rebelliously, in spite of his attempt to hide it with an impatient gesture of hand or head; but oftenest it was dark, and sad, and stern, as if those gloomy eyes looked out of captivity at some forbidden light or joy. This expression came so often that it worried Mrs Jo, and she longed to go and ask him what bitter memory overshadowed those quiet hours. She knew that his crime and its punishment must lie heavy on his mind; but youth, and time, and new hopes would bring comfort, and help to wear away the first sharpness of the prison brand. It lifted at other times, and seemed almost forgotten when he joked with the boys, talked with old friends, or enjoyed the first snows as he drove out every fair day. Why should the shadow always fall so darkly on him in the society of these innocent and friendly girls? They never seemed to see it, and if either looked or spoke, a quick smile came like a sunburst through the clouds to answer them. So Mrs Jo went on watching, wondering, and discovering, till accident confirmed her fears.
Josie was called away one day, and Bess, tired of working, offered to take her place if he cared for more reading.
'I do; your reading suits me better than Jo's. She goes so fast my stupid head gets in a muddle and soon begins to ache. Don't tell her; she's a dear little soul, and so good to sit here with a bear like me.'
The smile was ready as Bess went to the table for a new book, the last story being finished.
'You are not a bear, but very good and patient, we think. It is always hard for a man to be shut up, mamma says, and must be terrible for you, who have always been so free.'
If Bess had not been reading titles she would have seen Dan shrink as if her last words hurt him. He made no answer; but other eyes saw and understood why he looked as if he would have liked to spring up and rush away for one of his long races up the hill, as he used to do when the longing for liberty grew uncontrollable. Moved by a sudden impulse, Mrs Jo caught up her work-basket and went to join her neighbours, feeling that a non-conductor might be needed; for Dan looked like a thundercloud full of electricity.
'What shall we read, Aunty? Dan doesn't seem to care. You know his taste; tell me something quiet and pleasant and short. Josie will be back soon,' said Bess, still turning over the books piled on the centre-table.
Before Mrs Jo could answer, Dan pulled a shabby little volume from under his pillow, and handing it to her said: 'Please read the third one; it's short and pretty--I'm fond of it.' The book opened at the right place, as if the third story had been often read, and Bess smiled as she saw the name.
'Why, Dan, I shouldn't think you'd care for this romantic German tale. There is fighting in it; but it is very sentimental, if I remember rightly.'
'I know it; but I've read so few stories, I like the simple ones best. Had nothing else to read sometimes; I guess I know it all by heart, and never seem to be tired of those fighting fellows, and the fiends and angels and lovely ladies. You read “Aslauga's Knight”, and see if you don't like it. Edwald was rather too soft for my fancy; but Froda was first-rate and the spirit with the golden hair always reminded me of you.'
As Dan spoke Mrs Jo settled herself where she could watch him in the glass, and Bess took a large chair facing him, saying, as she put up her hands to retie the ribbon that held the cluster of thick, soft curls at the back of her head: 'I hope Aslauga's hair wasn't as troublesome as mine, for it's always tumbling down. I'll be ready in a minute.'
'Don't tie it up; please let it hang. I love to see it shine that way. It will rest your head, and be just right for the story, Goldilocks,' pleaded Dan, using the childish name and looking more like his boyish self than he had done for many a day.
Bess laughed, shook down her pretty hair, and began to read, glad to hide her face a little; for compliments made her shy, no matter who paid them. Dan listened intently on; and Mrs Jo, with eyes that went often from her needle to the glass, could see, without turning, how he enjoyed every word as if it had more meaning for him than for the other listeners. His face brightened wonderfully, and soon wore the look that came when anything brave or beautiful inspired and touched his better self. It was Fouque's charming story of the knight Froda, and the fair daughter of Sigurd, who was a sort of spirit, appearing to her lover in hours of danger and trial, as well as triumph and joy, till she became his guide and guard, inspiring him with courage, nobleness, and truth, leading him to great deeds in the field, sacrifices for those he loved, and victories over himself by the gleaming of her golden hair, which shone on him in battle, dreams, and perils by day and night, till after death he finds the lovely spirit waiting to receive and to reward him.
Of all the stories in the book this was the last one would have supposed Dan would like best, and even Mrs Jo was surprised at his perceiving the moral of the tale through the delicate imagery and romantic language by which it was illustrated. But as she looked and listened she remembered the streak of sentiment and refinement which lay concealed in Dan like the gold vein in a rock, making him quick to feel and to enjoy fine colour in a flower, grace in an animal, sweetness in women, heroism in men, and all the tender ties that bind heart to heart; though he was slow to show it, having no words to express the tastes and instincts which he inherited from his mother. Suffering of soul and body had tamed his stronger passions, and the atmosphere of love and pity now surrounding him purified and warmed his heart till it began to hunger for the food neglected or denied so long. This was plainly written in his too expressive face, as, fancying it unseen, he let it tell the longing after beauty, peace, and happiness embodied for him in the innocent fair girl before him.
The conviction of this sad yet natural fact came to Mrs Jo with a pang, for she felt how utterly hopeless such a longing was; since light and darkness were not farther apart than snow-white Bess and sin-stained Dan. No dream of such a thing disturbed the young girl, as her entire unconsciousness plainly showed. But how long would it be before the eloquent eyes betrayed the truth? And then what disappointment for Dan, what dismay for Bess, who was as cool and high and pure as her own marbles, and shunned all thought of love with maidenly reserve.
'How hard everything is made for my poor boy! How can I spoil his little dream, and take away the spirit of good he is beginning to love and long for? When my own dear lads are safely settled I'll never try another, for these things are heart-breaking, and I can't manage any more,' thought Mrs Jo, as she put the lining into Teddy's coat-sleeve upside down, so perplexed and grieved was she at this new catastrophe.
The story was soon done, and as Bess shook back her hair, Dan asked as eagerly as a boy: 'Don't you like it?'
'Yes, it's very pretty, and I see the meaning of it; but Undine was always my favourite.'
'Of course, that's like you--lilies and pearls and souls and pure water. Sintram used to be mine; but I took a fancy to this when I was--ahem--rather down on my luck one time, and it did me good, it was so cheerful and sort of spiritual in its meaning, you know.'
Bess opened her blue eyes in wonder at this fancy of Dan's for anything 'spiritual'; but she only nodded, saying: 'Some of the little songs are sweet and might be set to music.'
Dan laughed; 'I used to sing the last one to a tune of my own sometimes at sunset: '“Listening to celestial lays, Bending thy unclouded gaze On the pure and living light, Thou art blest, Aslauga's Knight!”
'And I was,' he added, under his breath, as he glanced towards the sunshine dancing on the wall.
'This one suits you better now'; and glad to please him by her interest, Bess read in her soft voice: '“Healfast, healfast, ye hero wounds; O knight, be quickly strong! Beloved strife For fame and life, Oh, tarry not too long!”'
'I'm no hero, never can be, and “fame and life” can't do much for me. Never mind, read me that paper, please. This knock on the head has made a regular fool of me.'
Dan's voice was gentle; but the light was gone out of his face now, and he moved restlessly as if the silken pillows were full of thorns. Seeing that his mood had changed, Bess quietly put down the book, took up the paper, and glanced along the columns for something to suit him.
'You don't care for the money market, I know, nor musical news. Here's a murder; you used to like those; shall I read it? One man kills another--,' 'No!'
Only a word, but it gave Mrs Jo a thrill, and for a moment she dared not glance at the tell-tale mirror. When she did Dan lay motionless with one hand over his eyes, and Bess was happily reading the art news to ears that never heard a word. Feeling like a thief who has stolen something very precious, Mrs Jo slipped away to her study, and before long Bess followed to report that Dan was fast asleep.
Sending her home, with the firm resolve to keep her there as much as possible, Mother Bhaer had an hour of serious thought all alone in the red sunset; and when a sound in the next room led her there, she found that the feigned sleep had become real repose; for Dan lay breathing heavily, with a scarlet spot on either cheek, and one hand clinched on his broad breast. Yearning over him with a deeper pity than ever before, she sat in the little chair beside him, trying to see her way out of this tangle, till his hand slipped down, and in doing so snapped a cord he wore about his neck and let a small case drop to the floor.
Mrs Jo picked it up, and as he did not wake, sat looking at it, idly wondering what charm it held; for the case was of Indian workmanship and the broken cord, of closely woven grass, sweet scented and pale yellow.
'I won't pry into any more of the poor fellow's secrets. I'll mend and put it back, and never let him know I've seen his talisman.'
As she spoke she turned the little wallet to examine the fracture, and a card fell into her lap. It was a photograph, cut to fit its covering, and two words were written underneath the face, 'My Aslauga'. For an instant Mrs Jo fancied that it might be one of herself, for all the boys had them; but as the thin paper fell away, she saw the picture Demi took of Bess that happy summer day. There was no doubt now, and with a sigh she put it back, and was about to slip it into Dan's bosom so that not even a stitch should betray her knowledge, when as she leaned towards him, she saw that he was looking straight at her with an expression that surprised her more than any of the strange ones she had ever seen in that changeful face before.
'Your hand slipped down; it fell; I was putting it back,' explained Mrs Jo, feeling like a naughty child caught in mischief.
'You saw the picture?'
'Yes.'
'And know what a fool I am?'
'Yes, Dan, and am so grieved--' 'Don't worry about me. I'm all right--glad you know, though I never meant to tell you. Of course it is only a crazy fancy of mine, and nothing can ever come of it. Never thought there would. Good Lord! what could that little angel ever be to me but what she is--a sort of dream of all that's sweet and good?'
More afflicted by the quiet resignation of his look and tone than by the most passionate ardour, Mrs Jo could only say, with a face full of sympathy: 'It is very hard, dear, but there is no other way to look at it. You are wise and brave enough to see that, and to let the secret be ours alone.'
'I swear I will! not a word nor a look if I can help it. No one guesses, and if it troubles no one, is there any harm in my keeping this, and taking comfort in the pretty fancy that kept me sane in that cursed place?'
Dan's face was eager now, and he hid away the little worn case as if defying any hand to take it from him. Anxious to know everything before giving counsel or comfort, Mrs Jo said quietly: 'Keep it, and tell me all about the “fancy”. Since I have stumbled on your secret, let me know how it came, and how I can help to make it lighter to bear.'
'You'll laugh; but I don't mind. You always did find out our secrets and give us a lift. Well, I never cared much for books, you know; but down yonder when the devil tormented me I had to do something or go stark mad, so I read both the books you gave me. One was beyond me, till that good old man showed me how to read it; but the other, this one, was a comfort, I tell you. It amused me, and was as pretty as poetry. I liked 'em all, and most wore out Sintram. See how used up he is! Then I came to this, and it sort of fitted that other happy part of my life, last summer--here.'
Dan stopped a moment as the words lingered on his lips; then, with a long breath, went on, as if it was hard to lay bare the foolish little romance he had woven about a girl, a picture, and a child's story there in the darkness of the place which was as terrible to him as Dante's Inferno, till he found his Beatrice.
'I couldn't sleep, and had to think about something, so I used to fancy I was Folko, and see the shining of Aslauga's hair in the sunset on the wall, the gum of the watchman's lamp, and the light that came in at dawn. My cell was high. I could see a bit of sky; sometimes there was a star in it, and that was most as good as a face. I set great store by that patch of blue, and when a white cloud went by, I thought it was the prettiest thing in all this world. I guess I was pretty near a fool; but those thoughts and things helped me through, so they are all solemn true to me, and I can't let them go. The dear shiny head, the white gown, the eyes like stars, and sweet, calm ways that set her as high above me as the moon in heaven. Don't take it away! it's only a fancy, but a man must love something, and I'd better love a spirit like her than any of the poor common girls who would care for me.'
The quiet despair in Dan's voice pierced Mrs Jo to the heart; but there was no hope and she gave none. Yet she felt that he was right, and that his hapless affection might do more to uplift and purify him than any other he might know. Few women would care to marry Dan now, except such as would hinder, not help, him in the struggle which life would always be to him; and it was better to go solitary to his grave than become what she suspected his father had been--a handsome, unprincipled, and dangerous man, with more than one broken heart to answer for.
'Yes, Dan, it is wise to keep this innocent fancy, if it helps and comforts you, till something more real and possible comes to make you happier. I wish I could give you any hope; but we both know that the dear child is the apple of her father's eye, the pride of her mother's heart, and that the most perfect lover they can find will hardly seem to them worthy of their precious daughter. Let her remain for you the high, bright star that leads you up and makes you believe in heaven.' Mrs Jo broke down there; it seemed so cruel to destroy the faint hope Dan's eyes betrayed, that she could not moralize when she thought of his hard life and lonely future. Perhaps it was the wisest thing she could have done, for in her hearty sympathy he found comfort for his own loss, and very soon was able to speak again in the manly tone of resignation to the inevitable that showed how honest was his effort to give up everything but the pale shadow of what, for another, might have been a happy possibility.
They talked long and earnestly in the twilight; and this second secret bound them closer than the first; for in it there was neither sin nor shame--only the tender pain and patience which has made saints and heroes of far worse men than our poor Dan. When at length they rose at the summons of a bell, all the sunset glory had departed, and in the wintry sky there hung one star, large, soft, and clear, above a snowy world. Pausing at the window before she dropped the curtains, Mrs Jo said cheerfully: 'Come and see how beautiful the evening star is, since you love it so.' And as he stood behind her, tall and pale, like the ghost of his former self, she added softly: 'And remember, dear, if the sweet girl is denied you, the old friend is always here--to love and trust and pray for you.'
This time she was not disappointed; and had she asked any reward for many anxieties and cares, she received it when Dan's strong arm came round her, as he said, in a voice which showed her that she had not laboured in vain to pluck her firebrand from the burning: 'I never can forget that; for she's helped to save my soul, and make me dare to look up there and say: “God bless her!”'
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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22
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. POSITIVELY LAST APPEARANCE
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'Upon my word, I feel as if I lived in a powder-magazine, and don't know which barrel will explode next, and send me flying,' said Mrs Jo to herself next day, as she trudged up to Parnassus to suggest to her sister that perhaps the most charming of the young nurses had better return to her marble gods before she unconsciously added another wound to those already won by the human hero. She told no secrets; but a hint was sufficient; for Mrs Amy guarded her daughter as a pearl of great price, and at once devised a very simple means of escape from danger. Mr Laurie was going to Washington on Dan's behalf, and was delighted to take his family with him when the idea was carelessly suggested. So the conspiracy succeeded finely; and Mrs Jo went home, feeling more like a traitor than ever. She expected an explosion; but Dan took the news so quietly, it was plain that he cherished no hope; and Mrs Amy was sure her romantic sister had been mistaken. If she had seen Dan's face when Bess went to say good-bye, her maternal eye would have discovered far more than the unconscious girl did. Mrs Jo trembled lest he should betray himself; but he had learned self-control in a stern school, and would have got through the hard moment bravely, only, when he took both hands, saying heartily: 'Good-bye, Princess. If we don't meet again, remember your old friend Dan sometimes,' she, touched by his late danger and the wistful look he wore, answered with unusual warmth: 'How can I help it, when you make us all so proud of you? God bless your mission, and bring you safely home to us again!'
As she looked up at him with a face full of frank affection and sweet regret, all that he was losing rose so vividly before him that Dan could not resist the impulse to take the 'dear goldy head' between his hands and kiss it, with a broken 'Good-bye'; then hurried back to his room, feeling as if it were the prison-cell again, with no glimpse of heaven's blue to comfort him.
This abrupt caress and departure rather startled Bess; for she felt with a girl's quick instinct that there was something in that kiss unknown before, and looked after him with sudden colour in her cheeks and new trouble in her eyes. Mrs Jo saw it, and fearing a very natural question answered it before it was put.
'Forgive him, Bess. He has had a great trouble, and it makes him tender at parting with old friends; for you know he may never come back from the wild world he is going to.'
'You mean the fall and danger of death?' asked Bess, innocently.
'No, dear; a greater trouble than that. But I cannot tell you any more--except that he has come through it bravely; so you may trust and respect him, as I do.'
'He has lost someone he loved. Poor Dan! We must be very kind to him.'
Bess did not ask the question, but seemed content with her solution of the mystery--which was so true that Mrs Jo confirmed it by a nod, and let her go away believing that some tender loss and sorrow wrought the great change all saw in Dan, and made him so slow to speak concerning the past year.
But Ted was less easily satisfied, and this unusual reticence goaded him to desperation. His mother had warned him not to trouble Dan with questions till he was quite well; but this prospect of approaching departure made him resolve to have a full, clear, and satisfactory account of the adventures which he felt sure must have been thrilling, from stray words Dan let fall in his fever. So one day when the coast was clear, Master Ted volunteered to amuse the invalid, and did so in the following manner: 'Look here, old boy, if you don't want me to read, you've got to talk, and tell me all about Kansas, and the farms, and that part. The Montana business I know, but you seem to forget what went before. Brace up, and let's have it,' he began, with an abruptness which roused Dan from a brown study most effectually.
'No, I don't forget; it isn't interesting to anyone but myself. I didn't see any farms--gave it up,' he said slowly.
'Why?'
'Other things to do.'
'What?'
'Well, brush-making for one thing.'
'Don't chaff a fellow. Tell true.'
'I truly did.'
'What for?'
'To keep out of mischief, as much as anything.'
'Well, of all the queer things--and you've done a lot--that's the queerest,' cried Ted, taken aback at this disappointing discovery. But he didn't mean to give up yet, and began again.
'What mischief, Dan?'
'Never you mind. Boys shouldn't bother.'
'But I do want to know, awfully, because I'm your pal, and care for you no end. Always did. Come, now, tell me a good yarn. I love scrapes. I'll be mum as an oyster if you don't want it known.'
'Will you?' and Dan looked at him, wondering how the boyish face would change if the truth were suddenly told him.
'I'll swear it on locked fists, if you like. I know it was jolly, and I'm aching to hear.'
'You are as curious as a girl. More than some--Josie and--and Bess never asked a question.'
'They don't care about rows and things; they liked the mine business, heroes, and that sort. So do I, and I'm as proud as Punch over it; but I see by your eyes that there was something else before that, and I'm bound to find out who Blair and Mason are, and who was hit and who ran away, and all the rest of it.'
'What!' cried Dan, in a tone that made Ted jump.
'Well, you used to mutter about 'em in your sleep, and Uncle Laurie wondered. So did I; but don't mind, if you can't remember, or would rather not.'
'What else did I say? Queer, what stuff a man will talk when his wits are gone.'
'That's all I heard; but it seemed interesting, and I just mentioned it, thinking it might refresh your memory a bit,' said Teddy, very politely; for Dan's frown was heavy at that moment.
It cleared off at this reply, and after a look at the boy squirming with suppressed impatience in his chair, Dan made up his mind to amuse him with a game of cross-purposes and half-truths, hoping to quench his curiosity, and so get peace.
'Let me see; Blair was a lad I met in the cars, and Mason a poor fellow who was in a--well, a sort of hospital where I happened to be. Blair ran off to his brothers, and I suppose I might say Mason was hit, because he died there. Does that suit you?'
'No, it doesn't. Why did Blair run? and who hit the other fellow? I'm sure there was a fight somewhere, wasn't there?'
'Yes!
'I guess I know what it was about.'
'The devil, you do! Let's hear you guess. Must be amusing,' said Dan, affecting an ease he did not feel.
Charmed to be allowed to free his mind, Ted at once unfolded the boyish solution of the mystery which he had been cherishing, for he felt that there was one somewhere.
'You needn't say yes, if I guess right and you are under oath to keep silent. I shall know by your face, and never tell. Now see if I'm not right. Out there they have wild doings, and it's my belief you were in some of 'em. I don't mean robbing mails, and KluKluxing, and that sort of thing; but defending the settlers, or hanging some scamp, or even shooting a few, as a fellow must sometimes, in self-defence. Ah, ha! I've hit it, I see. Needn't speak; I know the flash of your old eye, and the clench of your big fist.' And Ted pranced with satisfaction.
'Drive on, smart boy, and don't lose the trail,' said Dan, finding a curious sense of comfort in some of these random words, and longing, but not daring, to confirm the true ones. He might have confessed the crime, but not the punishment that followed, the sense of its disgrace was still so strong upon him.
'I knew I should get it; can't deceive me long,' began Ted, with such an air of pride Dan could not help a short laugh.
'It's a relief, isn't it, to have it off your mind? Now, just confide in me and it's all safe, unless you've sworn not to tell.'
'I have.'
'Oh, well, then don't'; and Ted's face fell, but he was himself again in a moment and said, with the air of a man of the world: 'It's all right--I understand--honour binds--silence to death, etc. Glad you stood by your mate in the hospital. How many did you kill?'
'Only one.'
'Bad lot, of course?'
'A damned rascal.'
'Well, don't look so fierce; I've no objection. Wouldn't mind popping at some of those bloodthirsty blackguards myself. Had to dodge and keep quiet after it, I suppose.'
'Pretty quiet for a long spell.'
'Got off all right in the end, and headed for your mines and did that jolly brave thing. Now, I call that decidedly interesting and capital. I'm glad to know it; but I won't blab.'
'Mind you don't. Look here. Ted, if you'd killed a man, would it trouble you--a bad one, I mean?'
The lad opened his mouth to say, 'Not a bit,' but checked that answer as if something in Dan's face made him change his mind. 'Well, if it was my duty in war or self-defence, I suppose I shouldn't; but if I'd pitched into him in a rage, I guess I should be very sorry. Shouldn't wonder if he sort of haunted me, and remorse gnawed me as it did Aram and those fellows. You don't mind, do you? It was a fair fight, wasn't it?'
'Yes, I was in the right; but I wish I'd been out of it. Women don't see it that way, and look horrified at such things. Makes it hard; but it don't matter.'
'Don't tell 'em; then they can't worry,' said Ted, with the nod of one versed in the management of the sex.
'Don't intend to. Mind you keep your notions to yourself, for some of 'em are wide of the mark. Now you may read if you like'; and there the talk ended; but Ted took great comfort in it, and looked as wise as an owl afterwards.
A few quiet weeks followed, during which Dan chafed at the delay; and when at length word came that his credentials were ready, he was eager to be off, to forget a vain love in hard work, and live for others, since he might not for himself.
So one wild March morning our Sintram rode away, with horse and hound, to face again the enemies who would have conquered him, but for Heaven's help and human pity.
'Ah, me! it does seem as if life was made of partings, and they get harder as we go on,' sighed Mrs Jo, a week later, as she sat in the long parlour at Parnassus one evening, whither the family had gone to welcome the travellers back.
'And meetings too, dear; for here we are, and Nat is on his way at last. Look for the silver lining, as Marmee used to say, and be comforted,' answered Mrs Amy, glad to be at home and find no wolves prowling near her sheepfold.
'I've been so worried lately, I can't help croaking. I wonder what Dan thought at not seeing you again? It was wise; but he would have enjoyed another look at home faces before he went into the wilderness,' said Mrs Jo regretfully.
'Much better so. We left notes and all we could think of that he might need, and slipped away before he came. Bess really seemed relieved; I'm sure I was'; and Mrs Amy smoothed an anxious line out of her white forehead, as she smiled at her daughter, laughing happily among her cousins.
Mrs Jo shook her head as if the silver lining of that cloud was hard to find; but she had no time to croak again, for just then Mr Laurie came in looking well pleased at something.
'A new picture has arrived; face towards the music-room, good people, and tell me how you like it. I call it “Only a fiddler”, after Andersen's story. What name will you give it?'
As he spoke he threw open the wide doors, and just beyond they saw a young man standing, with a beaming face, and a violin in his hand. There was no doubt about the name to this picture, and with the cry 'Nat! Nat!' there was a general uprising. But Daisy reached him first, and seemed to have lost her usual composure somewhere on the way, for she clung to him, sobbing with the shock of a surprise and joy too great for her to bear quietly. Everything was settled by that tearful and tender embrace, for, though Mrs Meg speedily detached her daughter, it was only to take her place; while Demi shook Nat's hand with brotherly warmth, and Josie danced round them like Macbeth's three witches in one, chanting in her most tragic tones: 'Chirper thou wast; second violin thou art; first thou shalt be. Hail, all hail!'
This caused a laugh, and made things gay and comfortable at once. Then the usual fire of questions and answers began, to be kept up briskly while the boys admired Nat's blond beard and foreign clothes, the girls his improved appearance--for he was ruddy with good English beef and beer, and fresh with the sea-breezes which had blown him swiftly home--and the older folk rejoiced over his prospects. Of course all wanted to hear him play; and when tongues tired, he gladly did his best for them, surprising the most critical by his progress in music even more than by the energy and self-possession which made a new man of bashful Nat. By and by when the violin--that most human of all instruments--had sung to them the loveliest songs without words, he said, looking about him at these old friends with what Mr Bhaer called a 'feeling-full' expression of happiness and content: 'Now let me play something that you will all remember though you won't love it as I do'; and standing in the attitude which Ole Bull has immortalized, he played the street melody he gave them the first night he came to Plumfield. They remembered it, and joined in the plaintive chorus, which fitly expressed his own emotions: 'Oh my heart is sad and weary Everywhere I roam, Longing for the old plantation And for the old folks at home.'
'Now I feel better,' said Mrs Jo, as they all trooped down the hill soon after. 'Some of our boys are failures, but I think this one is going to be a success, and patient Daisy a happy girl at last. Nat is your work, Fritz, and I congratulate you heartily.'
'Ach, we can but sow the seed and trust that it falls on good ground. I planted, perhaps, but you watched that the fowls of the air did not devour it, and brother Laurie watered generously; so we will share the harvest among us, and be glad even for a small one, heart's-dearest.'
'I thought the seed had fallen on very stony ground with my poor Dan; but I shall not be surprised if he surpasses all the rest in the real success of life, since there is more rejoicing over one repentant sinner than many saints,' answered Mrs Jo, still clinging fast to her black sheep although a whole flock of white ones trotted happily before her.
It is a strong temptation to the weary historian to close the present tale with an earthquake which should engulf Plumfield and its environs so deeply in the bowels of the earth that no youthful Schliemann could ever find a vestige of it. But as that somewhat melodramatic conclusion might shock my gentle readers, I will refrain, and forestall the usual question, 'How did they end?' by briefly stating that all the marriages turned out well. The boys prospered in their various callings; so did the girls, for Bess and Josie won honours in their artistic careers, and in the course of time found worthy mates. Nan remained a busy, cheerful, independent spinster, and dedicated her life to her suffering sisters and their children, in which true woman's work she found abiding happiness. Dan never married, but lived, bravely and usefully, among his chosen people till he was shot defending them, and at last lay quietly asleep in the green wilderness he loved so well, with a lock of golden hair upon his breast, and a smile on his face which seemed to say that Aslauga's Knight had fought his last fight and was at peace. Stuffy became an alderman, and died suddenly of apoplexy after a public dinner. Dolly was a society man of mark till he lost his money, when he found congenial employment in a fashionable tailoring establishment. Demi became a partner, and lived to see his name above the door, and Rob was a professor at Laurence College; but Teddy eclipsed them all by becoming an eloquent and famous clergyman, to the great delight of his astonished mother. And now, having endeavoured to suit everyone by many weddings, few deaths, and as much prosperity as the eternal fitness of things will permit, let the music stop, the lights die out, and the curtain fall for ever on the March family.
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{
"id": "3499"
}
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1
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A Jungle Vendetta_
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"This was the way of it," said Ram Deen to a circle of listeners sitting round a fire by the side of the jungle road near Lal Kooah. Ram Deen drove the mail-cart in its final stage to Kaladoongie, and with his relay of fresh horses was awaiting the arrival of the mail. He was, next to the Assistant Superintendent of the Forest Department of the District, a power on the road, and his audience, accordingly, listened to him with due respect. "This was the way of it: I owed Bheem Dass one rupee and six annas for flour and pulse and ghee, and my donkey fell sick, so that he could not be forced by goad, nor by the lighting of a fire beneath him, to rise; and I could not convey my earthenware to Moradabad and sell it, and so remove the galling of Bheem Dass's tongue.
"Then the Thanadar came, and read script to me that was written on government paper, whereof I understood but little, save that the words were Urdu, and sounded very terrible to me, who speak Gamari only, and am a poor man. And he took my potter's wheel from me, and bade his chuprassi beat me then, and daily thereafter at noon--twelve strokes each day--till I made restitution to Bheem Dass.
"Brothers, we be all poor men here, and ye know that God hath not given us understanding save to suffer stripes like beasts of burden, and to sleep and eat when we can, and beget children to succeed to our blows."
There was a deep "humph" of assent when he had ceased speaking. The little man who freighted village produce from Kaladoongie to Moradabad by bullock-cart said, as he handed Ram Deen the hookah that was circling round the fire, "A knife-thrust in the dark has settled heavier scores than thine;" and one suggested a blow from a weighted bamboo club, and another the evil eye; but Ram Deen smoked in silence, and after they had all had their say he passed the hookah to his neighbor and went on: "Whenas my back smarted shrewdly that night from the blows of the chuprassi's shoe, so that I could not sleep, I took the oil from my chirag and anointed my back therewith. As soon as the false dawn blinked in the east I made a fire and light, without waking my son--my babe, Buldeo, and he without a mother--and I made store of chupattis with all the flour that was left, putting the remainder of the ghee on the first batch. Then I dug up three rupees and two annas that I had buried under the hearth, and waking Buldeo I fed him; and whilst he ate I made a bundle of such things as even a poor man has need of,--a blanket, a hookah and lotah, and shoes to wear through the villages, and the food I had prepared.
"And ere the village cocks waked or the minas and crows and green parrots opened council in the peepul trees, Buldeo and I were footing the jungle path to Nyagong, he holding his hand over his head to reach mine, for he was but three years in age.
"And when we had proceeded a mile or twain into the jungle Buldeo spake and said, 'Thy man-child is tired.' And I set him on my shoulder, and so carried him until the sun began to shoot slant rays from the west. Whereon we stopped and ate; and, after, I fastened him with my waistband in the fork of a tree, saying, 'Son of mine, bide here till I return, and be not afraid.'
"Then, collecting grass and scrub, I made a circle of fire round the tree, and sped back to the village; and as the bell tolled the hour of ten that night a flame leaped up from the hut of the bunnia, Bheem Dass, to whom I owed money.
"Ere I returned to the jungle path I could hear Bheem Dass shout as a man being beaten, 'ram dhwy! ram dhwy!' and the smart on my back waxed easier."
By this time the hookah had made the round of the circle and once more reached Ram Deen, and as he paused again to "drink tobacco" his listeners made comment: "Wah! coach-wan ji," said the little carrier, "knives may be blunt and clubs cracked, but fire loveth stubble and thatch. Ho, ho!"
And Ram Deen smiled grimly as he passed the hookah to his neighbor, who said as he took it, "And what of thy man-child, Buldeo?"
Ram Deen tucked the ends of his parted beard under his turban, and spitting bravely into the fire to conceal the tremor in his voice, he said, "As the dawn broke I reached the tree whereon I had fastened my son. When I came near a pack of jackals that had been worrying something under the tree slunk away. The child was not to be seen, but the bark of the tree was scored with the talons of a leopard, and at its foot was a small red cap and a handful of fresh bones."
Ram Deen puffed the hookah in silence when it reached him again.
By and by, in response to the expectation of his listeners, he said, "Bheem Dass rode after me on the mail-cart to Kaladoongie that night. I knew he would come, and therefore I brake the telegraph wire and fastened it across the road a foot above the ground. When the horse stumbled over it and fell the driver was thrown on his head and killed. But Bheem Dass lay groaning on the road with a broken thigh-bone.
"And I held a lamp taken from the cart to my face, so that he should know me, and I spat and stamped on him; and thereafter I mounted the mail-cart and drove it over his skull as he screamed for mercy.
"I took the mail to Kaladoongie, and it was told the sahib-log that the mail-cart had been overturned and the coach-wan and Bheem Dass killed; and they made me driver because the road was unsafe and I had shown them that I was not afraid.
"Ye are poor men and know naught,--knowledge dieth suddenly!"
And the bullock driver said, "Ho, ho! coach-wan sahib, we be poor men and know nothing, and are fain to live."
The mail-cart drove up in a few minutes out of the darkness, the horses were rapidly changed, and Ram Deen dashed off into the jungle with a brave tarantara.
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{
"id": "35644"
}
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2
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Hasteen_
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"Ram deen," said the stout Thanadar of Kaladoongie, "it is by the order of the sircar (government) that I question thee concerning this jungle wanderer. Whatsoever thou sayest will be set down by the munshi and laid before the commissioner sahib."
The "wanderer" put one hand on a tubby stomach that ill-assorted with his attenuated limbs, and with the fingers of the other in close apposition he pointed to his mouth, whining and saying to those round him, "Oh, my father and my mother, we be hungry,--Hasteen and I." He was a wee little manikin of the chamar (tanner) caste, and about six years old. There was not a rag on him, save a sorry whisp of puggri that made no pretence of covering the top-knot of hair which all Hindoos of the male sex, and of whatever caste, wear on their heads as a handle for the transportation of their souls to heaven.
He crouched in front of the fire of cowpats and grass, holding up his little hands to the blaze, and beside him lay a huge pariah dog with its head on his lap. One of its ears had been recently cut off close to the skull, and it moved the bloody stump to and fro as the heat of the fire fell on it. When any one approached the little chamar the dog growled threateningly, and the small crowd of listeners was fain to keep at a respectful distance.
"Thanadar ji," replied Ram Deen, the redoubtable driver of the mail-cart to Kaladoongie, "the night air is shrewd, and it were well to feed the little one and to put a blanket round him ere I tell you of his finding."
"Ay, and forget not Hasteen," said the small chamar, pointing to the dog. When the great beast heard its name it slapped its tail against the ground.
A woman standing on the outskirt of the crowd took off her chudder and passed it to Ram Deen, who, keeping a wary eye on Hasteen, wrapped it round the little waif; and Tulsi Ram, the village pundit, also handed his blanket to Ram Deen. By the time the little one was duly happed up, Gunga Deen, the fat sweetmeat vender, returned with a tray of cates and milk, sufficient for three grown men, and set it before the new arrival, who, to his honor be it told, shared bite and bite with his four-footed friend. And between mouthfuls he answered questions and told his story to the Thanadar: "My name, Most Honorable, is Biroo, and we be chamars of the village of Budraon,--my father and mother, Hasteen and I. There were none others of our family, and Hasteen and I be brothers, for we sucked the same pap, and that my mother's, as she hath so often told me. I am the older by three months, wherefore he mindeth me.
"Whence is Hasteen's name? How should I know, Protector of the Poor? I am but a poor man and know naught."
Tulsi Ram, the pundit, ventured to throw some light on the derivation of Hasteen's name. He hoped, ere he died, to pass the entrance examination of the Calcutta University; and, after the manner of his kind, he was preparing himself for it by the slow and steady process of learning the prescribed text-books off by heart.
"Thanadar ji, the dog hath its name from Warren Hasteen, the great sahib who killed the Kings of Delhi, as thou wottest, and daily fed on young babes, whereof midwives and old women who saw him tell to this day. And, moreover, he was a great fighter."
"Wah, Tulsi Ram!" exclaimed the Thanadar, "thou shalt yet become a baboo in the post-office at Naini Tal."
"But there never was fighter like Hasteen," said the little chamar, whose courage rose as his hunger abated, and rolling up a chupatti he gave it to the dog, who made one mouthful of it. "He hath blackened the faces of all the dogs of our village," he went on; "and last winter he overcame a dog of fierce countenance and crooked legs, that belonged to the sahib who camped near our village, and left it for dead on the plain; and the sahib would have beaten me, but Hasteen rose upon him and threw him down, and stood over him till I smote Hasteen with my bamboo club and dragged him off the sahib. Ah, thou wicked one, thou budmash!" and the great beast cowered before the wee man's threatening finger and licked his feet. "And therefrom came all our woes, for our folk drave us from Budraon, fearing trouble for the killing of the sahib's dog, and my father would have slain Hasteen, but I restrained him. So we went to Nyagong, and there thieves came by night and would have despoiled us of our hides, but Hasteen prevented them; and thereafter the son of the Jamadar of Nyagong, who was a vain fellow and wore his turban awry, walked lame for many a day; and the bunnia (shopkeeper), who is the Jamadar's brother, put ground glass in the raw sugar he sold us--for so my father said--and my mother died.
"Last week my father came not home, and for three days I saw him not; then--I looking on--they drew a man out of the village well with his hands tied behind his back and a great stone fastened to his feet,--and it was my father!
"And this night a flame leaped up from our hut, and Hasteen went swiftly forth into the moonlight, his crest standing on his neck and back. I followed with what haste I could, and thereafter I came up with Hasteen, and he lay beside a dead man, whose eyes were wide open and on whose lips was froth, and a sharp knife in his hand;--and it was the son of the Jamadar!
"Thereupon I caught Hasteen by one ear and smote him on the other,--for he had done this killing; and the hand wherewith I smote him was covered with blood, so I saw his hurt, and that he had lost an ear.
"And the villagers waked whenas they heard the crackling of the flames from our hut and the barking of the village dogs; and Hasteen and I ran towards the road that leads to Kaladoongie, being more fearful of the men of Nyagong than of the wild things of the jungle.
"When we came to the bridge over the Bore Nuddee my feet were tired, and calling Hasteen to me for warmth I set my back to the wall of the bridge and so fell asleep; and now that I have eaten of thy bounty I would fain sleep again," and the little man yawned in the presence of the most august assembly he had ever faced.
"It was thus I found him, Thanadar ji," said Ram Deen, "and I came none too soon. A mile from the bridge I heard the hunting bay of a gray wolf, and when I came nearer I could see in the moonlight, crouched beside the end of the bridge, some great beast that leapt into the jungle as the cart approached; and then the mail of the Rani (Empress) of Hindoostan was stayed by a graceless pariah dog that guarded this jungle wayfarer, and, frightening my horses, denied me passage over the bridge. I could not have brought in the mail to-night had it not been for this Rustum, who beat the dog and restrained him. Is it not so, O Terror of Nyagong?"
But the little man was fast asleep by this time, and Ram Deen, by permission of Hasteen, who followed close at his heels, carried the small chamar to his own hut and put him into his own bed; "for that he was of the age," he said to himself, "of Buldeo, my son, who was lost to me three years ago,--and he without a mother."
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{
"id": "35644"
}
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3
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The Hunting of Cheeta Dutt_
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A few nights after the finding in the jungle of Biroo, the little chamar (tanner), by Ram Deen, who drove the mail-cart from Lal Kooah, the notables of Kaladoongie were gathered round a fire in front of the police-station. The Thanadar (chief of police), as befitted his rank and dignity, sat cross-legged on his charpoi, smoking gravely, whilst the rest of the company squatted on their heels, after the manner of the natives of India, passing a hookah round the circle and discussing in a desultory fashion the current events of that section of the Terai.
A faint bugle-note far off in the jungle announced the approach of the mail-cart, and soon after the distant rumble of the wheels was heard as Ram Deen drove over the Bore bridge. When he was within a quarter of a mile of the village he blew a brave blast, and presently dashed up at full speed into the firelight, Biroo standing between his knees, and a huge pariah dog bounding along by the side of the cart. Soon after Ram Deen, followed by Biroo and the big dog, joined the circle round the fire.
"Salaam, malakoom!" said Biroo, gravely saluting the Thanadar, and including the rest of those assembled in his sweeping salute.
"Malakoom, salaam!" returned the Thanadar. "So thou hast brought in the Queen's mail safely, my Rustum?"
"Hasteen and I," began the little fellow, putting a caressing hand on the head of the great dog, who lay beside him winking at the fire, "Hasteen and I fear nought that moveth in the jungle, save only the men of Nyagong;--and then, too, there was Ram Deen."
This was said so seriously that the men sitting round the fire laughed at the little man's gravity; and Ram Deen smiled as he spread an armful of dry grass on the ground, into which he tucked the little fellow, and wrapped him up in his blanket. Hasteen settled himself beside Biroo, and they soon became oblivious of the circle round the fire.
"How likest thou the little jungle waif, Ram Deen?" inquired the Thanadar.
"Thanadar ji, he is to me as mine own son, Buldeo, come back to life; and he knoweth not fear. As we drove through the jungle yesterday and to-night he turned his face towards Nyagong and cursed that village, and sware that he would burn it to the ground when he had a beard; and 'tis like as not that he will do so when he is a man grown."
"Durga aid him in his attempt!" said fat Gunga Ram, the sweetmeat vender; "that village hath always bred rogues and budmashes, before and since Cheeta Dutt, the son of the last Jemadar (head man of the village), committed a deed of hell in the jungle thereby."
The silence of those who sat round the fire was a mute request to Gunga Ram to tell the story thus prefaced.
"Brothers," he began, "'twas in the second year after the great mutiny that a young Englishman came into the Terai to look after the sâl trees, which always seemed a foolishness to me till I learned that sâl timber is good for the building of the ships that cross the Black Water.
"And he had but little to do, save to shoot black partridge and spotted deer and watch the Padhani women crossing the ford in front of his camp; that was the evil of it.
"In those days I was but a span round the waist, and the best shikari (hunter) and tracker in these parts; and Bonner Sahib--that was his name--hired me to show him where game was to be found. But he soon tired of shikar (sport), and fell to playing the songs of the Padhani women on his cithar, the like of which I never heard before.
"One day, after he had eaten his morning meal and swam in the deep pool above the ford of the Bore Nuddee, he lay on the grass by the stream smoking, whilst I cleaned his guns by the side of his tent. Presently, when I looked up, the sahib was gazing from under his hand at certain wayfarers who came down the slope on the other side of the stream towards the ford; and on his finger there glittered a stone that took mine eye even at that distance. In front there rode on a hill-pony, loaded with household goods, Cheeta Dutt, the son of the Jemadar of Nyagong, and he wore the garments of a man who taketh his wife home for the consummation of his marriage. Behind him walked Naringi, his wife, the daughter of the Jemadar of Huldwani. She was well named 'Orange Blossom;' and though I live to a thousand years, yet shall I never see the like of her as she walked behind Cheeta Dutt with a small bundle on her head and lifted her sari as she took the ford with her bared limbs.
"Brothers, she was but sixteen years in age, and in the budding of her beauty; and it seemed as though the morning shed all its joys about her feet. What wonder, then, that even a young Faringi (Englishman) should look upon her with admiration?
"When she was half-way across the ford her foot slipped, and the bundle she bore fell into the stream. Wullahy, but these Faringis be fools! Eyes may look, and thoughts may fall about the face of a fair woman, though she be another man's wife, but only a Faringi would do what Bonner Sahib did. Kali Mai afflict the race! Women were made but to carry burdens and bear children. Nowhere can it be shown--not even in the Shastras, wherein I, Gunga Ram, have read--that a man should demean himself to serve a woman; but Bonner Sahib leapt into the stream and recovered the young woman's bundle. Worse than that, as she stood beside her husband's horse, wringing the water out of the hem of her garment, he put her bundle in her hand, and Cheeta Dutt scowled at him. " 'Protector of the Poor,' said I to the sahib, as I dried his feet and changed his shoes, 'thou hast not done well.' " 'Wherefore?' he replied, sending the smoke of his cheroot skywards. " 'Because Cheeta Dutt (well is he named Hunting Leopard) may repay thee hereafter in his own way for thy service to his wife this day. Belike, he may render her nakti (noseless), and so send her back to her father's house. But the sahib is a great lord, and a nakti Padhani woman more or less concerneth him not, for they be bought and sold like cattle, and the sahib hath the price of many such on his little finger. --But I speak like a fool, sahib, for I am a poor man and know nothing, save how to serve thee.'
"But he only laughed and stroked the yellow beard on his upper lip.
"A moon thereafter our camp was pitched near Nyagong. As ye know, the Terai thereby is full of shikar, and I showed Bonner Sahib where to find black partridge. One day, as we set our faces campwards,--I following the sahib with his spare gun and the morning's kill,--the voice of a young woman singing a Padhani song suddenly rose from a thicket near by, and the jungle became silent to listen to her. Bonner Sahib parted the tall grass with his hands, and I, looking over his shoulder, beheld Naringi, the wife of Cheeta Dutt, seated on a fallen tree trunk in an open glade, tending a flock of goats. As she sang she strung together flaming cotton-wood flowers, whereof she had placed one behind each ear.
"When she had finished her song the sahib took it up, stepping at the same time into the clearing; and Naringi fled like a roe hunted by wolves. " 'The shikar is shy, Gunga Ram,' said the sahib. " 'Tis dangerous hunting, Protector of the Poor,' I replied. But the sahib only laughed and lit a cheroot.
"And thereafter he sought the black partridge unattended by me, for he set me morning tasks to fulfil within the camp. But, brothers, he brought not so much as a jungle-fowl home for more than a week, and I was fain to know what the sahib hunted.
"So I followed him unperceived one morning, and he went straightway to the clearing wherein we had seen Naringi with the goats. When I looked through the grass, behold! I saw Bonner Sahib seated on the fallen tree trunk, wearing a necklace of red flowers, and Naringi sat on his knee with an arm round his neck! Toba, toba! what fools these Faringis be, who know not that the birds of the air carry messages when a sahib stoops to a woman of our people."
"The jungle hath many eyes," said the Thanadar, sententiously.
After Gunga Ram had refreshed himself with the circling hookah, he went on: "As I looked and listened there was a rustling in the grass on the other side of the clearing, and the sahib's dog dashed into the jungle in pursuit of something. The next moment it yelped as a dog that is sorely stricken, but the sahib, who was toying with Naringi, heard nothing.
"Then Naringi, stroking the sahib's golden beard, said, 'My Lord, Cheeta Dutt beat me last night because I spake thy name in my sleep. Look,' and she lifted the hair from her forehead, whereon was a bruise; and as she turned her face to the sahib I saw that she had been weeping, for her eyelids were swelled. " 'He is swine-born,' said the sahib; and as he spake his face flushed like the morning sky. Then he folded her in his arms and saluted her mouth after the manner of Faringis; and when she was comforted he said, 'Naringi, my Blossom, thy husband is a dog. To-night will I take thee hence and make thee envied of the mem-sahibs of Naini Tal. Wilt thou trust thyself with me?'
"For answer she threw herself before him and clasped his feet, but the sahib raised her up, saying, 'Beloved, I will come for thee to-night on the stroke of the tenth hour by the village bell. Gunga Ram--my shikari--and I will wait for thee with a covered byli (cart) at the foot of that tall sesame tree thou seest yonder on the open plain. And for pledge that I shall be here, see, I set on thy finger this ring, which all the villages in the Kumaon Terai could not buy; and if I fail to come my punishment is in thy hands. It is a thousand years till I see thee again, little one.' Then he folded her in his arms once more and set his face homewards, shouting to her from the end of the glade, 'Fail me not, my Wild Rose!' For answer, she swept the ground with her salaams.
"Hastening campwards by a path that skirted the other side of the glade, I came across the sahib's dog. It was shorn in twain by the stroke of a khookri, and I knew that Cheeta Dutt, The Leopard, was a-hunting. " 'What shikar?' asked I of Bonner Sahib when he returned to his tent. " 'Thou art a liar, Gunga Ram. The jungle hereabout is barren of game, and it is in my mind to send thee with a note to the Thanadar of Kaladoongie commending the soles of thy feet to the bamboo staff of one of his men;' and, laughing, he threw himself into a long chair. " 'I am sorry for thee, sahib,' I said in reply, 'for not only art thou empty handed this day, but thou hast lost the great stone that shone on thy finger when thou wentest forth this morning. Toba, toba!' " 'Tis in my pocket, O Chattering Jay.' " 'Perchance the sahib shot his dog this morning, seeing that the game was scarce?' I said. " 'Hath he not returned, Gunga Ram?' " 'Ere I answer thee, sahib, 'twere well to drink some brandy-pani;' and I mixed the liquor as he had taught me. " 'It is well, Provider of the Poor,' I went on, 'it is well to be young and well favored, and the special care of thy gods who have bestowed on thee wealth and a moonstone that all the villages in the Kumaon Terai could not purchase,'--hereat the sahib looked at me out of the corner of his eye,--'but it is not well to look for partridges where great beasts hunt. Thy dog was slain in the jungle this morning by a leopard. He lieth outside the tent, and 'twere well the sahib should see what a leopard can do.'
"Following him out of the tent, I uncovered the dead dog. The sahib clutched at his throat and would have fallen, so I put my arm round him and laid him on his bed. " 'This is the work of Cheeta Dutt, sahib. Said I not that perchance he would hunt some one hereafter for thy service to his wife at the ford last month?'
"Rising from the bed, the sahib drank another draught of the strong waters. 'Cheeta Dutt's back shall smart for this,' he said. " 'And then, sahib, he will slay his wife because of thy ring in the pocket of her bodice.' " 'Budmash, thou hast been playing the spy!' and turning upon me like a wild boar, his face aflame, he caught me by the beard. " 'Sahib,' I said, 'I am but a poor man, and thou of consequence in the Terai, but, man to man, thou durst not lay thy hand on my beard in the jungle and away from thy camp. I fear not to tell thee, sahib, that I did, indeed, watch thee this morning; but the jungle is full of eyes, not the least keen being those of Cheeta Dutt, who slew thy dog this morning, and who will slay the woman thou lovest, or do worse to her, ere he sleepeth, as is his right.' " 'Gunga Ram, thou art a man, and I ask forgiveness of thee for blackening thy face, but I am moved from myself by great fear for what may befall the woman. Tell me what is to be done, for thou knowest the ways of these jungle folks better than I;' and the sahib walked the floor as one distraught. " 'Will one thousand--will ten thousand rupees save the young woman?' asked the sahib. " 'The honor of a Brahmin is not to be appraised in money, sahib,' I replied. " 'Will he fight, Gunga Ram, as a Faringi would under like circumstances?' " 'He will fight, assuredly, sahib; but he will fight after the manner of his kind, and in the dark.'
"Much talk had we, but we could only hope that Cheeta Dutt may not have witnessed the meeting that morning."
Gunga Ram stopped to "drink tobacco" once more, whilst the little bullock driver, who would start in the morning with freight for Moradabad, said, "That was a poor hope, O Seller of Cates, for the jungle hath ears and tongues as well as eyes."
"Therefore, byl-wan," rejoined Gunga Ram, "I saw to it that my gun was properly loaded as we went in the byli that night to the place of meeting.
"The moon was almost in mid-heaven, in an unclouded sky, when we reached the sesame tree, and it was a time for the deeds of Kama, but Kali Mai was abroad in the jungle that night.
"The sound of the distant village bell striking the hour of ten had scarcely died away when there rose from the glade the voice of a young woman singing a Padhani song. " 'Heart of my Heart, she cometh!' said the sahib. 'Oh, Gunga Ram, she is safe!' and he lifted up his voice, singing the refrain of her song.
"He had scarcely ceased by a breath, when he was answered by the scream of a woman who looks upon Terror and Pain hunting together.
"Like an arrow from a bow he sped across the plain and entered the glade, I following with what haste I could. As I set foot therein there arose a yell the like of which was never made by jungle beast, and, brothers, my heart stood still with fear. I could hear the sahib crashing through the underbrush, and I followed, but the glade was in deep darkness by reason of the thick foliage of the trees overhead that stayed the moonlight, and my pace was slow.
"Presently I saw the sahib in the open space where was the fallen tree trunk that had served him for a seat that morning. He stopped suddenly within a few paces of the log, like a stricken man. Falling on his knees and clasping his hands together, he bowed his head thereon; and in that instant a dark figure leaped upon the sahib from behind a tree, and I saw the flash of a khookri in the moonlight.
"I raised my gun and fired as I ran, but I was too late.
"When I came up to the sahib his head lay two paces from his body.
"On the fallen tree trunk, with the sahib's moonstone glittering on its forefinger, was the small hand of a woman that had been lopped off above the wrist, and which still dripped blood."
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{
"id": "35644"
}
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4
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The Spoiling of Nyagong_
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Goor Dutt, the little bullock driver, who was on his way to Moradabad with the effects of one of the clerks of the Lieutenant-Governor's office, reached Lal Kooah long after sunset. It was his intention to travel through the night, but he could not resist the temptation of joining the circle round the fire in front of the bunnia's hut whilst his bullocks ate their meal of chaff and chopped hay.
The bunnia had given up his charpoi to Ram Deen, who drove the mail-cart to Kaladoongie, and who was a man swift of anger and dangerous to cross, but not altogether hard. Had he not, but three days since, found and adopted Biroo, the little chamar (tanner) waif, who lay asleep by the fire with a huge pariah dog stretched beside him?
"Salaam, coach-wan ji," said Goor Dutt, saluting Ram Deen, "I have news for thee: the Commissioner Sahib hath sent word to the Thanadar of Kaladoongie that he should make inquiry concerning the finding of Biroo's father in the well at Nyagong." " 'Tis well, Thwacker of Bullocks. And when goeth the Thanadar thither?" inquired Ram Deen.
"Belike he is there now."
"Oh, that a man were here to take the mail to Kaladoongie to-night!" exclaimed Ram Deen.
"The man is here," piped the little carrier, "if some one will tend my cattle till I return."
"That will I," said the bunnia, with the stress of Ram Deen's eyes on him.
When the mail-cart drove up Ram Deen took the reins, with Biroo, wrapped in a blanket, between his knees, whilst Goor Dutt climbed to the back seat. The big dog, Hasteen, ran beside the mail-cart and woke the jungle echoes with his bark.
* * * * * "How didst thou fare last night, coach-wan ji?" asked the bunnia, next evening.
"As should innocence wronged, and avenging strength."
When none of those sitting round the fire spoke, Ram Deen went on: "As we came nigh to the path leading to Nyagong, Biroo turned his face thereto and spat vehemently; and I said, 'Son of mine, canst thou lead me to Nyagong?' and he replied, 'Of a surety; the path is here.'
"Thereat we got down from the cart--Biroo and I; and I bore the bugle hanging at my side and a stout bamboo club in my hand. As we picked our way along the jungle path, Hasteen ran beside us, growling; and when the moon gave light I saw the crest on his back bristling, and his teeth gleamed through his lips.
"When we reached Nyagong I put an armful of grass on the fire that was still smouldering in front of the Jemadar's house, and, as the flame leaped up, I blew upon my bugle. Straightway the village watchman, who had been sleeping in his hut, after the manner of his kind, came running forth bravely; but when he saw who it was that stood by the fire he salaamed, and whined, saying, 'Great pity 'tis that Ram Deen, Lord of Leopards, should be put to the trouble--and at this unseasonable hour! --to return to our village this small villain and budmash, who is worse than the evil eye.'
"For answer, I felled him to the ground, and Hasteen stood over him. So he dared not move.
"Then came the Jemadar and the men of the village and stood round us; and the former said, 'Wah! Ram Deen, coach-wan, is it well to disturb peaceful folk at night and rouse them from their sleep? What wouldst thou with us?' " 'Justice to this little one, whose father and mother ye and your people have slain,' I answered. " 'And what of my son, found dead, and with teeth-marks about his throat?' he asked. " 'Jemadar Sahib,' I replied, 'Kali Mai gave thy son, her follower, fitting end. As he lived, so he died. 'Tis well.' " 'Dog!' he exclaimed; 'darest thou to speak thus to me in front of mine own people?' And he ran upon me.
"So I took him by the beard and laid him at my feet; and the men of Nyagong feared to help the Jemadar, for Hasteen growled fiercely over him. " 'Fetch the bunnia,' I demanded; 'and lose no time, O Swine of the Terai, or I give your Jemadar to the dog.'
"They brought him trembling before me, and he folded his hands and bowed his head in the dust at my feet, crying, 'Ram dhwy! ram dhwy! the great and strong are ever merciful. What wouldst thou with me, coach-wan ji?' " 'The bhalee of raw sugar,' I answered, 'from which this man-child's mother got her death.' " 'She died of Terai fever, Most Worshipful, as the old woman who was with her will tell thee.' " 'Nevertheless, Biroo and I will go to thy shop with thee, in the matter of that sugar, whilst the dog seeth to the Jemadar. Proceed.' " 'But, Coach-wan Bahadoor,' said the Jemadar, 'thou wilt not leave me to be devoured by this beast?' " 'Lie very still, Jemadar Sahib, very still. The dog is a good dog, and was never known to harm an honest man. But let no one come to thine aid, lest there be nothing of thee left to take to the burning ghat.' " 'Go away, brothers,' wailed the Jemadar to his people; 'go away, lest evil befall me.'
"But I said, 'Nay, not so. Stay till I return, O Village Thugs, for I would speak with ye.'
"At the bunnia's hut Biroo pointed out the bhalee from which he had received the portion of raw sugar whereof his mother had eaten; but the bunnia denied, saying that he had already sold all that remained of that bhalee. So I broke off a piece of it and gave it to the bunnia, saying, 'Eat!' Whereat he clasped my knees, begging for mercy, and I knew Biroo had not erred. " 'Swine-born!' said I, 'set panniers on thy ass.' And when the ass was brought to the door of the hut I made the bunnia load it with such produce as he had, till it could scarce stand. " 'I am fain to borrow fifty rupees of thee, bunnia ji, on behalf of this motherless child,' I said.
"Whereon he wailed, saying, 'Ram Deen, Compeller of Elephants, there is not so much money in all the village stalls of the Terai. What I have I will give thee;' and he laid one rupee and nine annas in my palm and a handful of cowries. " 'He lieth, my father,' said little Biroo, drawing forth a cocoa-nut shell from beneath the bunnia's seat,--and it was full of silver! " 'Bap re bap!' moaned the trader, ''tis all I have against mine old age; and the men of Nyagong despoil me; and my milch cow died last week. Aho! aho!' " 'It is a very little child, bunnia ji; and consider he hath nor father nor mother. God will repay thee for thy kind loan to the orphan,' and I tied the money in the corner of my waistband. " 'But, Ram Deen, Sun of Justice,' whined the bunnia, 'there be one hundred and thirty-seven rupees, some of it in gold mohurs, in thy waistband. Take fifty, and return the rest.' " 'Thank Nana Debi, Bunnia Sahib,' I rejoined, 'for having put it in thy power to do so much more for the fatherless than thou didst first intend. It will comfort thee in thy old age to think thereon.' " 'But this is robbery,' he said, desperately, 'for which I will have thee cast in the great prison at Bareilly.' " 'There be gallows there, too,' I retorted, 'for such as put ground glass in gur, Mea ji. Ho, ho!'
"So he said no more, but, at my command, put panniers on another ass, which I had in mind to have loaded by the men of Nyagong.
"When we returned to the fire, the dog Hasteen and the Jemadar were as we had left them; and the Jemadar's teeth shook in his head with fear and cold. So I called Hasteen to me, and when the Jemadar had risen from the ground and put his turban on, I spake: "'O Jemadar, and ye, O men of Nyagong, I would have ye witness that I brought this bhalee of sugar from the bunnia's stall. Is it not so, O great mahajun (banker)?'
"And the bunnia assented. So I placed the great lump of raw sugar in a bag which I had brought from the bunnia's shop. Then, at my bidding and in the presence of his people, the Jemadar sealed the bag with his seal, which was well known to the Thanadar of Kaladoongie.
"Then I spake thus to those assembled there: 'Jemadar Sahib, and men of Nyagong, ye have brought shame on the Kumaon Terai, and, in the eyes of all men, ye have blackened the faces of those who dwell in this paradise of God. This child that ye see here--and he is a very little child and hath nor father nor mother--came amongst ye but a moon since, and ye slew those who fed and cared for him. And him--his milk-teeth still in his mouth--ye would have burnt to death in his sleep had Nana Debi and this dog slept, too. It were a good deed done to burn your huts about your ears, and give your fields to the wild boar and to the Thanadar of Kaladoongie, who is my friend and the friend of this little one, and who would say that a jungle fire had swept your village away; but I am more merciful than ye. Inasmuch, then, as ye took the bread from this little one's mouth, and slew his people, it is but right that ye should feed him, and be his father and his mother. The bunnia hath already made some small reparation for the sudden taking off of the little one's mother. What will ye do for him whose hut ye burnt? Or would ye that the Thanadar of Kaladoongie should ask, or the Commissioner Sahib, he who can put ropes round the necks of murderers, how it was that the corpse of this child's father had its hands tied behind its back and a stone fastened to its feet?'
"Then the Jemadar, clasping suppliant hands, whined, saying, 'Ram Deen, Rustum of the Terai, gentle as thou art brave and strong! the child's mother died of Terai fever, as thou knowest; and his worthy father, the chamar, leaned too far over the edge of the well in drawing up his lotah, and so fell in. Why speak to us, then, of slaying? We be sorry for the little chamar, Brahmins though we be, and we would have been father and mother to him, but he ran away, and the village mourned, thinking he had fallen a prey to the jackals. To none else but thee would we give up the boon of rearing him. Brothers,' he went on, turning to those about him, 'naught can restore a child's father to him, but a brass lotah with sufficient coin therein, and a necklace of gold and plum-seeds, such as I will bestow upon him, may help him in time of need, and, mayhap, resolve the Thanadar not to visit our village. Eh, coach-wan ji? Brothers, see to it that our much-loved orphan goeth not empty-handed from the generous village of Nyagong.'
"So it was that the other ass groaned beneath a weight of silver bangles and toe-rings still warm from the taking off, blankets and hide-sewn shoes, sweetened tobacco and unbleached cotton cloth, and many a purse filled with two-anna pieces.
"And when the ass's knees shook, by reason of the load on his back, I said, 'Men of Nyagong, perchance the Thanadar of Kaladoongie may have an asthma to-morrow.'
"And one said, 'Of a surety he hath scant breath. Ho, ho!'
"Then I set Biroo upon the second ass; and when we had reached the Bore Nuddee I blew upon the bugle.
"When the Thanadar of Kaladoongie came out to meet me I put my hand on Biroo's shoulder, saying, 'Much care awaiteth thee, Thanadar Sahib, in tending this little budmash, whose merchandise this is. Moreover, he is a mahajun now, and hath much money to lend.'"
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{
"id": "35644"
}
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5
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The Woman in the Carriage_
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When Ram Deen's bugle was heard at the Bore bridge, the munshi from the post-office came across the road and joined the group sitting round the fire in front of the police-station, at which only the great felt free to warm themselves.
The munshi was struggling with "the po-ets of the In-gel-land," as he expressed it in Baboo-English, and did not often take part in the proceedings round the Thanadar's fire; but that night he took his place with the assurance of one who has something to tell. A mem-sahib, in evident distress, with a very young baby in her arms, and unattended, had taken special passage to Moradabad on the mail-cart; and Ram Deen, the driver, would therefore have to return to Lal Kooah that night without any rest. Such a thing had never happened before, and beards wagged freely round the fire in all sorts of surmisings. For once in his life, the munshi, whom Kaladoongie had always looked upon as a mere rhyme-struck fool, held the public eye, and moved largely and freely among his fellows.
Beauty in distress appeals even to the "heathen in his blindness," and the munshi drove round to the dâk-bungalow to receive and translate the lady's final instructions to Ram Deen. Not that there was any occasion for his services, for the lady with the fair hair and blue eyes used excellent Hindustani; her soft "d's" and "t's" showed that she had been born in India, and that she had spoken Nagari before she acquired English.
She was waiting on the veranda with her baby in her arms when the mail-cart drove up; and, ignoring the fussy little munshi, from whom no help could be looked for in the troubles that beset her, she spoke to Ram Deen, who soon won her confidence, for he showed himself to be thoughtful and a man of resource.
"The mem-sahib must be well wrapped up to-night," he said, "and the little one too, for it will be exceedingly bitter as soon as we pass through the timber and arrive at the tall grass. And the babe seemeth very young from its cry."
"It is but two weeks in age, coach-wan, and we are well wrapped up; but make haste, oh, make haste!"
When Ram Deen had lifted her on to the seat, he fastened her to the back of it with his waistband, and wrapped her feet up in his own blanket. "There be ruts and stones on the road," he explained, "and the mem-sahib will have to hold the little one with both arms, and very close to her to keep it warm."
By the time they had reached the level plateau beyond the Bore Nuddee, the horses, at her urgent and repeated request for more speed, were being driven as fast as Ram Deen dared to drive, seeing there were ten miles to be covered by the same team.
As they proceeded, the lady showed her distress by an occasional deep sigh; and once, when Ram Deen looked at her face, dimly illuminated by the lamps of the mail-cart, he saw the gleam of a tear on her eyelashes. He was glad when she spoke and gave him an opportunity of trying to distract her mind.
"Sawest thou any travellers on the road to-day, coach-wan?" asked the lady, timidly.
"Yea, Most Worshipful. A carriage, with a sahib and an English woman, stopped by the well at Lal Kooah this evening; and the sahib warmed himself at the bunnia's fire and bought milk, whilst his man-servant made preparation for their evening meal."
"What manner of man was he, coach-wan; and didst thou learn his name?"
"The servant told me that the sahib's name was Barfield,--Captain Barfield,--mem-sahib, and that he was going to Meerut to join the regiment to which he belongs. Moreover, he said that the woman in the carriage was not his master's wife--but, toba, toba! what am I saying? This is shameful talk for the mem-sahib to hear, and I ask the forgiveness of the Provider of the Poor for my stupidity."
"Go on, go on, coach-wan," she said, eagerly, laying a hand on his arm. And as he talked, she fell aweeping bitterly, and Ram Deen knew not how to comfort her, for he had never spoken to a mem-sahib before. So he blundered into speech again.
"What manner of man, Most Worshipful, was the sahib? As he stood by the fire, I saw that he was nearly as tall as I,--and I am a span higher than most men; the beard on his upper lip was very fair, and his face showed red in the firelight; furthermore, he smelled of strong waters. He stood awhile, unmindful of those about him, twitching his beard and digging his nails into the palms of his hands; and he looked as a man who hath a new sorrow."
"Oh, coach-wan! that is the first good word I have heard this day. It shall enrich thee by ten rupees ere the sun rise."
"Presently," resumed the driver, "as the sahib stood before the blaze, the woman in the carriage began to sing, and it was as the song of one who hath smoked opium or bhang. Then the sahib stamped his heel on the ground, and with an oath--such I took it to be, for it sounded terrible--he went towards the carriage; and the woman, opening the door thereof, put forth her head, and we saw that her hair was unloosed and hung about her shoulders.
"She fell to scolding the sahib, who thrust her back into the carriage, so that we should not look upon her disorder. Then he fastened the doors, so that she could not open them. Whereon she fell to screaming and beating on the sides of the carriage like a wild beast newly caged.
"So the sahib, being shamed, gave orders, and his horses, which were already spent, were again yoked to the carriage; they departed slowly into the darkness, and we could hear the woman scolding long after they had passed out of sight."
"What time was it when they left Lal Kooah, coach-wan?"
"About the seventh hour, and now some two hours ago, mem-sahib."
"Oh, make haste, make haste, coach-wan! Twenty rupees to thee if we overtake them ere they reach Moradabad!"
"Fear not, mem-sahib. We shall come up with them or ever they get to the next chowki, where fresh horses await the mail-cart."
"Oh, coach-wan, it is my husband we follow! The woman with him is of those who steal men's senses from them and rob women of their husbands. Oh, make haste, make haste!"
They flew along the road. And when the light of the wayside fire at Lal Kooah gleamed in the distance the lady said, "Thou wilt not leave me here to another driver, coach-wan? --Thou art a man, and I may need a man's services to-night."
"Mem-sahib, I am thy servant even as far as Moradabad if it be necessary."
"God reward thee!" she exclaimed.
And then Ram Deen woke the jungle echoes with a brave blast.
The hostler at Lal Kooah had fresh horses ready by the time the mail-cart drove up, and in less than five minutes Ram Deen and his charge were speeding along the level road.
The jungle had now ceased, and they were in the region of the tall plumed grass. The stars twinkled frostily, for the night was bitterly cold, and the clatter of the horses' hoofs on the hard road rang out sharply.
"The little one,--is it well wrapped up, mem-sahib?" asked Ram Deen.
"It is asleep, and quite warm, coach-wan. Proceed."
When they had left Lal Kooah two or three miles behind them, Ram Deen's keen eye caught the glimmer of a fire through the tall grass that came up to the edge of the road where it curved.
"We have found those ye seek, mem-sahib," said Ram Deen, bringing his horses to a stand-still.
Through the quiet night came the voice of a drunken woman singing a ribald barrack-room ditty interspersed with fiendish laughter and oaths: "I'm the belle of the Naini Tal mall. Houp la! Not a colonel nor sub at the mess But makes love when he can to sweet Sal. To their wives do they dare to confess That I'm belle of the Naini Tal mall? Yes, I'm belle of the Naini Tal mall. Houp la!"
Then the singer called aloud, "Captain! Captain Barfield!" But, getting no response, she beat a furious tattoo on the wooden panels of the carriage, shouting at the top of her voice, "Pretty sort of a jaunt to Moradabad this is! You're a liar, captain! But I'll tell your doll-faced wife how you treated her when her baby was only two weeks old." She then swore a round of torrid oaths, and wound up with a scream that might have been heard a mile off.
"Mem-sahib," said Ram Deen, "bide here with the hostler till I have tamed that she-devil, and then I will take thee to the captain sahib. The little one,--is it warm?"
"Quite warm, and still asleep, coach-wan. Go, and God advance thee!"
Ram Deen found the captain seated on a log in front of a blazing fire. With his elbows on his knees, the captain pressed a finger to each ear to escape the tirade of the terrible woman in the carriage. A touch on his shoulder made him start to his feet, and as he turned round Ram Deen salaamed gravely.
"I thought the sahib slept. No? Her speech galled thee," pointing to the carriage, "and thou wast fain not to hear it?"
The captain nodded assent. He was worn with the trying position his folly had placed him in, and, at another time, he might have resented the touch on his shoulder, but the tall native in front of him spoke with dignity and a quiet assurance indicative of a large fund of reserve force,--and he might be helpful.
"Where are thy servants, sahib?"
"They fled when she cursed them. May the devil take them!"
"I am the driver of the mail-cart on this road, sahib, as thou mayest see," said Ram Deen, pointing to his badge and bugle, "and this woman's tongue stayeth the Queen's mail; for on my cart, which I have left behind the bend of the road yonder, is a mem-sahib who perchance knoweth thee, for she, too, cometh from Naini Tal, and 'twere well she should not hear thy name on this woman's lips. She must not be kept waiting long, sahib, for the babe in her arms is but two weeks in age" (the captain started), "and the night is exceedingly bitter. Have I the sahib's permission to drive his carriage beyond the hearing of those who are fain to pass?"
"Drive her to Jehandum, coach-wan, so she come to no hurt."
Thereupon Ram Deen approached the carriage, and tapped on the door, saying, "Woman, it is not meet that the worthy traffic of the Queen's highway should be disturbed by thy unseemly conduct."
For answer he received a volley of curses in broken Hindustani, such curses as are in vogue in the barracks of English regiments in India; and the woman in the carriage wound up with a request for more brandy.
"Nay, it is not brandy thou shouldst have, but water,--cold water to cool thy hot tongue," and mounting the carriage Ram Deen urged the jaded horses into a trot.
Two hundred yards farther on the road crossed the Bore Nuddee, now a sluggish river about four feet deep. Leaving the road Ram Deen drove down the bank and into the stream. When the woman in the carriage heard the splashing of the horses, and felt the water rise to her knees, she screamed with fear and became suddenly sober.
"Hast had water enough to cool thy tongue?" asked Ram Deen, tapping on the roof of the carriage.
"Stop, stop!" she entreated, frantically. "I will do whatever you wish."
"Canst thou forget Captain Barfield's name, or must I drive into deeper water?"
"I know not whereof you speak." " 'Tis well! And who is thy husband?"
"A soldier whose regiment is at Delhi, whither I go."
"Thou must be true to him hereafter. --Ho there, horse! the alligators cannot swallow thee!"
"Alligators! Are there alligators in this river?" whined the woman in the carriage.
"There is scarce room for them within its banks."
"Oh, sahib, I am fain to go to my husband, whom alone I care for. Proceed, for the love of God!"
So Ram Deen drove her through the stream and up the opposite bank on to the road. When he had tied the horses to a tree by the highway, he said, "There will be travellers going thy way presently, and they will drive thee to Moradabad. Remember, I may have business in Delhi very soon. Salaam, Faithless One."
And the woman responded in a very meek tone, "Salaam."
* * * * * "Come, mem-sahib," said Ram Deen, as he resumed his seat on the mail-cart; "the captain sahib awaits thee."
When they were abreast of the fire, she called in a faint, tremulous voice, "Harry, Harry, my dear husband! I am very tired, and very cold. Won't you come to me?"
Leaving the hostler in charge of the mail-cart, Ram Deen followed the captain as he carried his wife to the fire.
Seating her on the log, Captain Barfield knelt beside his wife, chafing and kissing her hands.
"Thank God, you found me!" he sobbed.
"The ayah told me a few hours after you left me that that--that woman had been seen to join you beyond Serya Tal; so I and the baby came to help you. You still love us, dearest?" she asked, pleadingly.
"My beloved, I am not worthy of you! There is a sword in my heart!" And he bowed his head on her lap and wept, whilst she stroked his hair with a slender hand.
"God has been very good to me to-night," she said, softly.
Soon after, removing the shawl from the little one's face, she said, "Kiss your baby, Harry."
His lips touched the little face. --It was very cold. He started back, and, taking the child from its mother's arms, he held it near the firelight. --It was dead!
As they looked across the little limp body into each other's eyes with speechless agony, Ram Deen bent over them and took the little one tenderly from the captain's hands.
"Attend to the living, sahib; I will see to thy dead," he said, softly.
He turned away his face from the sorrow that was too sacred to be witnessed by any one save God.
As Captain Barfield folded his young wife in his arms, a deep groan rent his breast at the thought of his folly and its consequence.
"Thou wert very tender--a mere blossom--and the frost withered thee," said Ram Deen very gently, composing the baby's limbs.
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{
"id": "35644"
}
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6
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For the Training of Biroo_
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"Ah, small villain, budmash! must I send thee back to Nyagong, thee and thy dog, to learn respect for thy betters? The Thanadar's son hath the ordering of thee, and thou hast beaten him,--toba, toba!"
"My father," replied Biroo, respectfully, to Ram Deen, "Mohun Lal took my kite, and when I strove to hold mine own he smote me, whereon I pulled his hair; and 'twas no fault of mine that it lacked strength and remained in my hand. So he set his dog on me; but Hasteen slew it. Wherein have I offended, my father?"
And the Thanadar laughed, saying, "Ram Deen, Mohun Lal but received his due." To the "defendant in the case" he said, "Get thee to sleep, Biroo; and be brave and strong; so will Nana Debi reward thee." Then turning to those who sat round the fire, he went on, "Brothers, 'tis late, and I would have speech with Ram Deen. Ye may take your leave."
When they were by themselves, the Thanadar spoke. "The man-child waxeth fierce and strong, my old friend; 'twere well he were restrained. He will be wealthy by thy favor, and the favor of Nyagong, when he cometh to man's estate, and 'twere pity that he should lack courtesy when he is a man grown."
"Thanadar ji, thou art his father as much as I am. Thou shouldst correct him with strokes whenas I am on the road and carrying the Queen's mail."
"Blows but inure to hardness, and--Gunga knoweth! --little Biroo is hard already. Why dost thou not give up the service of the Queen, and----" He paused, and after awhile asked, "What didst thou receive from Captain Barfield?"
"The gun thou hast seen, Thanadar ji; but from his mem-sahib five hundred rupees, a timepiece of gold, and whatsoever I may want hereafter. The money lieth in the hands of Moti Ram, the great mahajun (banker) of Naini Tal."
"Wah! Ram Deen, thou art thyself rich enough to be a mahajun. Consider, too, the kindness bestowed by Nyagong on Biroo at thy asking,--two hundred rupees and over, and much merchandise. Leave the road, my friend, and put thy money out at usury. A woman in thy hut to cook thy evening meal, and mend Biroo's ways, were not amiss. Eh? The daughters of the Terai are very fair, as thou knowest, coach-wan ji."
"The road hath been father and mother to me, Thanadar Sahib, since I lost my Buldeo, who knew not his mother; so I may not leave it. And when I think of Bheem Dass, bunnia and usurer of the village whereof I was potter three years ago, and whom ye found dead on the road the day I brought in the mail, and was made driver, as thou rememberest, I may not live by harassing the poor and the widow and fatherless. God forbid! As for women,--they be like butterflies that flit from flower to flower; perchance, if I could find a woman who cared not to gossip at the village well, and had eyes and thoughts for none save her husband, I might--but I must be about my business on the road, and I have no time for the seeking of such a woman. Wah! I have not, even as yet, tried the gun Barfield sahib gave me."
Soon afterwards, by an alteration of the service, Ram Deen brought the mail to Kaladoongie in the early afternoon, and availed himself of the opportunity thus afforded of rambling about during the rest of the day in the jungle with Biroo and Hasteen, in search of small game.
One day they came upon a half-grown fawn, at which Ram Deen let fly with both barrels; but as his gun was loaded with small shot only, the deer bounded away apparently unhurt, with Hasteen in hot pursuit, whilst Ram Deen and Biroo followed with what haste they could.
Presently, they could hear the baying of the great dog and the shrill cries of a woman in distress. Directed by these sounds, they crossed the road that leads to Naini Tal, and, scrambling up the bank and over a low stone wall, they found themselves in a neglected garden, in the middle of which was a grass hut, whence issued the cries that had quickened their steps. They arrived just in time, for Hasteen had almost dug himself into the hut.
Calling off the dog, Ram Deen hastened to allay the fears of the woman in the hut, who was still giving voice to her distress in the Padhani patois. "The dog will not harm thee; see, I have tied him with my waistband to a tree."
"Who art thou?" asked the woman. The tones of her voice, when she spoke, were exceedingly soft and pleasant, and made one long to look upon the face of the speaker.
"I am Ram Deen, the driver of the mail-cart, and well known in Kaladoongie."
"I have heard of thee and thy doings, and will come forth. But the dog (Nana Debi, was there ever such a dog! --he almost slew my fawn), art thou sure he cannot harm us?"
"Kali Mai twist my joints, if he be not well secured."
Whereupon the door of the hut was opened a few inches. Having satisfied herself that all was as Ram Deen had said, the young woman came out of the hut with one arm about the fawn.
She was a Padhani, and in her early womanhood. The simple kilt she wore allowed her shapely ankles to be seen, and her bodice well expressed the charms of her youthful figure. Ram Deen thought her eyes were not less beautiful than the fawn's.
After salaaming to him, she looked at her pet. "Oh, sahib, she bleeds,--my Ganda bleeds!" she exclaimed, pointing to a slender streak of red on the fawn's flank.
"Belike some thorn tore her skin as she fled," said Ram Deen; but he knew that at least one shot from his gun had taken effect. " 'Tis a sore hurt, Coach-wan sahib. Will she die?"
"Nay, little one, 'tis nought. See!" and with a wisp of grass Ram Deen wiped the blood from the fawn's skin.
"But the dog, coach-wan,--thou wilt not permit him to fright my Ganda again?"
"Of a surety, not." Then, with a hand on the fawn's head, he rebuked Hasteen, saying, "Villain, the jackals shall pursue thee if thou huntest here again!" And Hasteen hung his head, putting his tail between his legs; and the young girl knew that Ganda was safe thereafter from the great dog.
As they talked together, a very decrepit old man appeared at the door of the hut; after peering at Ram Deen from under his hand, he spoke in the flat, toneless voice of a deaf man: "Tumbaku, Provider of the Poor, give me tumbaku."
Ram Deen put his pouch of dried tobacco-leaf in the old man's hand, and looked inquiringly at the young woman.
"It is my grandfather, and he is deaf and nearly blind,--and a sore affliction. Give back his tumbaku to the sahib, da-da," she said in a louder voice to the old man.
"Nay, nay, let him keep it!" said Ram Deen; then after a pause, and by way of excuse for staying a little longer, he inquired the old man's name.
"Hera Lal, Coach-wan sahib; our kinsman is Thapa Sing, of Serya Tal, who was accounted rich, and planted this garden and these fruit trees many years ago. We stay here by his leave in the winter time, to keep the deer and wild hog out. My name is Tara, and I sell firewood to Gunga Ram the sweetmeat vender."
Whilst she was speaking, Biroo had approached the fawn with a handful of grass.
"Is this the little one they say ye found on the Bore bridge, sahib?" inquired the young Padhani.
Ram Deen nodded affirmatively.
"Poor child!" she exclaimed, and, moved by a sudden impulse of pity, she knelt beside Biroo, and smoothing the hair from his face she put a marigold behind his ear.
Next day, after he had delivered the mail, Ram Deen, making a bundle of his best clothes, started off into the jungle. When he was out of sight of the village, he donned a snowy tunic and a scarlet turban, and encased his feet in a pair of red, hide-sewn shoes. When Tara, on her way to the bazaar with a load of firewood, met him soon after, she thought she had never seen any one so bravely attired, and stepped off the path to make room for him to pass.
"Toba, toba!" he exclaimed; "it maketh my head ache to see the load thou bearest. Gunga Ram will, doubtless, give thee not less than eight annas for the firewood."
"Nay, Coach-wan sahib, Gunga Ram is just, and besides giving me the market price,--two annas,--he often bestoweth on me a handful of sweetmeats."
"Thou shalt sell no more wood to Gunga Ram. He is base, and his father is a dog. Set thy load at my door; here is the price thereof," and Ram Deen laid an eight-anna piece in her palm. Before she could recover from her astonishment he said, "The fawn Ganda, is her hurt healed?"
"It is well with her. And what of Biroo, sahib?"
"He is a budmash, Tara, and I repent me of befriending him."
"Nay, Coach-wan sahib, he is but little, and hath no mother."
"That is the evil of it," said Ram Deen, leaving her abruptly.
When Tara returned to her home that evening, she noticed the footprints of a man's shoes in the dust in front of the hut; her grandfather, looking at her cunningly, smoked sweetened tobacco that was well flavored, and the clay bowl of his hookah was new and was gayly painted.
A similar scene was enacted on the jungle path the next day, and many days in succession, and the tale of Biroo's iniquities grew at each recital. Every day there was some fresh villainy of his to relate, and each day Tara's grandfather waxed in affluence, which culminated one day in a new blanket and a small purse with money in it.
"Tara," said Ram Deen one day, "put down thy load; I have bad tidings to tell thee concerning Biroo. He and Hasteen killed a milch-goat to-day belonging to the Thanadar." " 'Twas the dog's doing, Ram Deen."
"Nay, Biroo is the older budmash, and planneth all the villainies. To-morrow I must pay the Thanadar three rupees and eight annas, or Hasteen will be slain and Biroo beaten with a shoe by the Thanadar's chuprassi."
"Biroo shall not be beaten for a matter of three or four rupees, sahib. Lo, here is the money," and Tara, taking a small purse from a tiny pocket in her bodice, held it out to him.
"Nay, listen further!" exclaimed Ram Deen, holding up his hands; "thou knowest I am wifeless, and I might have the best and fairest woman in the Terai for my wife; but she liketh not Biroo, and will not share my hut because of him. Verily, I shall return him to the men of Nyagong."
"Thou art, doubtless, entitled to the best and the fairest wife in the Terai," said Tara, with a sudden catch in her voice; "but Biroo goeth not back to Nyagong as long as our hut standeth and as long as Gunga Ram, who is a just man and a generous, will pay me two annas each day for wood." She turned away her face, so that Ram Deen should not see the tears that suddenly filled her eyes. " 'Tis well, Tara; thou shalt have him, but thou must beat him every day, and often, to make an upright man of him."
"Nana Debi wither the hand that striketh him! He is not a dog to be taught with stripes." Then, after a pause, she went on, "And the--the woman who is to be the best and fairest wife in the Terai,--what manner of woman is she?"
"She is about thine age."
"Yes?"
"And as tall as thou art."
"Proceed."
"Her voice is soft and sweet as a blackbird's, and her eyes are like a fawn's. Her name is----" "Well, what is her name?" " 'Tis the most beautiful name that a woman can bear. Nay, how can I tell thee her name if thou wilt not look at me?"
When she had turned her eyes on him, he put his hands on her shoulders, saying, "Her name is Tara, star of the Terai."
And Tara put her head on his breast, and was very happy.
"Thou must beat Biroo, Beloved, or he will be hanged."
"Thou wouldst have been hanged, budmash, hadst thou been motherless and beaten by strangers. Biroo's mother will make him a better man than thou art, O Beater of Babes."
"And thou takest me for love?"
"Nay, coach-wan ji, but for the training of Biroo."
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{
"id": "35644"
}
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7
|
Chandni_
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About a mile below the eastern gorge of Naini Tal, the favorite hill-station of Kumaon, is a Padhani village overlooking Serya Tal. It is inhabited by a few score of low-caste hill-men, who earn a living, they and their women-folk, by carrying rough-hewn stones from the hillsides for contractors engaged in building houses, or by selling fodder-grass and firewood to the English residents.
When a Padhani has accumulated sufficient means he purchases a wife and stays at home every other day; and when he has attained affluence and bought two wives, he stays at home altogether; which accounts for the fact that a large majority of these carriers of wood and stone are women.
It is not to be supposed that the Padhani women look upon their toilsome tasks as a hardship: nature, and the decrees of evolution, have endowed them with superb health and strength, and they are wont, as they carry the most astonishing loads, to sing joyous choruses, and so lighten their toils. Every one who has been to Naini Tal is familiar with the sight of a string of Padhani women, short-kilted, showing a span of brown skin between their bodices and skirts, and singing in unison.
They never seem to weary of their choruses, and Captain Trenyon of the Forest Department, and his _khansamah_, Bijoo, never tired of looking at them as they passed below his bungalow with swaying hips and jaunty carriage. They were a trifle darker than their Rajpoot sisters (_quod tune, si fuscus Amyntas_), and they might have been akin to Pharaoh's daughter, she who was "black but comely."
Now, Bijoo was a Padhani, and he took more than a casual interest--such as Captain Trenyon's, doubtless, was--in the laughing and singing crowd that filed below the captain's house several times a day. Chiefest among them, and distinguished by her beauty and her stature, was Chandni; and, ere the season was over, Bijoo purchased her from her crippled father for ten rupees, and, thereafter, Captain Trenyon turned his back on the Padhani traffic of the Mall to watch Chandni instead, as she helped Bijoo to clean the silver; and the songs of the Padhani women attracted him no more.
* * * * * The following year, before the snows of February had cleared off from Shere-ke Danda and Larya Kata, Chandni returned alone to the house of her father, Thapa, at Serya Tal. It was night when she pushed back the thatch door of his hut, which was in darkness within, and called him by name: "It is I, father, Chandni, thy daughter."
"Moon of my Heart!" said the old man, waking from his sleep, and he would have "lifted up his voice and wept," as is the manner of all orientals when greatly moved, but she prevented him by the impressiveness of her "Choop, choop! father; proclaim not my return to the village!"
"Where is Bijoo, the man thy husband?"
"Nana Debi alone knoweth, my father, and I have come back to thee."
"Is he dead, little one?"
"He is dead to me, da-da; and I have returned to cook thy food and carry wood and stone for thee, if thou wilt let me."
"Let thee, O Spray of Jessamine!" and the old man caught his breath, and once more she had to check his emotions with an imperative "Choop, choop!"
He left his charpoi, and raking together the embers in the chula, he blew on them till they kindled into a blaze, at which he lit a smoky chirag, whose dim light showed Chandni sitting on the ground with her back towards him, swaying to and fro, and crying softly "Aho, aho, mai bap!"
He sat by the fire patiently, waiting for her to speak, his hands trembling with apprehension.
When her composure was sufficiently restored, she said, "Thapa Sing, my father, Nana Debi hath no ears for a woman's prayers; do thou, therefore, sacrifice a goat to him to-morrow at Naini Tal, and entreat his curses on all Faringis. See, here is money," and she threw a small bag of coins towards him.
He picked up the purse, and after a pause she went on: "My father, the Mussulmanis do well to veil their women's faces. Trenyon sahib looked upon me ere I was married to Bijoo, and since then, daily, in his jungle camp hath he scorched me with his eyes, till my cheeks felt as though the hot wind had blown on them.
"One day, Bijoo came home with a coin of gold in his hand, such as I had never seen before, and which, he said, the sahib had given him; and he bored a hole through it and hung it on my forehead, and bade me wear it there at the sahib's request; but he stabbed me with his eyes as he put it on me.
"And the next day, Bhamaraya, the sweeper's lame wife, (Kali Mai afflict her with leprosy!) came to the door of our hut, Bijoo being gone to the village market for food supplies, and she extolled my beauty, and showed a picture of myself made by Trenyon sahib by the help of the sun; and thereafter I veiled myself when I went abroad.
"She came again the next day, and whensoever Bijoo was away from home, always praising my lips and my eyes, and telling me what Trenyon sahib spake concerning me. And yesterday she came to me and said, 'Chandni, O Moon of the Jungle, Trenyon sahib would fain have speech with thee. To-night will he send Bijoo with a message to the thana at Kaladoongie, and when he is gone and the other servants be asleep I will conduct thee to the sahib's tent. See what he hath sent thee,' and she placed at my feet a gold bangle.
"When I would have spurned her and her lures from my door she laughed wickedly, saying, 'Ho, ho, my Pretty Partridge! if golden grain will not catch thee, assuredly thou art entangled in the snare of necessity, thou Wife of a Thief!' and she pointed at the coin on my forehead.
"Then, as my heart turned to water, she went on: 'To-morrow the Thanadar will return with Bijoo, and, unless thou asketh the clemency of the sahib, Bijoo will be charged with theft and taken back to Kaladoongie as a prisoner. --The Sircar sends men across the Black Water for lesser offences than this!'
"And being a woman, and fearing I knew not what dangers for Bijoo and myself, I entreated Bhamaraya to take me to the sahib's tent, promising to say naught to Bijoo.
"And thus it fell out, Bijoo being away, that I went with the lame she-wolf to Trenyon sahib's tent last night to make appeal for my husband."
She paused in her narrative once more, swaying herself to and fro and moaning, "Aho, aho!" Then, after a while, she went on: "When we were in the sahib's presence Bhamaraya plucked the chudder from my face, saying, 'Lo, sahib, I have brought thee the Rose of the Terai!' Whereon he filled her palms with rupees. And as she left the room she spake to me, saying, 'The saving of Bijoo were an easy task for thy beauty, thou Flower-Faced Chandni.'
"And I stood suppliant before the sahib, with folded palms and downcast eyes, and in the silence I could hear the beating of my heart. After a while, and because he spake not, I looked up and met his eyes that burned upon my face; and then I knew the price that was set on Bijoo's safety.
"Falling before him, I clasped his feet, saying, 'Provider of the Poor, let thy servant depart in honor, and so add one more jewel to the crown of thy worth. See, here is the coin Bhamaraya says was stolen from thee by the man Bijoo, my husband.' And, unwinding the gold piece from my head, I laid it at his feet.
"Thereupon he raised me from the ground, and because great fear was upon me, and because my limbs shook, he seated me upon his bed, whereon was a leopard's skin. Then, filling a crystal vessel with sparkling waters that bubbled and frothed, he bade me drink. And my courage revived, and once more I made plea for Bijoo.
"And then I noticed, for the first time, that the air of the tent was heavy with the odor of attar; slumbrous music came from a magical box on the table, and the thought of Bijoo seemed to go far from me, as though he were in another land, and I became as one who had smoked apheem or churrus. Then the sahib bound the gold coin on my brow again, and spake words to me such as I had never heard from man, assuring me of Bijoo's safety, and calling me Queen of the Stars, Dew of the Morning, Breath of Roses, and putting a strange stress upon me that cared not for any consequences.
"When I had flown, as it seemed to me, to the highest peak of elation, he gave me another draught of the sparkling waters, and, as I sank back on the pillows, the last thing I had sense of was his hand on mine. Oh, Nana Debi, that I had never waked again! Aho, aho!"
And once more the woman stopped to indulge her grief.
"When I waked again," she resumed, "the sahib sat by the table, asleep, with his head on his arm, the light still burning brightly over him. A bird cheeped uneasily in the peepul-tree above the tent, and through the chink of the doorway I could discern the faint glimmer of the false dawn. Fearing to be seen in or near the sahib's tent by the servants, who would soon begin to stir, I made shift to rise from the bed, but my head swam from the effects of the strong waters I had drunk, and I fell back on the pillows and shut my eyes for a few moments.
"When I looked again Bijoo stood within the doorway. Holding up a menacing finger that enjoined silence, he advanced stealthily on Trenyon sahib with an unsheathed khookri. Arrived within striking distance, he touched the sahib on the shoulder, and, as the sleeper raised his head from the table, the heavy blade descended on it and shore it from the shoulders, and Trenyon sahib passed from sleep to death without any waking.
"Tearing the coin from my forehead, Bijoo wound his fingers in my hair and bade me follow him without any outcry on pain of instant death.
"When we had passed into the jungle a mile from the camp he bade stand, and then, O my father, he inflicted the punishment our men exact from unfaithful wives."
"O Moonlight of my Heart, say not thou art a nakti! Not that! not that!"
For answer she rose slowly to her feet and turned towards him. Drawing from her face the chudder, which was soaked with blood, she disclosed to his horrified gaze a countenance with a hideous gap between the eyes and mouth, and bearing no resemblance to that of the once beautiful Chandni.
|
{
"id": "35644"
}
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8
|
One Thousand Rupees Reward_
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The Terai was in consternation: Captain Trenyon of the Forest Department had been killed by his khansamah, Bijoo; the latter's wife, Chandni, had been horribly mutilated by her infuriated husband in accordance with an immemorial right claimed by the men of the Terai in such cases, and the government had offered a reward of one thousand rupees for the capture of the injured husband.
"Are we dogs?" said Ram Deen, indignantly, when the Thanadar had displayed a notice of the reward printed in Nagari that was to be posted throughout the Terai. "Are we dogs, brothers, that the sircar should tempt us with base money to betray men for exacting just retribution from those who wrong them?"
"We be men, coach-wan ji," said the bullock driver, valiantly; and whilst he spoke the great dog, Hasteen, who lay at Ram Deen's feet, pricked up his ears and growled as a shadow crept along the ground from the peepul tree in front of the village temple to a clump of tall grass some fifty paces from the Thanadar's fire.
"Peace!" exclaimed Ram Deen, venting his spleen on the dog with a blow from his shoe; "dost thou not know a jackal as yet?" Then to those assembled round the fire he went on, raising his voice: "Kali Mai wither the hand that betrayeth Bijoo, and fire consume his hut! There is contention even in my house, because the woman Chandni is kin to my wife, who believes in her innocence; but better such contention, and bitter silence for kindly speech, than that brothers should sell brothers, and so make light the honor of men in the Terai!"
"Nevertheless," said the Thanadar, "this notice must be posted wherever men pass or congregate throughout this Zemindaree."
"Nevertheless," retorted Ram Deen, bitterly, "without disrespect to thee, Thanadar Sahib, it shall be told throughout the Terai that Ram Deen spat on the notice of the sircar and tore it in shreds," and the driver of the mail-cart proceeded to make his words good.
* * * * * Next evening, when the mail-cart drove up to the post-office, little Biroo plucked Ram Deen's sleeve as he dismounted. "Thou must come with me," he said, simply.
"Must, Little Parrot?"
"Ay, father mine. Tara wanteth thee; and there is pillau for thy evening meal."
Now Ram Deen had fed on Gunga Ram's stale cates the evening before for having expressed approval of the mutilation of Chandni, and this prospect of pillau, besides appealing shrewdly to his eager stomach, was, perhaps, a sign of capitulation on the part of the young wife he had but lately wedded.
As he approached his hut his nostrils were assailed with the odors of a great cooking.
"Thou seest, my father," said little Biroo, with the ineptitude of infancy, "thou seest what awaits thee inside."
When Ram Deen entered his abode a woman's voice came to him from the inner apartment, saying, "Feed, Big Elephant, stupid as thou art tall!"
As Ram Deen fell to, Biroo also dipped his hand in the dish, mouthful for mouthful; and when his little stomach was pleasantly distended, he paused and said, "Where didst thou sleep last night, my father?" " 'Twere better to eat pillau, little Blue Jay, than ask questions that may be answered only through the soles of thy feet," replied Ram Deen.
"O valiant Beater of Babes!" said the voice from the inner room, "were it not for Biroo, I would return to my grandfather's house; but thou wouldst starve and ill-use the little one."
"Nay, my Best Beloved," said Ram Deen, in a conciliatory tone, "thou art not even just to me. Listen----" "I will not listen, O Brave to Women, till thou hast answered Biroo's question."
"My Star, an' you should tell it abroad that I did not sleep in mine own house last night, it would blacken my face in Kaladoongie."
"Thou wilt say, perchance, that I gossip at the village well. Go on, what next?"
"Nay, then, if thou must know it, I slept in Goor Dutt's bullock-cart." " 'Twas well, Lumba Deen (Long Legs). Ho, ho, ho! Thy case was that of a ladder balanced across a wall. Proceed."
"The grain bags I lay on, Heart of my Heart, were stony, and the night was full of noises."
"Yes. And thou wast warm?"
"Nay, Beloved, for there was not room for the drawing up of my knees between myself and Goor Dutt, so my feet were frozen, and Goor Dutt ceased not from snoring." " 'Twas well, Oppressor of Women and Children. And thy evening meal?"
"Light of the Terai, Gunga Ram's stale pooris were ill-bestowed on a pariah dog,--but the savor of thy pillau hath effaced the wrong done to my stomach last night."
"Ah! And now what thinkest thou of my kinswoman Chandni?"
"Tara, Light in Darkness, thou art dearer to me than life itself, and I would not lightly vex thee. What is done is done; why slay me with thy questions? I were not worthy of thee if I answered thee differently concerning the price to be demanded for the virtue of a woman; nay, do not cry, little one."
A sound of wailing came from the inner room, where two women were weeping in each other's arms. "Aho! aho!"
"Tara," exclaimed Ram Deen, starting to his feet, "who is the woman with thee? and why is she here?"
"It is I, Chandni," said a thick, muffled voice, "and thou doest me wrong, coach-wan ji. Listen!" Then the strange woman proceeded to tell Ram Deen of the slaying of Trenyon sahib, and of her own horrible mutilation.
When she had finished, Ram Deen said, "It was a brave stroke that Bijoo gave the sahib."
"It was well done, khodawund."
"And thou art not sorry for the killing of the sahib?"
"Doorga restore me and afflict me again, if I do not think it was a good killing!"
"They will hang Bijoo for it; a thousand rupees hath been offered for his taking, alive or dead."
"Aho! aho!" wailed the strange woman. "Men will be wicked for even ten rupees."
"But he robbed thee of thy beauty," remonstrated Ram Deen. " 'Twas right to do so, in his eyes," was the reply.
"And 'tis true thou wast in Trenyon sahib's tent for the helping of Bijoo?"
"As Nana Debi is my witness. And I know not all that happened, for the sahib gave me strong waters to drink that robbed me of my senses."
"Toba! toba!" exclaimed Ram Deen, walking towards the outer door. "Wife, see to it that thy relative is properly lodged this night."
"And to-morrow night?" queried Tara.
"To-morrow night I would eat of a kid seethed in milk and stuffed with pistachios by thy honorable kinswoman. Moreover, I will make provision for her ere the week is out."
"My lord is good as he is great," said Tara, as Ram Deen left the hut.
The next night, as they sat around the fire, Ram Deen waited till the shadow crept from the peepul tree to the clump of tall grass.
"Brothers," he began, speaking deliberately and in loud tones, "the woman we spake of last night is guiltless of wrong, as I now know. She is here and in my hut, and an honored guest." He paused and looked round the circle grimly.
"We be poor men, coach-wan ji," said the little driver, deprecatingly, "and thy honorable kinswoman is deserving, doubtless, of thy exalted consideration."
"She is deserving of the consideration due to a woman who was greatly wronged by the villain who was slain, and by the madman, his slayer. She was lured, brothers, into the sahib's tent by the sweeper's wife, Bhamaraya,--who is a lame she-wolf! --for the purpose of pleading for her man, Bijoo, who was accused of theft; and then she was robbed of her senses by the sahib's strong waters, and hath done no wrong; let no man in the Terai gainsay it!"
Ram Deen paused awhile to "drink tobacco," but nobody made comment on a matter in which he was so greatly interested.
"Bijoo's life is forfeit," he resumed; "and the rope that shall hang him is already made, for the sircar never fails to find whom it seeks. But Bijoo, alive or dead, is worth a thousand rupees to the man who shall take him. 'Twere pity that the money should go to some jackal of a man, for it belongs, of a right, to Chandni, whom he hath wrongfully mutilated; but he is a man, and will, doubtless, make the only reparation in his power, and yield himself up, for her sake, to some one who will bestow the blood money upon her."
The shadow rose from the tall grass and speedily disappeared in the darkness. Soon after, those who sat round the fire heard the dreadful lamenting of a strong man who walks between Remorse and Despair.
"Brothers," said Ram Deen, as he rose to go to his hut, "alive or dead, Bijoo will be here to-morrow night."
* * * * * At the fire, next evening, no one spoke; they were waiting for the fulfilment of Ram Deen's prediction, and the bugle-call of the fateful man had just been heard in the direction of the Bore bridge.
"Bijoo hath come, Thanadar ji," said Ram Deen, as he dismounted from the mail-cart.
He then proceeded, with the help of his hostler, to lift a heavy burden covered with a cloth from the back seat of the mail-cart. The limp hands trailing on the ground as they carried it showed their burden to be a corpse. They laid it in the firelight; and Ram Deen, drawing the covering from its face, disclosed the dreadful features of a man who had been hanged; part of the rope that had strangled him still encircled his throat.
"This was the way of it," began Ram Deen, after due identification had been made and the corpse had been carried to the thana; "this was the way of it: this evening, just before we began the descent that leads to the Bore bridge, a man sprang from the darkness in front of the horses and stayed the mail-cart below the great huldoo tree that stretches its arms across the road. The light of the lamps showed him to be Bijoo. So I sent the hostler forward to the bridge to await my coming, for Bijoo and I were fain to be alone for that which had to be said between us.
"When we were by ourselves I bade him mount the mail-cart and sit beside me. As he took his place, he said, 'Wah! coach-wan, dost thou not fear to be alone with a hunted man on a jungle road? I might slay thee now, for I am armed, and so remove the only man who can match me in the Terai.' " 'Nevertheless,' I replied, 'I will take thee to-night to Kaladoongie with my naked hands, if need be.' " 'We will speak of that hereafter,' said Bijoo; 'but now tell me of her.' " 'She is as you made her,--nakti and poor and a widow; for thou art but a dead man, Bijoo.' " 'And you spake the truth, last night, when you said she went to the sahib's tent to plead for me?'
"Taking one of the lamps, I held it to my face, saying, 'Draw now thy khookri, Bijoo, and slay me if thou thinkest I have lied.' " ''Tis well,' he replied, sheathing his weapon. 'And what will become of Chandni?' " 'She shall dwell honorably with her kinswoman in my hut, and respected of all men as long as I live; but the road is not safe, Bijoo, and bad men and jungle fever and wild beasts have slain better men than I; and, bethink thee, by yielding thyself my prisoner thou canst bestow one thousand rupees on Chandni, and so set her beyond the reach of want and scoffers till her end come.'
"He mused awhile, and then replied quietly, 'I will go with thee. Proceed. I know thou wilt bestow upon her the reward offered by the sircar.' " 'But they will hang thee, Bijoo.' " 'Of a surety. Proceed.' " ''Tis a shameful death, for the hangman is a sweeper,--some brother to Bhamaraya, perhaps.' " 'Nevertheless, proceed; but promise me that thou wilt trap the lame witch in some pit of hell, Ram Deen.' " 'Fret not thyself on that score, Bijoo; I have already given the matter thought. But why should the sircar hang thee? They--would--not--hang--a dead man;' and I flicked a branch that overhung us with my whip. " 'Thou art right, Ram Deen,' he said, quietly; 'but, lo! I have not slept for many nights, and my thought is not clear.' He then stooped downward, groping in the bottom of the mail-cart, and drew forth one of the heel ropes of the horses.
"Throwing one end of the rope over the branch that was above us, he fastened it thereto with a running loop, and then encircled his neck with a noose at the other end.
"As he stood up on the seat, he asked, 'Thou wilt give me honorable burning, Ram Deen?' And I replied, 'I will be nearest of kin to thee in this matter.' " 'Tis well. Thou wilt not forget thy reckoning with Bhamaraya?'
"But ere I could make reply, the gray wolf that hunts beyond the bridge bayed, and the horses broke from me in their fear, so that I could not stay them till we reached the Naini Tal road."
"Yea, brothers," said the hostler, at whom Ram Deen looked for confirmation of this part of his story, "I had scarce time to leap to one side, as the mail-cart sped past me whilst I waited on the bridge."
More he would have said,--for he had never before enjoyed the privilege of speech at the Thanadar's fire, and the occasion was epochal,--but he saw in Ram Deen's face that which made him whine and say, "But I am a poor man, and know nothing, and my sight is dim by reason of sitting overmuch by grass fires,--only Ram Deen, Bahadoor, could not stay the horses, though he cursed their female relatives for many generations, and----" "So, Thanadar ji," interrupted Ram Deen, "as soon as I could restrain the horses I turned them back, and, after picking up the hostler (who, because he is more silent, is wiser than most poor men who are ever talking of what they know not), I drove to the huldoo tree where hung Bijoo as dead as you saw him but now."
Then, after a pause, he said, "Brothers, let it be told in the Terai that Bijoo came back as befitted an honorable man."
|
{
"id": "35644"
}
|
9
|
The Rope that Hanged Bijoo_
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"Thy man-child is very beautiful, my lord," said Tara.
Ram Deen was sitting outside of his hut on a charpoi, whilst Tara rubbed their month-old babe with "bitter oil" in the forenoon sun.
The little brown manikin, without a stitch on him to conceal God's handiwork, sprawled on his stomach across his mother's knees, making inarticulate noises, and wriggling after the manner of infants when it is well with them, for the sun was pleasantly warm, and his mother's rubbing appealed to his budding sensations.
"It is not so beautiful as its beautiful mother," said Ram Deen.
"Thou Worthless!" exclaimed Tara. "Sawest ever such hands?" and she put a finger into the wee palm that clasped it by "reflex action."
"Toba! toba!" swore Ram Deen. "Nana Debi send grace to evil-doers in the Terai in the days to come, or else shall they be undone by these hands. Why, they might almost crush a fly!"
"Nevertheless, coach-wan ji, my lord, thy son shall be taller than thou when he is a man grown."
"Khoda (God) grant it, for thy son must drive the mail-cart in the time to come, and the Terai is full of dangers."
"But he _shall not_ drive the mail-cart," said Tara; "he shall be Thanadar of Kaladoongie, and he shall feed his father and his mother when his beard begins to sing on a scraping palm. Eh, my butcha?" and the young mother, after the manner of young mothers the world over, bent her head and kissed the little one's dimples.
"He shall be rich, too, coach-wan ji," said a tall woman with a beautiful figure appearing in the doorway of the hut. Her eyes made beholders long to look upon the rest of her face; but that was closely veiled, for it was horribly mutilated.
Her voice was thick and muffled, and she spoke with difficulty. It was the unhappy Chandni.
"He shall be rich, if a thousand rupees can make him rich, and the wishes of thy humble servant. Tulsi Ram, pundit, hath this day indited a letter for me to Moti Ram, the great mahajun of Naini Tal, directing him to hold the money, that was the price of Bijoo, for thy son till he comes to man's estate."
"Now, nay, Chandni," remonstrated Ram Deen; "I am richer than most men in the Terai, and, through the advice of my friend, the Thanadar, my wealth groweth apace, and my son shall lack nothing. Biroo, too, is provided for; thou mayest need the money thyself, for the thread of life parts easily in the Terai, as thou knowest, and the shelter of my hut may be wanting to thee some day."
"Nevertheless, my lord and my master, thy lowly handmaid must not be thwarted in this matter," and Chandni disappeared into the hut.
"Let her have her will, my lord," pleaded Tara; "we owe her much," and with a sweeping gesture she indicated the garden in which they sat and which was Chandni's special care.
The enclosure in which Ram Deen's hut stood used to be, ere the days of Tara and Chandni, the most neglected spot in the village; but, after the arrival of the latter, it gradually began to assume an appearance of neatness and thrift that made Ram Deen's home-coming a daily delight to him.
The young peepul tree in front of the hut was aflame with a gorgeous Bougain-villea, and the flower-beds laughed with marigolds and poppies of many hues sown broadcast. A little runnel sparkled through the garden, and, in one part of its career, chattered pleasantly over a tiny pebbly reach artfully contrived to produce the "beauty born of murmuring sound," which is nowhere more grateful than in the domain of the Hot Wind.
In one corner of the garden were planted radishes, and turnips, and carrots, with their delightful greenery. Chili plants and Cape gooseberries abounded, and many a potherb pleasant to behold and good in a curry. Every plant and shrub gave evidence of loving care, and repaid the tilth bestowed upon them with lavish interest.
A little machand (dais) of plastered mud, under the peepul tree, had been specially built for little Biroo, who decorated it, after the manner of the small boy, with bits of gayly-tinted glass and potsherds, bright feathers and cowries, and such other gauds as appeal to his kind.
In another corner of the compound was a tiny hut, wherein Heera Lal, Tara's old grandfather, lived in such ease and affluence as he had never dreamed of in his wildest imaginings. His day was setting in scented clouds of sweetened tobacco, and he had tyre to eat every morning. Every week he added two annas (six cents) to the hoard under his hearth; it was saved from the allowance made to him by Ram Deen; and he owed no man anything. Moreover, in Ram Deen he had found one who could be most easily overreached, and Ram Deen delighted to be swindled by the old man in matters involving small change.
Even Hasteen had not been forgotten in the improvements made in the enclosure: in one corner a small space had been carefully lepoed (plastered) and roofed with thatch for him. Farther on, Nathoo, Biroo's kid, was tethered to a stake; and beyond that the fawn, Ganda, had a little paddock to herself.
The whole compound was fenced in by a flourishing mandni hedge, which gave Ram Deen a fuller sense of possession. As he sat on the charpoi, lazily smoking his hookah and drinking in the beauty of the garden and of the day beyond, he was the happiest man in all the Terai. When Tara had finished the baby's simple toilet and put it to her breast, the thought passed through Ram Deen's mind that, if God ever smiled, it must be when he looked on a young mother suckling her first-born.
"Respect the aged and infirm," said a whining voice, breaking in upon Ram Deen's pleasant reverie. The speaker, who stood outside the hedge, was an old mendicant equipped like his kind, with an alms-bowl containing a handful of small copper coin and cowries. He was smeared with wood ashes, and his tangled, grizzly hair hung to his waist.
"Respect the aged and poor, Ram Deen, for the sake of the beautiful babe." (Tara immediately covered it with her chudder for fear of the evil eye.) "Listen, I have tidings for thee."
"Speak, swami," replied the driver, throwing him a small piece of silver.
"Bhamaraya, the lame mehtrani, cometh this way. She is on the road on the hither side of Lal Kooah, in a covered byli whereof one of the wheels has come off. The byl-wan walked into Kaladoongie with me this morning to seek assistance, leaving the old woman on the road." " 'Tis well, jogi ji. Durga will doubtless protect her own. Salaam," said Ram Deen, dismissing the mendicant.
The time had come for the fulfilment of his promise to Bijoo. What he should do when he came across the mehtrani who had wrecked Chandni's life would doubtless be suggested to him by the circumstances of the place and the hour, but for the present he was satisfied that she was completely in his power.
That day Chandni was absent from the mid-day meal.
The Hot Wind blew fiercely, rattling the leafless branches of the forest trees. The Bore Nuddee, below the head of the canal that supplied Kaladoongie, had shrunk to a few scattered pools that became shallower every day.
"Nana Debi send thy kinswoman is in a cool shade this day," said Ram Deen, addressing Tara.
"She hath doubtless gone to the ford of the Bore Nuddee to bleach her new chudder," explained Tara.
But when evening came and Chandni had not returned, the driver became alarmed. After he had made his preparations for taking the mail to Lal Kooah he joined the circle in front of the Thanadar's hut.
The Hot Wind had abated its fury to little puffs that came at intervals and seemed to sear the skin, and the sun had set like a copper disk in the haze that overhung the western sky. As the hostler brought the mail-cart round, Ram Deen told the Thanadar of Chandni's absence, and received his assurance that immediate search should be made for her.
As they spoke together a little puff of wind came out of the west, laden with the smell of fire. They instinctively turned their faces windwards. The glow of the setting sun, that had but just disappeared, seemed to be returning in the west and illuminated the under surface of a huge black cloud that was growing rapidly in size.
"The jungle through which thou must drive is on fire, Ram Deen, and thou must make haste if thou wouldst take the mail to Lai Kooah to-night."
"But thou must not go to Lai Kooah to-night," said little Biroo, running up to Ram Deen. "Chandni said so ere she went away this morning. I was to tell thee, but I had forgotten till I saw just now the money she gave me for the telling of this to thee;" and opening his hand he showed the men a rupee.
"Therefore must I go, Thanadar ji," said Ram Deen. "Had this little budmash spoken sooner Chandni had been home now, and not on a quest that belongs properly to me. Toba, toba!" he exclaimed, as a tongue of flame shot high into the air, "was ever such fire lit for the purification of the jungle? But I must make haste if I would save Chandni;" and the next minute Ram Deen was speeding towards the Bore bridge. Two miles beyond the bridge they reached the hither end of the fire, which was now being driven furiously by a storm of its own creation towards the road, from which it was distant about half a mile. The hostler leaped to the ground, refusing to go any farther; but the element of danger and the risk to Chandni only stirred Ram Deen's pulses into activity, and he shook the reins and urged his horses into a headlong gallop.
The wild things of the Terai fled in front of the fire and across Ram Deen's path, heedless of the presence of man, who was but a pygmy to the wrath behind them. The roar of the giant fire put a great stress upon the fleeing animals, so that they were as of one kin in the presence of a common danger. A herd of spotted deer, with a leopard in their very midst, dashed across the road in front of the mail-cart. A wild boar came next in headlong fashion. Jackals, hares, nyl-gai followed each other pell-mell, making for the shelter of the bed of the Bore Nuddee, whilst overhead was seen the flight of the feathered denizens of the Terai.
All this confusion and rush but accented the roar of the pursuing fire. When Ram Deen looked back for an instant he saw that it had leapt across the road at a point he had passed but a minute before, and now he knew that he was running for his life.
A quarter of a mile farther on the road turned to the left, thus increasing his chance of reaching the southern limit of the fire, which was travelling due east. By the light of the flames he could see a tall woman sitting on the parapet of a small culvert, about one hundred yards in front of him. On the edge of the jungle beside her was an overturned byli, and from it there came the most appalling screams that could be distinguished even through the din of the fire.
The woman on the culvert saw him as soon as he turned the bend of the road, and forthwith mounted the parapet; and he saw it was Chandni. As the mail-cart swept past her she sprang towards it, and Ram Deen passed an arm round her and drew her on to the seat beside him.
"For the love of God, Chandni, for the love of God!" screamed the woman in the byli as a burning branch fell on it. But the mail-cart sped away, and presently only the roar of the angry fire could be heard.
A quarter of a mile farther on they had passed the southern edge of the fire, which was within fifty yards of the road when they reached safety.
"The woman in the byli?" asked Ram Deen.
"Bhamaraya," was the quiet reply.
"And why came she not forth?"
"Because of the rope that hanged Bijoo."
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{
"id": "35644"
}
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10
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Coelum, Non Animum Mutant_
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The Commissioner of Kumaon had arrived at Kaladoongie in the course of his winter tour of inspection, and the same evening Joti Prshad, his butler, sat beside the Thanadar on a charpoi and smoked with metropolitan ease amidst the awe-struck notables of the jungle village.
Ram Deen alone was not abashed, and puffed his hookah unconcernedly, although Joti Prshad told many wonderful things of the sahiblogue, and spoke concerning the doings of the great world of Naini Tal during the greater rains.
Joti Prshad was a small man, and Ram Deen's _blasé_ mood galled his sense of superiority; it was but right that he should snub this exasperatingly cool villager.
"Thanadar ji," he began, "thou and I know that nowhere in Hindoostan is there such greatness assembled as at Naini Tal during the Greater Barsât."
"Men say that the governor-general still goeth to Simla, but, doubtless, the sirdar knoweth best," said Ram Deen.
"The Lât-sahib, indeed, goeth to Simla, but those with him be mere karanis (clerks), and shopkeepers, and half-castes. 'Tis plain thou hast not seen Naini Tal, coach-wan."
"The Terai sufficeth me, Joti Prshad."
"They say," piped Goor Dutt, the little bullock driver, "that the mem-sahibs at Naini Tal bare their shoulders and bosoms and dance with strange men. Toba, toba!"
This being an indisputable fact, and one to which Joti Prshad had never reconciled himself, the latter did not speak, and the diversion thus made by the byl-wan was felt by all to be in Ram Deen's favor.
Taking advantage of the silence of Joti Prshad, Ram Deen went on: "The people of Naini Tal come and go, but the children of the Terai never forget their mother. What sayest thou, Thanadar ji?" " 'Tis even so, brothers," said the Thanadar, with the gravity of one who is in authority and under the stress of weighing his words.
As they evidently waited for him to proceed, the Thanadar continued: "The jungle is our father and our mother, and the huldoo trees our near kin, O my brothers; and we who have once seen the beauty of the morning in the jungle, and the rye-fields laughing in the clearings in the winter, may not live elsewhere."
"Ay, Thanadar ji," said Ram Deen; "and, moreover, the senses of those who live in bazaars are asleep as with bhang, and they cannot see nor hear the wonders of God."
A general "humph" of assent followed Ram Deen's speech.
"If the sirdar will stay with us we will show him whereof we speak," said the Thanadar. But the butler had fond recollections of Oude and the rose-fields of Shahjahanpoor, where they make attar, and shook his head dissentingly. So the Thanadar went on: "Many seasons since, a holy man--a Sunyasi--who had given up his wife and children and lived in a hollow tree by the Rock of Khalsi (whereon are written the laws of the great king Asoka) returned to Gurruckpoor, his native village, when he felt the Great Darkness coming on. He told the village Brahmin that he longed for death, but that he could not die outside of the Terai."
After a pause, during which the bubbling of his narghili was heard, the Thanadar said: "It is the same with all who are born in the Terai,--Faringi and Padhani, Brahmin and Dome, Sunyasi and fair woman,--all are alike in bondage, and return, sooner or later, to their jungle mother. Listen. Twelve years ago there came to Gurruckpoor to hunt big game an Englishman named Fisher Sahib. He was of those favored by God who have much wealth, and to whom sport standeth for occupation. As he was accustomed to fulfil his heart's desires, he hired two shooting elephants from the Rajah of Rampore,--one for himself and the other for his mem-sahib, who accompanied him. And he had a great camp, and many servants, and beaters, and shikaris, chief of whom was Juggoo, whose fame as a hunter reached from Phillibeet to Dehra. He it was who always rode with the sahib in his howdah, and he had command from the mem-sahib never to leave the sahib's side in the jungle, in that he was rash and loved danger, and many a time fell into it unawares by reason that he saw not clearly except he looked through a piece of glass that he wore in one eye.
"One day the sahib had shot a deer, and let himself down from his elephant--Juggoo going with him--to give it hallal, according to the rule of the Koran,--for he intended the deer as a gift to the Mussulmanis in his camp. As he bent over the deer to cut its throat with his khookri, a great boar ran upon them from a thicket. Juggoo uttered a cry of warning, but ere the sahib could find his sight the boar was upon them, and Juggoo thrust himself in its way and got his death, or the sahib had been killed.
"So they carried the dead man to the camp, where his daughter, Chambeli, having cooked his evening meal, awaited the return of her father. She was fifteen years in age, and a widow,--for her betrothed husband and all his people had died five years before of The Sickness (small-pox); so she had returned to her father, and had cared for his house ever since. And Kali Dass, who was learning jungle-craft from her father, would have had her to mistress. 'Come and live with me, my beloved, beyond the head-waters of the Bore Nuddee,' he had pleaded; 'and when thy hair hath grown again none shall know thou art a widow, and the people of the foothills shall wonder at thy beauty.' " 'But I shall know and Nana Debi,--and the others matter not, Kali Dass'" she replied firmly.
"So Kali Dass went his way; and the young man and Chambeli looked at each other, but spake no more together.
"The mem-sahib it was who told Chambeli of her father's death, Kali Dass standing by, and she turned on him like a leopard bereft of its young and upbraided him, saying, 'Hadst thou been a man, Kali Dass, my father were still living.' Thereafter she swooned, and the mem-sahib laid her on her own couch, and held her in her arms and comforted her, because Juggoo had died to save the sahib.
"Then for that she was childless and very wealthy, and could do whatsoever seemed good in her eyes, the mem-sahib took Chambeli across the Black Water. They brought her up as their own kin, teaching her whatsoever it is fitting the daughter of a Faringi should know, and training her to work amongst our women and children when they should be afflicted with sickness; and, furthermore, she was to turn them from Nana Debi to the God of the Faringis.
"Moreover, to aid her in her work she was married to a young English padre; and they came to Kaladoongie six years ago, when the next new-year festival of the Faringis shall arrive. And because we knew her and still remembered Juggoo, her father, we of Kaladoongie waited on her at the dâk-bungalow on the day she returned.
"She came out to us on the veranda, dressed in the garments of a mem-sahib, and we saw that she was a woman grown and in the mid-noon of her beauty. She was glad to see us, calling us all by our names, and we greeted her with such gifts as we could,--fruit and flowers and sweetmeats. Last of all came Kali Dass, and behind him four men bearing a leopard but newly slain, slung from a pole.
"They laid the beast at her feet, and Chambeli laughed and clapped her hands till the little padre, her husband, frowned at her; whereon her nostrils twitched and she looked at him in wonderment, as though she saw for the first time that he was a small man with a pale face, and void of authority.
"Then turning to Kali Dass she said in our Terai tongue, 'Is it well with thee, shikari ji? Thou art doubtless married and happy?'
"And he said, 'Nay; I have no spouse, save only my jungle-craft.' " 'And the jungle?' she asked, looking on the ground. " 'It is my father and my mother, and fairer than any of its daughters, mem-sahib. But thou hast been in great cities, and across the Black Water; thou hast read in books, and hast changed thy gods,--what shouldst thou care for the jungle?' " 'It is the garden of God, Kali Dass, and I am fain to see it again, for I am a Padhani born, and a daughter of the Terai.'
"Ere she gave us leave to depart it was arranged that she and the padre sahib, accompanied by me and Kali Dass, should start in the early morning and follow the Bore Nuddee backward into the foothills.
"Kali Dass was at the dâk-bungalow before me in the morning; and he was dressed in holiday clothes; his face shone, and behind one ear he had placed a marigold.
"When the padre and his mem-sahib came forth from their chamber, behold! she was dressed as a Padhani; and she was the Chambeli we knew of old, only taller. " 'I am but a Padhani,' she explained, 'and shall get nearer to my people the more I am like to them.'
"It was a time of great stillness when we started, for the morning was just born, and the dew lay on all things. Taking the road to Naini Tal, we struck into the jungle when we came to the path that leads to the ford of the Bore Nuddee, and Chambeli alighted from her pony and walked in front of the rest with Kali Dass. A faint flush showed in the east, and presently a jungle-cock greeted the dawn. Chambeli stopped, and, with joy in her face, she turned round to the padre sahib, exclaiming, 'Didst hear that?' And he laughed, saying, 'It was but the crowing of a cock.' " 'But it came out of the stillness of the morning, and the dew accorded with it,--and it was a wild thing,--but how shouldst thou understand? thou art not of the Terai,' she said.
"Soon the glow in the east became brighter, and the jungle burst into its morning song. Chambeli stopped and put her hands to her forehead, as if she would remember something; then she said to the shikari, 'Something is lacking, Kali Dass; what is it?' And even as she spake there came the call of a black partridge from a thicket near by: 'Sobhan teri koodruth!' Brothers, ye know that the black partridge is the priest of the Terai, and at its voice Chambeli fled with a cry of joy from the path and into the thick jungle.
"The little padre sahib, knowing not what to think, urged us to follow her. When we came up with her, Kali Dass stood by regarding her with a smile, whilst she lay on the ground with her face buried in the dewy grass, moaning and saying, 'O Jungle Mother, I will never leave thee again, I will never leave thee again!' And the little padre chid her in his own tongue; whereat she rose shuddering; and brushing the dew and the tears from her face, she returned to the path.
"She had eyes and ears for everything that morning, and was as a wild thing that had just fled from captivity.
"When we came to the brow of the hill that slopes down to the ford, the sun rose over the tops of the trees and laid a gleaming sword across the stream; and as we looked at the brightness and wonder of it all there came to us the song of a string of Padhani women approaching the ford. In an instant Chambeli took up the song, and set off swiftly down the narrow path, we following as we could.
"As she neared the ford she lifted her sari and took the water with her bare limbs; and I looked at the little padre, who seemed sore amazed.
"When we had all crossed the ford, Chambeli and Kali Dass were not to be seen on the road that ran by the stream. A traveller on his way to Kaladoongie said he had not met them, and as we questioned him there came the report of a gun. " 'Kali Dass hath met game, padre sahib,' said I. "'Find them, and bring them back instantly, Thanadar,' commanded the holy man, and his voice shook with anger.
"Following the direction of the shot, I came upon their tracks, and thereafter I found a handful of fresh feathers. A few paces beyond lay a small book; it was the sacred book of the Faringis printed in Nagari, and on the first leaf, which was held down by a stone, was writing in English. On the path a pace farther were two sticks crossed, and beyond that other two; and I knew it was the warning of Kali Dass, who must not be followed.
"So I returned with the little book to the padre sahib. And when he had read what was written on the first leaf he trembled and clutched at his throat, and I caught him in my arms as he fell from his horse.
"I returned with him to Kaladoongie; but Chambeli and Kali Dass never came back.
"I showed the writing in the book to Tulsi Ram. Speak, pundit, and tell our brothers what it meant."
Tulsi Ram, pleased and proud to give an exhibition of his scholarship, replied, "Brothers, and you, O Joti Prshad, the writing said: 'Like to like: Kali Dass is of my blood, and the great jungle hath claimed her daughter this day.'"
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{
"id": "35644"
}
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11
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The Lame Tiger of Huldwani_
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It was in the middle of May--just before the beginning of the lesser rains--that Ram Deen and certain wayfarers sat round a handful of fire at Lal Kooah from mere force of habit, for the heat of the evening was great, and not a breath of air stirred in the jungle. The sâl trees had lost their leaves and looked like ghosts; the grass had been burnt in all directions; and as the sun set in the copper sky, it lit up a landscape that might have stood for the "abomination of desolation."
The dry chirping of the crickets, just beginning to tune their first uneasy strains, accorded with the unholy scene. Even the horses waiting for the mail-cart were imbued with the depressing influence of the season, and hung their heads with a sense of despair, as though they thought the blessed monsoon would never set in.
No one spoke, and the hookah passed from hand to hand in a dreary silence. Suddenly, the attention of those assembled was attracted by the curious action of a bya (tailor) bird in a neighboring mimosa tree. It was calling frantically, and dropping lower from bough to bough, as though against its will.
"Nâg!" exclaimed the bunnia; and, directed by his remark, all eyes were turned to the foot of the tree, where an enormous cobra with expanded hood was swaying its head from side to side, and drawing the wretched bird to its doom through the fascination of fear.
Ram Deen, whose sympathies were always with the weak and defenceless, rose to his feet, and, throwing a dry clod of earth at the reptile, drove the creature from the tree; whilst the bird, released from its hypnotic influence, flew away.
"Brothers," said Ram Deen, "fear is the father of all sins, and the cause of most calamities. He who feareth not death is a king in his own right, and dieth but once; but a coward--shabash! who can count his pangs?"
"Ho! ho!" chuckled the little bullock driver; "Ram Deen, The Fearless, shall live to be an hundred years old."
"Nay, Goor Dutt," said Ram Deen, gravely regarding the little man, "I, too, have known fear. No man may drive the mail to Kaladoongie without looking on death."
Ram Deen smoked awhile in silence; and, when the expectation of his listeners was wrought to a proper pitch, he went on: "Ye all knew Nandha, the hostler, who used to go with me last year from this stage to Kaladoongie?"
"Ay, coach-wan ji," responded the carrier for the others. " 'Tis a great telling, but not known to these honorable wayfarers who come from beyond Moradabad."
"Brothers, ye saw the plight of the bya bird but now; so was it with Nandha," said Ram Deen.
"One evening, ere the mail arrived, he called me to where he stood by the kikar tree yonder, looking down at the ground. In the dust of the road were large footprints. " 'These be the spoor of a tiger lame in its left hind foot,' I said to Nandha; 'see, here it crouched on its belly, and wiped away the wheel tracks made by the mail-cart this morning.' " ''Tis the lame tiger of Huldwani, coach-wan; he is old, and he hunteth man. Gunga send he is hunting elsewhere to-night!' replied Nandha.
"When we came within a mile of the Bore bridge that night, the horses stopped suddenly; they were wild with fear, and refused to move. The night was as dark as the inside of a gourd, and beyond the circle of light made by our lanterns we could discern in the middle of the road two balls of fire close to the ground. " 'Bâg! (tiger),' said Nandha, as he climbed over into the back seat; 'we be dead men, Ram Deen.' " 'Blow!' I commanded, giving him the bugle; and as he startled the jungle with a blast, I gathered up the reins, and, adding my voice to the terrors of Nandha's music, I urged the horses with whip and yell to fury of speed; and the light of the lanterns showed the great beast leaping into the darkness to escape our onset.
"Nandha ceased not from blowing on the bugle till I took it from him by force at the door of the post-office at Kaladoongie.
"They gave him bhang to smoke and arrack to drink ere he slept that night, for his great fear had deprived him of reason for awhile; and he looked round him as though he expected to see the tiger's eyes everywhere. " 'The bâg followed me to the hither side of the Bore bridge,' he said to me next morning, as we prepared to return to Lai Kooah. But I laughed at his fears, to give him courage. " 'It is a devil,' he whispered, looking cautiously round him, and I saw that the light of his reason flickered.
"When we came to the Bore bridge, Nandha leaped to the ground, and in the dim light of the morning I could see the tracks of a great beast on the ground, to which he pointed; and, even as we looked, there came the roar of a tiger. I could scarce hold the horses whilst Nandha, whose limbs were stiff with fear, scrambled into the back seat of the mail-cart.
"When a tiger puts its mouth to the ground and gives voice, no man may tell whence the sound comes; so I stayed not to see, if I might, where the danger lay, but gave the horses free rein.
"As we cleared the end of the bridge, Nandha screamed, 'Bâg, bâg!' and glancing back, I saw the tiger in full pursuit of us, and within a hundred paces. " 'Blow!' I commanded, handing the bugle to Nandha; but, though he took it from me, he appeared not to understand what he was required to do. " 'Blow!' said I, once more, shaking him; but he took no heed of me, and was as a man who walks in his sleep. So I put my arm round him and lifted him on to the front seat beside me; and even as I pulled him to me, his head was drawn over his shoulder by the spell of fear. There was a foam on his lips and on his beard, and he shook so that I feared he would fall off the mail-cart. " 'Be brave, Nandha,' I shouted to him, 'the beast is lame, and we shall soon leave it behind.' For answer, he turned his face to me for one instant, and his lips framed the word 'bâg,' but no sound came therefrom.
"Suddenly, he laughed like a child that is pleased with a toy, babbling, and saying, 'How beautiful is my lord! Soft be the road to his feet! But, look! my lord limpeth; belike he hath a thorn in his foot.' As he rose, I put an arm round him and forced him down again; and at that instant the tiger uttered another roar. The horses swerved, and would have left the road in their fear, had I not put forth the full strength of both my arms; and as soon as Nandha felt himself free, he leaped to the ground, and advanced towards the tiger. He walked joyously, as a loyal servant who goeth to meet his lord.
"Looking over my shoulder (for now the horses were in the middle of the road, which here stretched straight ahead of us), I beheld Nandha proceed towards the tiger, which now crouched in the road, waiting for him, its tail waving from side to side. When he was within five paces of the beast, he salaamed to the ground, and as he stooped the tiger sprang on him with another roar, and throwing him over its shoulder it bounded with him into the jungle.
"More there is to tell concerning the lame tiger of Huldwani, but here is the mail-cart, and here is that which had saved Nandha's life had I not also looked upon fear that morning."
Putting the bugle to his mouth, Ram Deen blew a blast that would have routed any jungle creature within hearing, and which made the leaves of the peepul tree overhead rattle as he dashed away on the mail-cart.
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{
"id": "35644"
}
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12
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How Nandha was Avenged_
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The travellers from beyond Moradabad having reached Kaladoongie, were discovered to be men of consequence by the Thanadar, and were invited by him to join the circle of the great round his fire on the evening of their arrival.
It was very warm, and the dismal silence was only accented by the distant howl of a lonely jackal. The sheet lightning flickered fitfully over the foothills, mocking the gasping Terai with its faint promise of a coming change.
The conversation round the fire flagged, and the hookah passed languidly from hand to hand. Those present would have retired to sleep, had sleep been possible; but as that was a consummation not easily attained at this season of the year, they preferred their present miseries to those that come in the wakeful night watches when the Terai is athirst.
Ram Deen's arrival was a nightly boon to those who were wont to assemble round the Thanadar's fire; there was always the possibility of his having news; and, besides, men seemed to acquire fresh vitality from contact with his vigorous personality.
The strangers were especially grateful for his arrival; and when he had taken his usual place beside the fire, the hookah was at once passed to him.
"Any tidings, coach-wan ji?" inquired the Thanadar.
"None, sahib; save that the great frog in the well at Lal Kooah--who is as old as the well, and wiser than most men--gave voice just ere I started, and the bunnia said it was a sure sign of rain within two days, as the frog's warning had never been known to fail."
"Nana Debi send it be so," exclaimed the little carrier, "for my bullocks be starved for the lack of green food, and _bhoosa_ (chaff) is past my means."
"Thou shouldst not complain, Goor Dutt," said Ram Deen, with a smile; "their very leanness is thy passport through the jungle. Fatter kine had been devoured, and their driver with them, long ere this."
Hint of danger that might be encountered in the jungle having been thus given, one of the strangers was moved to ask concerning the lame tiger of Huldwani, part of whose biography they had heard from Ram Deen at Lal Kooah on the previous day.
"Coach-wan ji, wast thou not afraid to carry the mail after the slaying of thy hostler, Nandha?"
"Those who carry the Queen's mail may not stop for fear. Nevertheless, fear rode with me a day and a night after the death of Nandha."
"It is a great telling," said the little carrier, nodding at the wayfarers, whilst Ram Deen "drank tobacco."
When Ram Deen had passed the hookah to his neighbor, he went on: "Brothers, on the day that Nandha was carried off by the tiger, I sent word to the postmaster of Naini Tal concerning the killing, and the out-going mail brought me word that the sircar (government) would send me help.
"Ye know that a tiger kills not two days in succession; so I had no fear when I traversed the road to and from Lal Kooah till the second day after the slaying of Nandha. Ere I started on that morning, the munshi told me to drive to the dâk-bungalow for a sahib who had been sent to slay the slayer of men.
"Brothers, when I went to the dâk-bungalow, there came forth to me a man-child--a Faringi--whose chin was as smooth as the palm of my hand.
"I would have laughed, but that I thought of the tiger that, I knew, would be waiting for us; and taking pity on him, I said, 'The jungle hereabout is full of wild fowl, sahib, an 'twere pity, when shikar is so plentiful, you should waste the morning looking for a budmash tiger who will not come forth for two days as yet.'
"He answered me never a word, but went into the dâk-bungalow for something he had forgotten; and, whilst he was gone, his butler spake to me, saying, 'Coach-wan, make no mistake; thy life depends upon thy doing the sahib's bidding. He is a very Rustum, and he knoweth not fear, for all he is so young.' " 'He is a man after my own heart then, sirdar; but, mashallah! I would he had a beard,' I replied.
"Presently the young sahib came forth with an empty bottle in one hand and his gun in the other. Throwing the bottle into the air, he shattered it with a bullet ere it reached the ground. Startled by the report, a jackal fled from the rear of the cook-house towards the jungle, and the sahib stopped its flight with another bullet. Then, replenishing his gun, he took his seat beside me on the mail-cart, saying 'Blow on thy bugle, coach-wan, and announce our coming to Shere Bahadoor, His Majesty the Tiger.'
"It was a brave jawan (youth), brothers; but he was very young, and, belike, he had a mother; so I swore in my beard to save him, whatever might befall.
"As we proceeded, he questioned me concerning the killing of Nandha, speaking lightly, as one who goeth to shoot black partridge. " 'He is lame, coach-wan, and will doubtless be waiting for us by the Bore bridge,' said the sahib. 'As soon as he appears, stay the horses for an instant whilst I get off the mail-cart, and then return when your horses will let you.' " 'Bethink thee, sahib,' I answered; 'the Lame One of Huldwani is old and cunning; it is no fawn thou seekest this morning. Perchance the sircar will dispatch some great shikari to help thee in this hunting. Gunga send we may not meet the tiger; but if we should, shame befall me if I permit thee to leave the mail-cart whilst the horses are able to run!'
"For answer, my brothers, the sahib flushed red, and, calling me coward, he drave his elbow into my stomach with such force that the reins fell from my hands. Taking them up, the while I fought for my breath, he turned the horses round, saying, 'A jackal may not hunt a tiger! I have need of a man with me this morning, and Goor Deen, my butler, shall take thy place.' " 'The sahib, being a man, will not blacken my face in the eyes of Kaladoongie,' I said. 'I spake for thy sake, sahib; but I will drive thee to Jehandum an' thou wilt,--for no man hath ever called me coward before.'
"Then the sahib looked in my face, as I tucked the ends of my beard under my puggri; and seeing that my eyes met his four-square, he gave up the reins to me, saying, 'If thou playest me false I will kill thee like a dog;' and he showed me the hilt of a pistol that he had in his pocket.
"We spake no more together, but when we came to the Bore bridge I shook the jungle with a blast from my bugle. " 'Shabash! coach-wan,' exclaimed the sahib; 'thou art a man, indeed, and shalt have Shere Bahadoor's skin as recompense for the hurt to thy stomach. Bid him come again.'
"Half a mile beyond the bridge, as we sped along the level road above the river, I again blew upon the bugle. The sound had scarcely ceased, when we heard the angry roar of a charging tiger. " 'Stop!' exclaimed the sahib; and I threw the frightened horses on their haunches, whilst he leaped to the ground.
"Then, whilst the horses flew along the road, I looked back over my shoulder and beheld the Lame One bound into the middle of the road; and the sahib blew on his fingers, as one would whistle to a dog. The great beast stopped on the instant and crouched on the ground, ready to spring on the sahib as he advanced towards it, and I prayed to Nana Debi to befriend the young fool.
"When he was within thirty paces or so from the tiger, the sahib halted and brought the gun to his shoulder. The next instant there was the crack of a rifle, and the Lame One leaped straight into the air.
"I knew the tiger was dead; and immediately thereafter the mail-cart ran into a bank and spilled me on the road. Leaving the stunned horses tied to a tree, I proceeded to seek the sahib.
"Wah ji, wah! brothers, we must pay taxes to the Faringis until we can raise sons like theirs. When I joined the boy sahib he was smoking, and taking the measure of the tiger with a tape!
"His bullet had struck the beast between the eyes, and the Lame One had died at the hands of a _man_!"
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{
"id": "35644"
}
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13
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An Affront to Gannesha_
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"A little brother hath come," said Biroo, as Ram Deen dismounted from the mail-cart. The tall driver snatched up the little boy and hurried to his hut, over the door of which was affixed the green bough that is customary on such occasions, and whence came the wailing of a new-born child.
The inner apartment was guarded by a lean old woman, who refused Ram Deen admittance thereto, and who would have prevented even speech on his part had she been able. But Ram Deen was not to be denied such solace as could be gained from the voice whose accents had taken him captive the first time he had heard them.
The feeble wailing of the babe made the strong man tremble.
"Tara, Light in Darkness, is it well with thee?" he asked.
"Quite well, my lord and my master," came the faint answer. "Thy handmaid hath bestowed a man-child upon thee, and Nana Debi will require a kid of thee in recompense."
"He shall have a flock of goats, Heart of my Heart----" "Nay," interrupted Tara; "it is a very little child and a kid will suffice; but go now, my master, I am very tired and would fain sleep."
"May the stars in heaven shower their blessings on thee, my Best Beloved;" and with this invocation Ram Deen left the hut, leading little Biroo by the hand.
"See what Gunga Ram gave me but now, father mine," said Biroo, unfolding a plaintain leaf wherein was wrapped a sweetmeat made of rice and milk; "and he hath a great cooking forward to-night."
"Wherefore?" asked Ram Deen.
"For that a man-child hath come to Nyagong, as well as Kaladoongie, this day."
"Oh, ho," said Ram Deen, chuckling softly, "we will have speech with Gunga Ram."
When they had arrived at the methai-wallah's booth, Ram Deen, looking on the thalis (trays) heaped with sweetmeats crisp from the making, said, "Wah ji, wah! Gunga Ram, is the Hurdwar mela (fair) coming to the Bore Nuddee, that thou shouldst make such preparations?"
"Nay, coach-wan ji, but a man-child hath come to the house of the Jemadar of Nyagong, and he hath commanded fresh sweetmeats and cates for a feast in honor of an honorable birth."
"There is no honorable thing done in Nyagong, Gunga Ram. They be all thugs and thieves there, and it shall not be said that Ram Deen's friends at Kaladoongie ate stale pooris whilst the Jemadar of Nyagong, whose face I have blackened, set fresh cates before his guests. Therefore bid carry these sweetmeats to my friends who sit round the Thanadar's fire, and to-morrow thou shalt make enough for all the people of Kaladoongie, so that they may know that a son hath been born to Ram Deen."
"But, coach-wan ji," remonstrated Gunga Ram, "the Jemadar's men wait to carry these things to Nyagong."
"Tell them, Gunga Ram, that I had need of them; but, nevertheless, for the kindness the men of Nyagong did to little Biroo last year, send them, on his behalf, two rupees' worth of gur and parched gram;" and Ram Deen laid the money in the sweetmeat vender's palm.
To the impromptu feast round the fire that evening Ram Deen contributed also a chatty of palm-toddy that Goor Dutt had brought for him from Moradabad. By the time the circling hookah had crowned the feast beards were wagging freely round the fire; and even Tulsi Ram, the village pundit, most modest and unassuming of men, was moved to unusual speech. Once more Ram Deen had told the story of the avenging of Nandha; and the Thanadar, whose utterances were always sententious, owing to the responsibility and dignity of his office, said, "Verily, the young and not the old Faringi is the true subduer of Hindoostan."
"Thou sayest it, Thanadar ji," assented Tulsi Ram. "I knew such a young sahib as he who slew the lame tiger of Huldwani when I worked as munshi at Hurdwar for certain Faringis who had business there. He I speak of feared not even the Gods."
When all eyes were turned upon the pundit, and he found himself in the trying position of one who was expected to give proof of his opinion, his natural modesty overcame him and he was suddenly silent. It was not till he had swallowed a generous draught of the toddy that his courage revived to the point of telling the following narrative, for which his audience waited patiently: "Brothers," he began, "some three years after the great Mutiny there came to Hurdwar two Faringis, by name Scott Sahib and Wilson Sahib, of whom the latter was a great shikari, as all Hindoostan is aware, and who was further known amongst the Faringis as 'Pahari Wilson.'
"They hired me to cut down sâl timber on the upper waters of the Gunga and float it down to Hurdwar, where they established a post, over which they set in charge a young Faringi named Clements Sahib, whose munshi I was, and whose duty it was to stamp the timber with the seal of his employers and make it into rafts that were then floated on to Allahabad.
"Clements Sahib had been found by Pahari Wilson Sahib in one of the villages of the Rajah of Tiri, whither he had fled from Cawnpore, where his father and mother had been killed by the people of the plains during the season of the Mutiny.
"He was a man grown when he came to Hurdwar, speaking Nagari and Padhani, and knowing well the ways of our people. And wherever he went men's eyes followed him, for he walked amongst them with the air of a master. His face was scarred with small-pox; his nose was curved like a hawk's, and his nostrils were terrible to behold when he was angered, which was often, for he lacked patience with men of our race, because of the slaying, and worse, of his mother, which he had witnessed; and his words did not often go before his blows, which were weighty by reason of his great strength. He limped, for that his right leg had been broken by a bear whilst he lived amongst the hill men.
"But, great and terrible as he was on land, the wonder of him when he swam in the Gunga, as he did daily, man never saw before.
"He feared nothing, brothers,--neither man nor beast, nor even Gannesha, upon whom he put an affront one day, when he beat his priests in the temple and in the presence of the God.
"This was the way of it: There passed daily through our compound, on its way to the jungle, a young, sacred bull that was fed by the priests of Gannesha; and its horns had silver tips, whereon was graved a picture of the God bearing an elephant's head. And because the bull pursued one of his dogs, one day, the sahib shot it; and the bazaars of Hurdwar buzzed with angry men. " 'Sahib,' said I to him, 'this is not well done; the Gods never forget an insult.' But he only laughed.
"That evening, as the sahib ate his meal, the lamps being lit, there came an arrow through an open window and transfixed the dog which was lying at his feet.
"The beast yelped as one that is stricken to the death, and I, who sat at my book in the adjoining room, looked up as Clements Sahib, snatching up a gun from the corner, ran to the veranda and fired at a man who passed swiftly through the darkling garden. For answer there came the lowing of a bull; and the sahib, being lame, soon gave up the chase and returned to the house.
"By the light of a lantern we searched the garden, and when we found drops of blood on the ground the sahib laughed, and said, 'Aha! Tulsi Ram; I wounded the shikar, after all.' " ''Tis bad hunting, sahib,' I made reply.
"The next moment he stopped, and held the lantern to a necklace of plum seeds and gold that hung on the branch of an orange tree. To the necklace was attached an agate, whereon was graven the head of an elephant."
"When we returned to the house the sahib drew the arrow from the dead dog, and on the bolt of that, too, was graven the head of Gannesha. And I said, 'Thou hast affronted the Gods, indeed, sahib! 'Twere well to restore his beads to some priest of Gannesha.' " 'Of a surety,' he replied, 'when I find the owner; but, till then, I will wear the thing round my own neck.'
"The next morning, as we rode on an elephant through the jungle to the river, there came the lowing of a bull from a thicket, and an arrow whistled through Clements Sahib's sola topee, and another struck the cheroot from his mouth. So I said, 'The man with the bow could slay thee, sahib, had he a mind to do so.' But the sahib flushed like an angry dawn, and gave the mahout orders to beat through the thicket for the man with the bull's voice; whereon the bellowing came from behind us. Now it was here, and now there, but never where we looked for it, and, whenever the sahib fired into some likely thicket, the archer gave us further proof of his skill. " 'To the temple of Gannesha!' shouted the sahib, roused to frenzy, and there was that in his face that forbade speech.
"When we reached the city, the main street was already packed with a menacing crowd,--for word of our coming had gone before us, and the thoroughfare resounded from end to end with lowings as of a thousand bulls. The weight of the great beast that bore us alone took us through the crowd.
"When we reached the gate of the temple of Gannesha, behold! the priests formed a lane through the court-yard, and the crowd fell back at their bidding. We alighted from the elephant, and walked through the priests till we came to the inner door of the temple, where stood a venerable jogi naked, save for a loin-cloth, and covered with wood-ashes from his head to his heels. " 'Welcome, brother,' he said, as Clements Sahib approached him; 'but thy rosary will not admit thee farther than this, and 'tis not fitting that thou shouldst enter the presence of Gannesha without thy _teeka_ of purification;' and, with an agility that was surprising in such an old man, he sprang towards the sahib and touched him on the forehead, at the same time snatching at the necklace. But the sahib swept him aside, and the next moment we entered the temple, the door of which closed with a threatening crash as the last of the priests followed us in.
"When they saw the sahib advance with set purpose towards the great god Gannesha, they raised a shout and ran upon him; and I, being unarmed and a man of peace, and, moreover, a Brahmin, slipped behind a pillar and watched the beginning of a great combat, wherein one man fought with twenty, and they with staves in their hands.
"And the sahib waited not for his foes, but, firing his gun at their legs, he whirled it aloft and hurled it into the crowd that advanced upon him; wherefore three priests lay on the ground and were as dead men. And, ere they could recover from their confusion, the sahib ran in upon them with clinched hands, and his face was terrible to look upon.
"So thick were they that many of them fell from their brothers' blows; and whenever the sahib struck, a man fell to the ground and remained there. Toba! toba! never saw I such fighting.
"When there were but three or four of them able to stand, they broke and fled to an inner shrine, whence they besought the sahib to depart and molest them no more. But he said, 'Nay, not till ye have delivered up to me him to whom this rosary belongs.' " 'It is mine, Faringi dog,' screamed the old jogi, darting upon the sahib from behind a pillar, a long knife in his hand. The sahib had scarce time to turn, when the knife passed through the fleshy part of his arm. The next instant the sahib wrenched his weapon from the old jogi, and, putting the necklace round him, he bore him to a window and threw him into the river which flowed below, saying, 'Gunga will doubtless succor a follower of Gannesha.'
"After I had tied his handkerchief round his arm to stay the bleeding he took up his gun, and, opening the door of the temple, he went forth. And the people marvelled to see him come out again.
"Having mounted his elephant, he spake to those standing round, saying, 'Dogs and swine! neither ye, nor your priests, nor your Gods can avail against a Faringi. Go into the temple and see for yourselves if I speak not the truth. Let no man of Hurdwar cross my path hereafter, or I will scourge the streets of your city.' So the crowd opened before us, and we returned in peace.
"And as the sahib dismounted from the elephant, I said, 'The teeka, sahib: it is still on thy forehead.' " 'Ah,' he exclaimed, 'that was what the old jogi put on me.' And he plucked it off. It was made of silver and stamped with the image of Gannesha on both sides, and the impress of the stamp showed red on the white skin of the sahib's forehead.
"The next morning, when I went to my work, the sahib called me into his room, and behold! the stamp of Gannesha showed as brightly on his forehead as it did the day before! and I feared greatly for the sahib, for it is no small thing to affront a God.
"For a whole week the mark remained on the sahib, and he wore his hat before all men. None dared to speak to him, for he answered mostly with blows. " 'Tulsi Ram,' said he to me one day, 'tell the old jogi of the temple of Gannesha that I desire speech with him.'
"And when the old man had come the sahib spake: 'So Gunga bare up thy chin, swami?' " 'Ay, ji; and I told him much concerning thee. Thine arm?' " ''Tis well,' replied the sahib. 'But now remove me the mark from my forehead.' " 'I may not do anything without the permission of Gannesha, whom thou hast angered. He must be propitiated in a manner befitting the sahib's station,' returned the jogi. " 'State thy demands, swami,' said the sahib. " 'Now, nay, not mine, sahib, but Gannesha's,' remonstrated the old jogi. Then, after musing awhile, he went on: 'The God requireth of thee two hundred rupees for the use of his temple, and ten rupees a month, for twenty months, to salve the hurts of his twenty priests.' " ''Tis well,' said Clements Sahib, opening a drawer of the table whereat he sat, and pushing two hundred rupees across to the old man. 'Proceed.'
"After the jogi had tied the money in his loin-cloth he touched the mark on the sahib's forehead with his finger, and, lo! at the touching it disappeared. " 'And what if I should not pay thee the rest of thy demand?' asked Clements Sahib after he had looked in a mirror and seen that the mark of Gannesha was gone. " 'Thou art a Faringi ji, and wilt not fail of thy word,' replied the jogi. " 'There be bad Faringis, swami, and my heart inclineth me to their number.' " ''Twere easy to persuade thee to a right course, sahib,' said the old man, pointing his finger at Clements Sahib. 'Behold!' And the livid mark leapt out on the sahib's forehead again.
"After the mark had been removed once more by the jogi, and as he was preparing to depart, Clements Sahib said, 'Come for your monthly payment when the new moon shows, but cross not my path at any other time, or harm shall befall thee.' " 'Brave words, sahib,' returned the mendicant; 'and be careful, thyself, not to insult the Gods. Salaam,' and he went forth. So there was peace between the Gods and Clements Sahib until the jogi had received three payments.
"Then, on a day, the sahib bade me accompany him to the Hurke Piree, for he was fain to catch the great mahser that abound there, where they feed on the offerings of the pilgrims.
"And I would have prevented him, saying, 'The fish, Provider of the Poor, are tame; 'twere no sport to catch them. Besides, the Hurke Piree is holy, and 'twere not well to pollute the great steps with the killing even of fish.' " 'Therefore it is in my mind, O Brown Mouse, to catch fish for my evening meal,' replied the sahib, his nostrils twitching; so I spake no more.
"When the sahib had drawn forth the first fish that took his bait, there came the voices of an angry crowd, and, looking up, behold! the great stairs were black with people; and, taking four steps at a bound, there came towards us a young priest stripped for bathing, and it was Salig Ram, the greatest pylwan (wrestler) in Hurdwar.
"Ere the sahib could guess the purpose of the priest, the latter sprang upon him, and they twain fell together into the deep water.
"When they came to the surface again, the sahib had an arm round Salig Ram's throat, and was beating him with his clinched hand till the blood ran down his face, and he spat forth a handful of teeth. The priest was as one who is amazed, crying feebly, 'Ram dhwy, ram dhwy!' and he was as a frightened child in the sahib's hands.
"Thinking that the sahib would slay their champion before their eyes, and so desecrate the gates of heaven, two or three score of angry Brahmins leapt into the river to the rescue of Salig Ram, and I followed, likewise, to see the end of the matter.
"Releasing the young priest, the sahib swam away easily from those who followed, slipping off his upper garments as he proceeded down the river, and then his shoes, which he threw in derision at those who followed.
"Now, when he came to the temple of Gannesha, there appeared in the window that overlooks the river the old jogi, who swung something round his head that glittered in the sun; and he shouted aloud, 'Gunga, take thee! Gunga, take thee!'
"The sahib turned his face towards the temple, and, as he did so, the jogi threw the thing he swung at him. It flashed as it circled through the air, and settled over the sahib's head; and, in that instant, he threw up his arms and disappeared, and thereafter a few bubbles came to the surface.
"Two days afterwards, the dead body of a Faringi was found ten miles below Hurdwar and taken to Roorkie, whither I went by order of the sircar, to assist in the identification of the dead man.
"Brothers, the corpse was that of Clements Sahib. Round his neck was a rosary of gold and plum seeds, with an agate amulet; and on his forehead was the presentment of an elephant's head, the seal of Gannesha, whom no man may affront."
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{
"id": "35644"
}
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14
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A Daughter of the Gods_
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To those in evening conclave round the fire came a long refrain sung on one high note by Goor Dutt, as his bullock-cart approached the village. "She died in the night of co-o-o-old," he keened. There was a pathos in his voice which told of his own sufferings, for the night was frosty, rather than those of some fictitious person.
"What freight to-night, byl-wan?" inquired the Thanadar, when he came within speaking distance.
"Vessels of clay, and a dead man," replied the little bullock driver.
Some one held a torch to the thing that lay across the end of the bullock driver's wagon, shrouded in a white cloth, on which was a red wet stain as big as a man's hand. " 'Tis Lakhoo, the dacoit," said the Thanadar, when the face of the corpse had been uncovered; "now, Nana Debi be praised for his taking off! Some one will be the richer for this deed by five hundred rupees."
Below the left breast of the corpse, and beneath the stain on the cloth that covered it, was a little hole that would scarce admit the tip of a man's finger, but whence, nevertheless, had issued the life of one of the terrors of the Terai. The dead man had been the head of a daring band of dacoits, whose depredations ranged from Rajpore to Bareilly, and on each of whose heads was a large reward, for they had not hesitated to commit murder when committing theft.
After Goor Dutt had refreshed his inner man and taken his place at the fire, he began: "This was the way of it: This evening, as I came hitherwards, there passed me two doolis, and he who held the torch to light the way was Lakhoo, whom I had seen once before at the thana at Moradabad, whence he afterwards escaped. As the doolis passed, he held the torch to my face, but I feigned sleep, and so he did not molest me.
"The baggage, slung on poles across the shoulders of the bearers, showed the people in the doolis to be Faringis; and I was minded to see what would happen, and, if need were, bring thee early word, Thanadar ji, as to Lakhoo's doings. So I tied my bullocks to a tree and followed the doolis, treading where the dust was thick and the shadows deepest.
"When the doolis arrived at the path that leads to Nyagong, men came out of the jungle and stopped the bearers; and I crept behind a bael tree on the edge of the road and within fifty paces of the travellers, so that I could see and hear all that passed, for the torch was bright and the night was still, and Lakhoo spoke as one who knoweth not the need for speaking low.
"And when those who carried the doolis knew that it was Lakhoo who had borne the torch for them, and that they were in the midst of his men, their livers turned to water. One, less frightened than the others, attempted to flee, but a bamboo lat descended on his skull, and he lay as one dead, and the rest moaned, 'Ram dhwy, ram dhwy!' " 'Ye Sons of Jackals! ye have naught to fear,' said Lakhoo. 'What were your miserable dole for the carrying of these doolis to me? But, remember, ye have nor eyes nor ears now if ye would have them hereafter!'
"And they whined, saying, 'We be blind and deaf, Bahadoor; and we know nothing, for we be poor men.' " 'Therefore are ye safe, ye sons of mothers without virtue, for they who sleep in the doolis are rich, and the family of the sahib who hanged my brother last year. Who would crack dry bones for sustenance when savory meat is at hand?'
"Thereafter he tapped on the roof of one of the doolis, saying, 'Wake, mem-sahib, wake!' " 'What is the matter, dooli-wallah?' was the reply, in the feeble voice of a sick woman. " 'This is the chowki, khodawund; but the fresh bearers are not here, and those who brought thee hither are spent and cannot proceed farther. But there are those here who will bear thee on thy journey for a proper price.'
"So she called aloud in her own tongue, and there came forth into the night, from the other dooli, a young lad rubbing the sleep from his eyes and yawning; and whilst he parleyed with his mother, the curtain of her dooli was lifted, and a young mem-sahib rose from it and stood beside the boy, and we could see they were brother and sister, but she was the older and taller by a span, and in the budding of her womanhood. The hair, that fell to her waist, was as spun gold in the light of the torches; rings and stones flashed in her ears and on her fingers, but they were nothing to the glances of her eyes, which met four-square the eyes of those to whom she spoke; and she looked at those who were present as though they were there to do her bidding.
"When the sick mem-sahib in the dooli had finished speaking, the younger one addressed the masalchi (torch-bearer), saying, 'How far is it to the next chowki, and what do you ask for taking us there?' " 'Two kos (six miles), mem-sahib, and the hire of my men is fifty rupees,' answered Lakhoo. " 'And what did you get for bringing us here?' asked she, turning to the dooli-bearers who stood round them. " 'They are poor men, missy baba, and know nothing,' said Lakhoo, at whom the dooli-bearers looked for instructions. " 'Son of a Pig!' exclaimed the young lad, taking a leather bag from his sister's hand and throwing the money, a rupee at a time, on the ground; 'there are fifty rupees. Proceed, for the mem-sahib, my mother, is sick, and must be on the hills ere the morning sun give heat,' and his face flushed in the torchlight.
"So Lakhoo tied the money in his waistband, and, without further speech, sat down and smoked the hookah that was passed to him.
"And after awhile the baba (boy), who had been walking to and fro with the young woman, his sister, stopped opposite Lakhoo, and spoke, saying, 'Why do you not proceed, dooli-wallah?' " 'Because I am waiting for my hire, baba ji,' replied Lakhoo. " 'I paid you but now,' exclaimed the young sahib. " 'The sahib is scarce awake,' said Lakhoo, in a bantering tone, 'and hath been dreaming.' And his men who formed the outer circle laughed insolently. " 'Liar!' shouted the young sahib, bursting into tears and clinching his hand; but his sister laid a restraining finger on his arm, and whispered in his ear. " 'We will give thee thy due, masalchi,' she said, as she went to her mother's dooli.
"When she returned, she put a three-cornered bag of leather in her brother's hand. " 'The young mem-sahib is as generous as she is beautiful,' said Lakhoo, fixing hot eyes on her, whereat her nostrils twitched; 'and her hair is more precious than gold.' And as he spake, he laid a desecrating hand on her locks. " 'Swine-born!" shouted the young lad, and drawing from the bag in his hand a toy that glittered in the torchlight, he put it to Lakhoo's breast and fired. The tall man bounded into the air like a stricken deer, and fell prone on his face. As the dacoits rose to their feet, I smote on the branches of the bael tree that sheltered me with my bamboo staff, shouting like three men, 'Thieves, thieves!' So Lakhoo's men fled headlong, and I came forth from my shelter, and salaamed to the baba and the young mem-sahib. " 'Thou hast earned five hundred rupees, sahib,' said I, 'by the killing of the great dacoit, Lakhoo.' " 'We had been slain, an' it had not been for thee,' said the young mem-sahib. 'Who and what art thou?' " 'Goor Dutt, byl-wan, mem-sahib,' I replied; 'and it is my highest reward to have served thee and thine.' " 'Now, nay, byl-wan, my brother, Charlie Sahib, herewith bestows on thee whatsoever reward is due for the killing of this dog.' " 'Ay, and this pistol, too,' interrupted the young lad, putting his glittering toy in my hand. And he showed me the wonder of it,--how it spake five times, if need were, and how to charge it.
"Then they put the dead man on my bullock-cart, which one of those present had been sent to fetch. And when the bearers took up the doolis, they shouted, as one man, 'Chali Sahib ke jhai!'"
"Wah, byl-wan ji, wah!" exclaimed Ram Deen, when Goor Dutt had finished, "thou art taller than most men. Let us honor a man, my brothers."
And those who sat round the fire sprang to their feet, and woke the slumbering village with the heartiness of their salutation, as they shouted, "Goor Dutt ji ke jhai!"
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{
"id": "35644"
}
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15
|
Ich Liebe Dich_"
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Early one morning in December, in the year 186--, I left my camp with a pointer at my heels to explore the foothills to the northwest of Nyagong. The region abounded with iron ore, and the mining syndicate I represented instructed me to conduct my prospecting in a way that would not arouse the suspicion of the manager of another company that had already established iron works at Kaladoongie. So it speedily became noised about in that section of the Terai that I was one of the many Englishmen who spend their leave of absence in the jungle for the purposes of sport.
There was a shrewd nip in the air when I started, and the barrels of my gun were so cold that I was glad I had put on a pair of thick gloves.
The jungle was hardly awake when I struck into the path that skirted the Bore Nuddee. Presently, a green parrot "kr-r-r-d" tentatively, as a faint flush appeared in the cloudless east. A wild boar jumped a fence a few hundred yards ahead of me, followed by the sounder, of which he was chief, as they left the fields they had been marauding during the night. A nilghai, with his wicked-looking horns, soon followed, and lumbered noiselessly away. These were the thieves of the Terai, and they were, naturally, hurrying to their coverts before the coming day should be upon them.
Suddenly, the dewy silence was broken by the invocation of a black partridge,--the muezzin of the jungle. "Sobhan theri koodruth!" How solemnly, and with what splendor of utterance and pause this voice of the Terai announces the miracle of the morning! The cry was taken up and passed on with a significance that dwarfed the passing of the fiery torch as told by Scott in "The Lady of the Lake." And immediately thereafter the jungle was singing its many-voiced matin, not the least "notable note" of which was the challenge of the jungle-cock, who is a native of the Terai, and whose vigorous voice is not raucous with the civilized laryngeal affections of the "tame villatic fowl."
And then, in the awakening of the forest, there came--Italian opera! A well-poised soprano voice silenced the jungle choir by a brilliantly executed chromatic scale, as though the singer were trying her voice. Finding it flexible enough for her purpose, she launched into the difficult--and abominable--aria, "Di tale amore che dirsi" in "Il Trovatore." She suddenly stopped, as though she were ashamed of the rubbish she sang; and, after a pause of half a minute, my soul was stirred by the air of Beethoven's immortal "Ich Liebe Dich," sung to the following words, which were beautifully enunciated: I love thee, dear! All words would fail To tell the true and tender theme; Such ardent thoughts, and passion pale, And humble suit, I fondly deem, Would need a poet's rapturous mind. Oh! if fit words could but be bought, If Love's own speech I could but find, I'd sell my soul to express my thought, So you should in Love's toils be caught!
Oh! then a kindlier sun would shine, The vermeiled flowers would look more fair, The common world would seem divine, And daily things appear most rare; My soul, a soaring lark, would rise To greet the morning of thy love So sweetly dawning in thine eyes, And in thy smiles, which should approve.
The tender charm of the sweet old song--now utterly neglected for more brazen utterances, and which only Beethoven could have written--was thoroughly appreciated by the singer.
Wishing to see her without myself being discovered, and hoping to hear her sing again, I "stalked" her--and, behold, she was a Padhani! I couldn't be mistaken, for she was singing David's "O ma maitresse," as I watched her from behind the bole of a great huldoo tree.
A little boy, about three years in age, played beside her as she sat on a fallen tree trunk and took part in the matin of the Terai. There was a noble breadth between her eyes that reminded one of the Sistine Madonna, and an air of repose about her figure which was set off by her simple garments.
She was, without doubt, Chambeli, the Padhani protégé of the Fishers, whose flight from her husband, the Rev. John Trusler, immediately after her return to the Terai, had been the sensation of the season at Naini Tal a few years ago.
Snapping a dry twig with my foot to attract her attention, I stepped into the open and approached her. Her first impulse was to flee, but she quickly regained her composure and awaited me, standing, her eyes meeting mine without the least embarrassment.
"Your singing attracted me," I began, taking off my hat to her.
"Yes?" she replied, evidently not at all anxious to come to my relief in the awkward position I had sought.
"It was very beautiful----" "And it is finished," she interrupted. There was a slight tone of contempt in her voice as she thus gave me to understand that my presence was unwelcome. But, as a student of psychology, I was not to be so easily moved from my design of "investigating the case" before me.
"The Rev. John Trusler is dead." I paused awhile to see how she would be affected. Then, as she gave no sign of emotion, I went on, "He hanged himself a few days after you left him."
"My God!" she exclaimed, putting her hand to her side and seating herself on the fallen tree.
The child, who had been clinging to his mother's dress and regarding me with round, brown eyes, began to cry when he saw his mother's sudden emotion. She took him up in her arms and cuddled his head to her bosom, saying in the Padhani patois, "Mea mithoo, mea mithoo! hush, my butcha."
In the silence that ensued after the child had been quieted there came the regular stroke of a woodman's axe, and presently the refrain of a Padhani song sung by a man.
When the woman had regained her calm, she looked up at me somewhat defiantly and said, "What business had they to come between me and my jungle mother? What right had they to impose moral shackles on one who was above their petty codes?"
"The Fishers were moved by kindness, surely; they educated you, and Christianized you, and through them you met and married an honorable man."
"Educated me, forsooth!" she exclaimed with scorn, her nostrils twitching; "they robbed me of my five senses, and gave me instead--accomplishments. Can you tell the time of the day from the sun, sir? Can you say when the sambhur passed whose track is at your feet, and how many wolves were in the pack that followed him? Would your sense of smell lead you to a pool of fresh water in mid-jungle? Can you feel the proximity of a crouching leopard without seeing it? What sort of education is it that neglects the senses? Oh, the highest product of your civilization--your poet-laureate, Tennyson--felt the same thing stir in his pulses when he wrote 'Locksley Hall,' and deprecated the 'poring over miserable books' with blinded eye-sight." " 'Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay,'" I quoted, as she paused in her rapid discourse.
"For the European, perhaps; not for the Chinaman. No, I have no feeling of gratitude towards those you speak of; for the large freedom of the Terai they gave me a brick cage in London; they gave me endless crowds of miserable men and women for these, my green brothers, who are always happy," and she put out her hand and caressed a tree that grew beside her.
"As for Christianity," she resumed, "it is but one facet in the jewel, morality. Christ was but an adept, I take it, who attained to his miraculous powers--as do our rishis and jogis--by prayer and fasting and meditation. I cannot see that Christian vices are fewer or more venial than those of our people."
"But don't you miss your books, and the keeping in touch with the progress of civilization?" I asked.
"Must I quote 'books in the running brooks' to you? What book is there like this book of God's?" and she swept her arm round her. "And if my son grow up to be brave and strong, that will be civilization enough for me."
"But your music?"
"Ah! that is the only thing I miss. But I recollect all of Schumann's songs and Schubert's, some of Beethoven's--and then I make songs of my own to fit the moods of my jungle mother, and I have some small skill in weaving words for them."
"And the man who hanged himself?"
"He was no man," she flashed; "who had not the strength of a girl, and who was as weak-eyed as the bat in daytime! You shall see a man indeed, one who fears not to track the tiger afoot, and who even beats me when he sees fit," and she called aloud, "Aho! Kali Dass, aho!"
The sound of the woodman's axe ceased, and presently we heard some one approaching through the jungle. " 'Twere better that he should know from me that you and I had had speech together, than that he should learn it from the Terai, for our men are very terrible when they are wrought upon by jealousy." Then, after a pause, she went on, "Don't speak to me in English in his presence. He won't like it."
She rose and half veiled her face with her chudder, as a splendid young Padhan bearing an immense load of wood entered the glade. He threw down his burden as soon as he perceived me, and, snatching up his axe, advanced menacingly towards me. He was a bronze Apollo, with the air of freedom that is native to mountaineers and woodsy folks.
"The sahib intended no harm, Kali Dass," began the woman; "and he hath given me tidings of _his_ death."
"What of it? He was but a quail."
"But now canst thou become a Christian, and--marry me."
"Marry one who was twice a widow? Nana Debi forbid! I must admonish thee when we return to our hut. Come."
Fearing that any further interest in the case on my part would but increase the severity of her punishment, I turned down the jungle path.
Just before leaving the glade I looked back; the woman had one knee on the ground, and with outstretched arms she was balancing the load of wood that Kali Dass was putting on her head.
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{
"id": "35644"
}
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16
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The Smoking of a Hornets' Nest_
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"The 'big rains' will begin to-night," said the bunnia at Lal Kooah, as Ram Deen took his seat on the mail-cart.
"And there will be much lightning and thunder," added one of the by-standers, "the night is so still."
The sky was inky, and the Terai awaited the coming storm in a breathless silence which was only emphasized by the parting blasts of Ram Deen's bugle. The horses had their ears twitched forward apprehensively, and started, every now and then, at the objects revealed by the light of the lamps. A mile or so beyond Lal Kooah a few heavy drops of rain pattered on the broad leaves of the overarching huldoos. Suddenly the sky was rent by a streak of lightning,--the _avant courier_ of the mighty monsoon,--and it was immediately followed by the terrific thunder that bayed at its heels.
In the intensified silence that ensued Ram Deen blew his bugle to reassure the frightened horses. He had barely ceased when there came the sharp crack of a pistol-shot, and a far cry, "Ram dhwy! ram dhwy! Aho! Ram Deen, aho!"
"Tis the voice of Goor Dutt," said the hostler, "and he looketh on fear."
Ram Deen urged his team into a flying gallop as the storm struck the jungle and woke its mighty voices. Wind and rain, and trees with leafless branches for stringed instruments, made an elemental orchestra that discoursed cataclysmic music.
Whilst the thunder crackled and crashed overhead to the steady and sullen roar of the rain the horses came to a sudden stand-still. In the feeble lamplight Ram Deen discerned a man lying in the middle of the road. Taking one of the lamps, he held it to his face. It was Goor Dutt, the little bullock driver. He was unconscious, and had a deep wound on his head from which the blood was still welling.
Hanging on a wild plum-tree that grew on the edge of the road was a bloodstained turban that fluttered in the storm. Tying it securely to the branch whence it hung, Ram Deen placed the unconscious bullock driver at the bottom of the mail-cart, the hostler supporting his head.
Arrived at Kaladoongie, Ram Deen roused the native apothecary at the dispensary. Goor Dutt was carried in and laid on a charpoi, and whilst the apothecary attended to his hurts Ram Deen knocked on the Thanadar's house, saying, "Wake, Thanadar ji. There be bad men abroad to-night, and blows to pay."
When the two friends returned to the dispensary Goor Dutt was looking about him in a dazed fashion. The stimulant administered to him had begun to take effect, and the sight of the tall driver roused him to a recollection of the events of the night.
"Lakhoo's men," said he, feebly. "I counted five by the light of the torch they burned. They beset me, and doubtless I had been slain, but they heard thy bugle, and, whilst they hesitated, I shouted to thee, and, freeing one hand, I drew the pistol Charlie Sahib gave me and fired once, and then a great darkness fell upon me."
Whilst the Thanadar roused a couple of his men Ram Deen slipped into his own garden to release Hasteen, for the great dog would be needed in the hunting of that night.
The sky was emptying itself in great sheets of rain as the mail-cart sped away with the dog running beside it. When they reached the tree to which the turban was tied Ram Deen removed it and held it out to Hasteen, who, after sniffing at it for a moment, started off at a trot, with his nose to the ground. But the scent was bad, owing to the heavy rain, and the dog began to run round in widening circles in his search for a trail, whilst the men stayed on the edge of the road. Suddenly the dog bayed, and, following the direction of the sound, they came up with him as he stood by Goor Dutt's cart, from which the bullocks had been removed.
"The man stricken by Goor Dutt rode hence on a bullock," said Ram Deen, who had been examining the tracks in the mire with a lantern; "there be signs of but four men going hence, Thanadar Sahib, whereas five walked beside the wagon till it stopped here."
The cart was in the jungle about a hundred yards from the road. The noise made by its progress had been entirely drowned in the roar of the storm, so that Ram Deen had not heard it.
"See, sahib," said Ram Deen, pointing to the trail made by the heavy animals in their course through the jungle, and which not even the rain had effaced, "we shall not need Hasteen's nose, but his teeth, ere the daybreak."
Fastening the turban taken from the tree round Hasteen's neck, Ram Deen struck into the trail, the dog walking beside him, whilst the others followed in single file. The tall driver stopped occasionally to examine the ground with his lantern. He had with him the revolver given to him by Captain Barfield, but his main dependence was on the long bamboo club, loaded with lead, which he carried in his right hand.
The events that followed were thus told to Captain Fisher, the deputy commissioner of the district, who came down the next day from Naini Tal to investigate them.
"Sahib," began Ram Deen, whose left arm was in a sling, "it was thus: We followed the trail that led along the right bank of the Bore Nuddee, till we came to the ford, where the stream was now a roaring torrent owing to the great rain, which never ceased to drum on the Terai all that night.
"Here those we sought had crossed to the left bank, and then continued up the hill to the garden of Thapa Sing; through the door of the hut, wherein Heera Lal, who is kin to me, used to dwell, there came the gleam of firelight.
"Then the Thanadar bid stand, saying, ''Twere well to take them alive, Ram Deen, so that the sircar may not be despoiled of the hanging of them. What sayest thou?' " 'Such as these cannot be taken alive, Thanadar ji,' I replied. " 'What would you?' he inquired. " 'They be hornets, khodawund,' I made answer, 'and must be smoked out of their nest. When they come forth we will take them as we best may.'
"So we proceeded without noise to the hut, and when we reached it the lantern showed us that the Thanadar, and I, and Hasteen, whom I had unloosed, were alone. For, behold, the policemen had fled, not having stomachs for blows; their blood had turned to milk and their livers to water. For their fathers are jackals and their mothers without honor; and the sahib will doubtless bestow upon them the reward due to their valor.
"And the Thanadar growled in his beard at the baseness of his men, and whispered, 'Those dogs of mine have made it necessary that we should slay these within, Ram Deen, should they refuse to surrender, instead of taking them alive;' and I nodded assent.
"We could hear the wounded man groan inside the hut, and one said, 'Never mind, Kunwa, I slew Goor Dutt for thy hurt, and had these who are with us been men instead of children, we had slain the driver of the mail-cart, whose voice is greater than his strength, and his legs but female bamboos.' " 'Thou art a liar!' I shouted, kicking in the thatch door of the hut, which fell in the fire on the hearth. In a moment the hut was in a blaze. Two men ran forth through the doorway, and, in the light of the burning hut, I could see other twain breaking through the wall of thatch at the rear, whilst Kunwa, the wounded man, who was unable to move, greeted with appalling screams the death that approached him. " 'I will attend to these, Thanadar Sahib!' I shouted; 'do thou and Hasteen look to those that escape from the rear.' And the Thanadar, calling the dog, ran to the back of the hut.
"Seeing but one man in front of them, the dacoits--strong men and tall--ran in upon me. I anticipated the blow of one, and he fell to the ground without even a cry; but the club of the other had crushed my skull, had I not warded it with my left arm, which was broken thereby; and ere my assailant could again swing his weapon I had stretched him beside his companion.
"From the other side of the burning hut came the sounds of a terrible combat and of heavy blows. I made what haste I could, and as I turned the corner of the hut I stumbled over the body of the Thanadar. Six paces beyond was Hasteen, and he was serving the sircar as he best might. He stood over one of the dacoits, whom he held by the throat, whilst the other rained blows on him, till I made the fight an equal one between dog and man; and then, because my arm pained shrewdly, I was fain to sit on a fallen tree, whilst Hasteen finished the fray in his own manner; the man in the hut, meanwhile, uttering screams that even a strong man might not hear unmoved.
"But he on the ground could not scream by reason of the fangs at his throat; he only gurgled, and rattled dreadfully, and the foam flew from his lips as the great dog shook him from side to side. When his head swayed helplessly I knew he was dead, so I bade Hasteen release him; and the man in the hut having ceased his outcries, I made shift to raise the Thanadar, and lo, he was dead, and the Terai bereft of a great and a good man, and I of the best of friends. And now, as the sahib knoweth but too well, there be none in the Terai to maintain the orders of the sircar."
"Nevertheless, Ram Deen," said Captain Fisher, "the sircar will look to you in the future to be a terror to evil-doers, and here are papers making you Thanadar of this district. What say you?"
"The sircar is my father and my mother, Fisher Sahib; but this thing may not be. I have neither learning nor wisdom to uphold the English raj as it should be upheld. Besides, who is to drive the mail-cart?"
"There be drivers a-plenty, Ram Deen, but not many who will strike a blow for the right and defend the poor and the fatherless. Thy munshi will instruct thee in the duties of thy office. But beyond all things, remember this: There must be no budmashes in thy district, Ram Deen, Thanadar." Then, before Ram Deen could make reply, he went on, "Oh, yes, the reward; thou wilt receive from the sircar two thousand five hundred rupees for the slaying of Lakhoo's men."
"But Goor Dutt slew one of them, Captain Sahib, and Hasteen another."
"Well, give Goor Dutt what thou wilt and bestow a collar of honor, with spikes of brass, on Hasteen. Thou art Thanadar henceforth, and the sircar expects you to be just in all your dealings."
And as he finished, word having gone through Kaladoongie that Ram Deen was now Thanadar, the men who crowded round the Deputy Commissioner's tent raised a mighty shout: "Ram Deen, Thanadar, ke jhai!"
"What meant that shout?" asked Tara, when Ram Deen returned home an hour later.
"Congratulation to thy Lumba Deen (long legs) for a trifle of money and some little honor as salve for a broken bone, Light in Darkness."
"What honor?" she inquired, eagerly.
"But the money was the greater, my Star----" "Now, nay, my lord trifles with me. The honor, the honor!" she demanded.
"And if I were to tell thee that they have made me Thanadar of this Zemindaree?" " 'Tis but thy due, my lord; and thou hast but prepared the way for thy man-child. Said I not many moons ago that he should be Thanadar of Kaladoongie one day!"
"See to it that he is brave and strong, Heart of my Heart, else were he better dead."
"I will help her in the bringing up of thy son," said a tall woman,--she of the muffled face,--coming into the room; "and he shall be worthy of thee, who art now as great as thou hast been always good."
THE END.
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{
"id": "35644"
}
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1
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None
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"There was knocking that shook the marble floor, And a voice at the gate, which said-- 'That the Cid Ruy Diez, the Campeador, Was there in his arms array'd.'" ---- Mrs. Hemans.
Whether we take the pictures of the inimitable Cervantes, or of that scarcely less meritorious author from whom Le Sage has borrowed his immortal tale, for our guides; whether we confide in the graver legends of history, or put our trust in the accounts of modern travellers, the time has scarcely ever existed when the inns of Spain were good, or the roads safe. These are two of the blessings of civilization which the people of the peninsula would really seem destined never to attain; for, in all ages, we hear, or have heard, of wrongs done the traveller equally by the robber and the host. If such are the facts to-day, such also were the facts in the middle of the fifteenth century, the period to which we desire to carry back the reader in imagination.
At the commencement of the month of October, in the year of our Lord 1469, John of Trastamara reigned in Aragon, holding his court at a place called Zaragosa, a town lying on the Ebro, the name of which is supposed to be a corruption of Cæsar Augustus, and a city that has become celebrated in our own times, under the more Anglicised term of Saragossa, for its deeds in arms. John of Trastamara, or, as it was more usual to style him, agreeably to the nomenclature of kings, John II., was one of the most sagacious monarchs of his age; but he had become impoverished by many conflicts with the turbulent, or, as it may be more courtly to say, the liberty-loving Catalonians; had frequently enough to do to maintain his seat on the throne; possessed a party-colored empire that included within its sway, besides his native Aragon with its dependencies of Valencia and Catalonia, Sicily and the Balearic Islands, with some very questionable rights in Navarre. By the will of his elder brother and predecessor, the crown of Naples had descended to an illegitimate son of the latter, else would that kingdom have been added to the list. The King of Aragon had seen a long and troubled reign, and, at this very moment, his treasury was nearly exhausted by his efforts to subdue the truculent Catalans, though he was nearer a triumph than he could then foresee, his competitor, the Duke of Lorraine, dying suddenly, only two short months after the precise period chosen for the commencement of our tale. But it is denied to man to look into the future, and on the 9th of the month just mentioned, the ingenuity of the royal treasurer was most sorely taxed, there having arisen an unexpected demand for a considerable sum of money, at the very moment that the army was about to disband itself for the want of pay, and the public coffers contained only the very moderate sum of three hundred _Enriques_, or Henrys--a gold coin named after a previous monarch, and which had a value not far from that of the modern ducat, or our own quarter eagle. The matter, however, was too pressing to be deferred, and even the objects of the war were considered as secondary to those connected with this suddenly-conceived, and more private enterprise. Councils were held, money-dealers were cajoled or frightened, and the confidants of the court were very manifestly in a state of great and earnest excitement. At length, the time of preparation appeared to be passed and the instant of action arrived. Curiosity was relieved, and the citizens of Saragossa were permitted to know that their sovereign was about to send a solemn embassy, on matters of high moment, to his neighbor, kinsman, and ally, the monarch of Castile. In 1469, Henry, also of Trastamara, sat upon the throne of the adjoining kingdom, under the title of Henry IV. He was the grandson, in the male line, of the brother of John II. 's father, and, consequently, a first-cousin once removed, of the monarch of Aragon. Notwithstanding this affinity, and the strong family interests that might be supposed to unite them, it required many friendly embassies to preserve the peace between the two monarchs; and the announcement of that which was about to depart, produced more satisfaction than wonder in the streets of the town.
Henry of Castile, though he reigned over broader and richer peninsular territories than his relative of Aragon, had his cares and troubles, also. He had been twice married, having repudiated his first consort, Blanche of Aragon, to wed Joanna of Portugal, a princess of a levity of character so marked, as not only to bring great scandal on the court generally, but to throw so much distrust on the birth of her only child, a daughter, as to push discontent to disaffection, and eventually to deprive the infant itself of the rights of royalty. Henry's father, like himself, had been twice married, and the issue of the second union was a son and a daughter, Alfonso and Isabella; the latter becoming subsequently illustrious, under the double titles of the Queen of Castile, and of the Catholic. The luxurious impotency of Henry, as a monarch, had driven a portion of his subjects into open rebellion. Three years preceding that selected for our opening, his brother Alfonso had been proclaimed king in his stead, and a civil war had raged throughout his provinces. This war had been recently terminated by the death of Alfonso, when the peace of the kingdom was temporarily restored by a treaty, in which Henry consented to the setting aside of his own daughter--or rather of the daughter of Joanna of Portugal--and to the recognition of his half-sister Isabella, as the rightful heiress of the throne. The last concession was the result of dire necessity, and, as might have been expected, it led to many secret and violent measures, with a view to defeat its objects. Among the other expedients adopted by the king--or, it might be better to say, by his favorites, the inaction and indolence of the self-indulgent but kind-hearted prince being proverbial--with a view to counteract the probable consequences of the expected accession of Isabella, were various schemes to control her will, and guide her policy, by giving her hand, first to a subject, with a view to reduce her power, and subsequently to various foreign princes, who were thought to be more or less suited to the furtherance of such schemes. Just at this moment, indeed, the marriage of the princess was one of the greatest objects of Spanish prudence. The son of the King of Aragon was one of the suitors for the hand of Isabella, and most of those who heard of the intended departure of the embassy, naturally enough believed that the mission had some connection with that great stroke of Aragonese policy.
Isabella had the reputation of learning, modesty, discretion, piety, and beauty, besides being the acknowledged heiress of so enviable a crown; and there were many competitors for her hand. Among them were to be ranked French, English, and Portuguese princes, besides him of Aragon to whom we have already alluded. Different favorites supported different pretenders, struggling to effect their several purposes by the usual intrigues of courtiers and partisans; while the royal maiden, herself, who was the object of so much competition and rivalry, observed a discreet and womanly decorum, even while firmly bent on indulging her most womanly and dearest sentiments. Her brother, the king, was in the south, pursuing his pleasures, and, long accustomed to dwell in comparative solitude, the princess was earnestly occupied in arranging her own affairs, in a way that she believed would most conduce to her own happiness. After several attempts to entrap her person, from which she had only escaped by the prompt succor of the forces of her friends, she had taken refuge in Leon, in the capital of which province, or kingdom as it was sometimes called, Valladolid, she temporarily took up her abode. As Henry, however, still remained in the vicinity of Granada, it is in that direction we must look for the route taken by the embassy.
The cortège left Saragossa, by one of the southern gates, early in the morning of a glorious autumnal day. There was the usual escort of lances, for this the troubled state of the country demanded; bearded nobles well mailed--for few, who offered an inducement to the plunderer, ventured on the highway without this precaution; a long train of sumpter mules, and a host of those who, by their guise, were half menials and half soldiers. The gallant display drew crowds after the horses' heels, and, together with some prayers for success, a vast deal of crude and shallow conjecture, as is still the practice with the uninstructed and gossiping, was lavished on the probable objects and results of the journey. But curiosity has its limits, and even the gossip occasionally grows weary; and by the time the sun was setting, most of the multitude had already forgotten to think and speak of the parade of the morning. As the night drew on, however, the late pageant was still the subject of discourse between two soldiers, who belonged to the guard of the western gate, or that which opened on the road to the province of Burgos. These worthies were loitering away the hours, in the listless manner common to men on watch, and the spirit of discussion and of critical censure had survived the thoughts and bustle of the day.
"If Don Alonso de Carbajal thinketh to ride far in that guise," observed the elder of the two idlers, "he would do well to look sharp to his followers, for the army of Aragon never sent forth a more scurvily-appointed guard than that he hath this day led through the southern gate, notwithstanding the glitter of housings, and the clangor of trumpets. We could have furnished lances from Valencia more befitting a king's embassy, I tell thee, Diego; ay, and worthier knights to lead them, than these of Aragon. But if the king is content, it ill becomes soldiers, like thee and me, to be dissatisfied."
"There are many who think, Roderique, that it had been better to spare the money lavished in this courtly letter-writing, to pay the brave men who so freely shed their blood in order to subdue the rebellious Barcelans."
"This is always the way, boy, between debtor and creditor. Don John owes you a few maravedis, and you grudge him every Enrique he spends on his necessities. I am an older soldier, and have learned the art of paying myself, when the treasury is too poor to save me the trouble."
"That might do in a foreign war, when one is battling against the Moor, for instance; but, after all, these Catalans are as good Christians as we are ourselves; some of them are as good subjects; and it is not as easy to plunder a countryman as to plunder an Infidel."
"Easier by twenty fold; for the one expects it, and, like all in that unhappy condition, seldom has any thing worth taking, while the other opens his stores to you as freely as he does his heart--but who are these, setting forth on the highway, at this late hour?"
"Fellows that pretend to wealth, by affecting to conceal it. I'll warrant you, now, Roderique, that there is not money enough among all those varlets to pay the laquais that shall serve them their boiled eggs, to-night."
"By St. Iago, my blessed patron!" whispered one of the leaders of a small cavalcade, who, with a single companion, rode a little in advance of the others, as if not particularly anxious to be too familiar with the rest, and laughing, lightly, as he spoke: "Yonder vagabond is nearer the truth than is comfortable! We may have sufficient among us all to pay for an olla-podrida and its service, but I much doubt whether there will be a dobla left, when the journey shall be once ended."
A low, but grave rebuke, checked this inconsiderate mirth; and the party, which consisted of merchants, or traders, mounted on mules, as was evident by their appearance, for in that age the different classes were easily recognized by their attire, halted at the gate. The permission to quit the town was regular, and the drowsy and consequently surly gate-keeper slowly undid his bars, in order that the travellers might pass.
While these necessary movements were going on, the two soldiers stood a little on one side, coolly scanning the group, though Spanish gravity prevented them from indulging openly in an expression of the scorn that they actually felt for two or three Jews who were among the traders. The merchants, moreover, were of a better class, as was evident by a follower or two, who rode in their train, in the garbs of menials, and who kept at a respectful distance while their masters paid the light fee that it was customary to give on passing the gates after nightfall. One of these menials, capitally mounted on a tall, spirited mule, happened to place himself so near Diego, during this little ceremony, that the latter, who was talkative by nature, could not refrain from having his say.
"Prithee, Pepe," commenced the soldier, "how many hundred doblas a year do they pay, in that service of thine, and how often do they renew that fine leathern doublet?"
The varlet, or follower of the merchant, who was still a youth, though his vigorous frame and embrowned cheek denoted equally severe exercise and rude exposure, started and reddened at this free inquiry, which was enforced by a hand slapped familiarly on his knee, and such a squeeze of the leg as denoted the freedom of the camp. The laugh of Diego probably suppressed a sudden outbreak of anger, for the soldier was one whose manner indicated too much good-humor easily to excite resentment.
"Thy gripe is friendly, but somewhat close, comrade," the young domestic mildly observed; "and if thou wilt take a friend's counsel, it will be, never to indulge in too great familiarity, lest some day it lead to a broken pate."
"By holy San Pedro! --I should relish--" It was too late, however; for his master having proceeded, the youth pushed a powerful rowel into the flank of his mule, and the vigorous animal dashed ahead, nearly upsetting Diego, who was pressing hard on the pommel of the saddle, by the movement.
"There is mettle in that boy," exclaimed the good-natured soldier, as he recovered his feet. "I thought, for one moment, he was about to favor me with a visitation of his hand."
"Thou art wrong--and too much accustomed to be heedless, Diego," answered his comrade; "and it had been no wonder had that youth struck thee to the earth, for the indignity thou putt'st upon him."
"Ha! a hireling follower of some cringing Hebrew! He dare to strike a blow at a soldier of the king!"
"He may have been a soldier of the king himself, in his day. These are times when most of his frame and muscle are called on to go in harness. I think I have seen that face before; ay, and that, too, where none of craven hearts would be apt to go."
"The fellow is a mere varlet, and a younker that has just escaped from the hands of the women."
"I'll answer for it, that he hath faced both the Catalan and the Moor in his time, young as he may seem. Thou knowest that the nobles are wont to carry their sons, as children, early into the fight, that they may learn the deeds of chivalry betimes."
"The nobles!" repeated Diego, laughing. "In the name of all the devils, Roderique, of what art thou thinking, that thou likenest this knave to a young noble? Dost fancy him a Guzman, or a Mendoza, in disguise, that thou speakest thus of chivalry?"
"True--it doth, indeed, seem silly--and yet have I before met that frown in battle, and heard that sharp, quick voice, in a rally. By St. Iago de Compostello! I have it! Harkee, Diego! --a word in thy ear."
The veteran now led his more youthful comrade aside, although there was no one near to listen to what he said; and looking carefully round, to make certain that his words would not be overheard, he whispered, for a moment, in Diego's ear.
"Holy Mother of God!" exclaimed the latter, recoiling quite three paces, in surprise and awe. "Thou canst not be right, Roderique!"
"I will place my soul's welfare on it," returned the other, positively. "Have I not often seen him with his visor up, and followed him, time and again, to the charge?"
"And he setting forth as a trader's varlet! Nay, I know not, but as the servitor of a Jew!"
"Our business, Diego, is to strike without looking into the quarrel; to look without seeing, and to listen without hearing. Although his coffers are low, Don John is a good master, and our anointed king; and so we will prove ourselves discreet soldiers."
"But he will never forgive me that gripe of the knee, and my foolish tongue. I shall never dare meet him again."
"Humph! --It is not probable thou ever wilt meet him at the table of the king, and, as for the field, as he is wont to go first, there will not be much temptation for him to turn back in order to look at thee."
"Thou thinkest, then, he will not be apt to know me again?"
"If it should prove so, boy, thou need'st not take it in ill part; as such as he have more demands on their memories than they can always meet."
"The Blessed Maria make thee a true prophet! --else would I never dare again to appear in the ranks. Were it a favor I conferred, I might hope it would be forgotten; but an indignity sticks long in the memory."
Here the two soldiers moved away, continuing the discourse from time to time, although the elder frequently admonished his loquacious companion of the virtue of discretion.
In the mean time, the travellers pursued their way, with a diligence that denoted great distrust of the roads, and as great a desire to get on. They journeyed throughout the night, nor did there occur any relaxation in their speed, until the return of the sun exposed them again to the observations of the curious, among whom were thought to be many emissaries of Henry of Castile, whose agents were known to be particularly on the alert, along all the roads that communicated between the capital of Aragon and Valladolid, the city in which his royal sister had then, quite recently, taken refuge. Nothing remarkable occurred, however, to distinguish this journey from any other of the period. There was nothing about the appearance of the travellers--who soon entered the territory of Soria, a province of Old Castile, where armed parties of the monarch were active in watching the passes--to attract the attention of Henry's soldiers; and as for the more vulgar robber, he was temporarily driven from the highways by the presence of those who acted in the name of the prince. As respects the youth who had given rise to the discourse between the two soldiers, he rode diligently in the rear of his master, so long as it pleased the latter to remain in the saddle; and during the few and brief pauses that occurred in the travelling, he busied himself, like the other menials, in the duties of his proper vocation. On the evening of the second day, however, about an hour after the party had left a hostelry, where it had solaced itself with an olla-podrida and some sour wine, the merry young man who has already been mentioned, and who still kept his place by the side of his graver and more aged companion in the van, suddenly burst into a fit of loud laughter, and, reining in his mule he allowed the whole train to pass him, until he found himself by the side of the young menial already so particularly named. The latter cast a severe and rebuking glance at his reputed master, as he dropped in by his side, and said, with a sternness that ill comported with their apparent relations to each other-- "How now, Master Nuñez! what hath called thee from thy position in the van, to this unseemly familiarity with the varlets in the rear?"
"I crave ten thousand pardons, honest Juan," returned the master, still laughing, though he evidently struggled to repress his mirth, out of respect to the other; "but here is a calamity befallen us, that outdoes those of the fables and legends of necromancy and knight-errantry. The worthy Master Ferreras, yonder, who is so skilful in handling gold, having passed his whole life in buying and selling barley and oats, hath actually mislaid the purse, which it would seem he hath forgotten at the inn we have quitted, in payment of some very stale bread and rancid oil. I doubt if there are twenty reals left in the whole party!"
"And is it a matter of jest, Master Nuñez," returned the servant, though a slight smile struggled about his mouth, as if ready to join in his companion's merriment; "that we are penniless? Thank Heaven! the Burgo of Osma cannot be very distant; and we may have less occasion for gold. And now, master of mine, let me command thee to keep thy proper place in this cavalcade, and not to forget thyself by such undue familiarity with thy inferiors. I have no farther need of thee, and therefore hasten back to Master Ferreras and acquaint him with my sympathy and grief."
The young man smiled, though the eye of the pretended servant was averted, as if he cared to respect his own admonitions; while the other evidently sought a look of recognition and favor. In another minute, the usual order of the journey was resumed.
As the night advanced, and the hour arrived when man and beast usually betray fatigue, these travellers pushed their mules the hardest; and about midnight, by dint of hard pricking, they came under the principal gate of a small walled town, called Osma, that stood not far from the boundary of the province of Burgos, though still in that of Soria. No sooner was his mule near enough to the gate to allow of the freedom, than the young merchant in advance dealt sundry blows on it with his staff, effectually apprising those within of his presence. It required no strong pull of the reins to stop the mules of those behind; but the pretended varlet now pushed ahead, and was about to assume his place among the principal personages near the gate, when a heavy stone, hurled from the battlements, passed so close to his head, as vividly to remind him how near he might be to making a hasty journey to another world. A cry arose in the whole party, at this narrow escape; nor were loud imprecations on the hand that had cast the missile spared. The youth, himself, seemed the least disturbed of them all; and though his voice was sharp and authoritative, as he raised it in remonstrance, it was neither angry nor alarmed.
"How now!" he said; "is this the way you treat peaceful travellers; merchants, who come to ask hospitality and a night's repose at your hands?"
"Merchants and travellers!" growled a voice from above--"say, rather, spies and agents of King Henry. Who are ye? Speak promptly, or ye may expect something sharper than stones, at the next visit."
"Tell me," answered the youth, as if disdaining to be questioned himself--"who holds this borough? Is it not the noble Count of Treviño?"
"The very same, Señor," answered he above, with a mollified tone: "but what can a set of travelling traders know of His Excellency? and who art thou, that speakest up as sharply and as proudly as if thou wert a grandee?"
"I am Ferdinand of Trastamara--the Prince of Aragon--the King of Sicily. Go! bid thy master hasten to the gate."
This sudden announcement, which was made in the lofty manner of one accustomed to implicit obedience, produced a marked change in the state of affairs. The party at the gate so far altered their several positions, that the two superior nobles who had ridden in front, gave place to the youthful king; while the group of knights made such arrangements as showed that disguise was dropped, and each man was now expected to appear in his proper character. It might have amused a close and philosophical observer to note the promptitude with which the young cavaliers, in particular, rose in their saddles, as if casting aside the lounging mien of grovelling traders, in order to appear what they really were, men accustomed to the tourney and the field. On the ramparts the change was equally sudden and great. All appearance of drowsiness vanished; the soldiers spoke to each other in suppressed but hurried voices; and the distant tramp of feet announced that messengers were dispatched in various directions. Some ten minutes elapsed in this manner, during which an inferior officer showed himself on the ramparts, and apologized for a delay that arose altogether from the force of discipline, and on no account from any want of respect. At length a bustle on the wall, with the light of many lanterns, betrayed the approach of the governor of the town; and the impatience of the young men below, that had begun to manifest itself in half-uttered execrations, was put under a more decent restraint for the occasion.
"Are the joyful tidings that my people bring me true?" cried one from the battlements; while a lantern was lowered from the wall, as if to make a closer inspection of the party at the gate: "Am I really so honored, as to receive a summons from Don Ferdinand of Aragon, at this unusual hour?"
"Cause thy fellow to turn his lantern more closely on my countenance," answered the king, "that thou may'st make thyself sure. I will cheerfully overlook the disrespect, Count of Treviño, for the advantage of a more speedy admission." " 'Tis he!" exclaimed the noble: "I know those royal features, which bear the lineaments of a long race of kings, and that voice have I heard, often, rallying the squadrons of Aragon, in their onsets against the Moor. Let the trumpets speak up, and proclaim this happy arrival; and open wide our gates, without delay."
This order was promptly obeyed, and the youthful king entered Osma, by sound of trumpet, encircled by a strong party of men-at-arms, and with half of the awakened and astonished population at his heels.
"It is lucky, my Lord King," said Don Andres de Cabrera, the young noble already mentioned, as he rode familiarly at the side of Don Ferdinand, "that we have found these good lodgings without cost; it being a melancholy truth, that Master Ferreras hath, negligently enough, mislaid the only purse there was among us. In such a strait, it would not have been easy to keep up the character of thrifty traders much longer; for, while the knaves higgle at the price of every thing, they are fond of letting their gold be seen."
"Now that we are in thine own Castile, Don Andres," returned the king, smiling, "we shall throw ourselves gladly on thy hospitality, well knowing that thou hast two most beautiful diamonds always at thy command."
"I, Sir King! Your Highness is pleased to be merry at my expense, although I believe it is, just now, the only gratification I can pay for. My attachment for the Princess Isabella hath driven me from my lands; and even the humblest cavalier in the Aragonese army is not, just now, poorer than I. What diamonds, therefore, can I command?"
"Report speaketh favorably of the two brilliants that are set in the face of the Doña Beatriz de Bobadilla; and I hear they are altogether at thy disposal, or as much so as a noble maiden's inclinations can leave them with a loyal knight."
"Ah! my Lord King! if indeed this adventure end as happily as it commenceth, I may, indeed, look to your royal favor, for some aid in that matter."
The king smiled, in his own sedate manner; but the Count de Treviño pressing nearer to his side at that moment, the discourse was changed. That night Ferdinand of Aragon slept soundly; but with the dawn, he and his followers were again in the saddle. The party quitted Osma, however, in a manner very different from that in which it had approached its gate. Ferdinand now appeared as a knight, mounted on a noble Andalusian charger; and all his followers had still more openly assumed their proper characters. A strong body of lancers, led by the Count of Treviño in person, composed the escort; and on the 9th of the month, the whole cavalcade reached Dueñas, in Leon, a place quite near to Valladolid. The disaffected nobles crowded about the prince to pay their court, and he was received as became his high rank and still higher destinies.
Here the more luxurious Castilians had an opportunity of observing the severe personal discipline by which Don Ferdinand, at the immature years of eighteen, for he was scarcely older, had succeeded in hardening his body and in stringing his nerves, so as to be equal to any deeds in arms. His delight was found in the rudest military exercises; and no knight of Aragon could better direct his steed in the tourney or in the field. Like most of the royal races of that period, and indeed of this, in despite of the burning sun under which he dwelt, his native complexion was brilliant, though it had already become embrowned by exposure in the chase, and in the martial occupations of his boyhood. Temperate as a Mussulman, his active and well-proportioned frame seemed to be early indurating, as if Providence held him in reserve for some of its own dispensations, that called for great bodily vigor as well as for deep forethought and a vigilant sagacity. During the four or five days that followed, the noble Castilians who listened to his discourse, knew not of which most to approve, his fluent eloquence, or a wariness of thought and expression, which, while they might have been deemed prematurely worldly and cold-blooded, were believed to be particular merits in one destined to control the jarring passions, deep deceptions, and selfish devices of men.
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"Leave to the nightingale her shady wood: A privacy of glorious light is thine; Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with rapture more divine; Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home."
Wordsworth.
While John of Aragon had recourse to such means to enable his son to escape the vigilant and vindictive emissaries of the King of Castile, there were anxious hearts in Valladolid, awaiting the result with the impatience and doubt that ever attend the execution of hazardous enterprises. Among others who felt this deep interest in the movements of Ferdinand of Aragon and his companions, were a few whom it has now become necessary to introduce to the reader.
Although Valladolid had not then reached the magnificence it subsequently acquired as the capital of Charles V., it was an ancient, and, for the age, a magnificent and luxurious town, possessing its palaces, as well as its more inferior abodes. To the principal of the former, the residence of John de Vivero--a distinguished noble of the kingdom--we must repair in imagination; where companions more agreeable than those we have just quitted, await us, and who were then themselves awaiting, with deep anxiety, the arrival of a messenger with tidings from Dueñas. The particular apartment that it will be necessary to imagine, had much of the rude splendor of the period, united to that air of comfort and fitness that woman seldom fails to impart to the portion of any edifice that comes directly under her control. In the year 1469, Spain was fast approaching the termination of that great struggle which had already endured seven centuries, and in which the Christian and the Mussulman contended for the mastery of the peninsula. The latter had long held sway in the southern parts of Leon, and had left behind him, in the palaces of this town, some of the traces of his barbaric magnificence. The lofty and fretted ceilings were not as glorious as those to be found further south, it is true; still, the Moor had been here, and the name of Veled Vlid--since changed to Valladolid--denotes its Arabic connection. In the room just mentioned, and in the principal palace of this ancient town--that of John de Vivero--were two females, in earnest and engrossing discourse. Both were young, and, though in very different styles, both would have been deemed beautiful in any age or region of the earth. One, indeed, was surpassingly lovely. She had just reached her nineteenth year--an age when the female form has received its full development in that generous climate; and the most imaginative poet of Spain--a country so renowned for beauty of form in the sex--could not have conceived of a person more symmetrical. The hands, feet, bust, and all the outlines, were those of feminine loveliness; while the stature, without rising to a height to suggest the idea of any thing masculine, was sufficient to ennoble an air of quiet dignity. The beholder, at first, was a little at a loss to know whether the influence to which he submitted, proceeded most from the perfection of the body itself, or from the expression that the soul within imparted to the almost faultless exterior. The face was, in all respects, worthy of the form. Although born beneath the sun of Spain, her lineage carried her back, through a long line of kings, to the Gothic sovereigns; and its frequent intermarriages with foreign princesses, had produced in her countenance that intermixture of the brilliancy of the north with the witchery of the south, that probably is nearest to the perfection of feminine loveliness.
Her complexion was fair, and her rich locks had that tint of the auburn which approaches as near as possible to the more marked color that gives it warmth, without attaining any of the latter's distinctive hue. "Her mild blue eyes," says an eminent historian, "beamed with intelligence and sensibility." In these indexes to the soul, indeed, were to be found her highest claims to loveliness, for they bespoke no less the beauty within, than the beauty without; imparting to features of exquisite delicacy and symmetry, a serene expression of dignity and moral excellence, that was remarkably softened by a modesty that seemed as much allied to the sensibilities of a woman, as to the purity of an angel. To add to all these charms, though of royal blood, and educated in a court, an earnest, but meek sincerity presided over every look and thought--as thought was betrayed in the countenance--adding the illumination of truth to the lustre of youth and beauty.
The attire of this princess was simple, for, happily, the taste of the age enabled those who worked for the toilet to consult the proportions of nature; though the materials were rich, and such as became her high rank. A single cross of diamonds sparkled on a neck of snow, to which it was attached by a short string of pearls; and a few rings, decked with stones of price, rather cumbered than adorned hands that needed no ornaments to rivet the gaze. Such was Isabella of Castile, in her days of maiden retirement and maiden pride--while waiting the issues of those changes that were about to put their seal on her own future fortunes, as well as on those of posterity even to our own times.
Her companion was Beatriz de Bobadilla, the friend of her childhood and infancy, and who continued, to the last, the friend of her prime, and of her death-bed. This lady, a little older than the princess, was of more decided Spanish mien, for, though of an ancient and illustrious house, policy and necessity had not caused so many foreign intermarriages in her race, as had been required in that of her royal mistress. Her eyes were black and sparkling, bespeaking a generous soul, and a resolution so high that some commentators have termed it valor; while her hair was dark as the raven's wing. Like that of her royal mistress, her form exhibited the grace and loveliness of young womanhood, developed by the generous warmth of Spain; though her stature was, in a slight degree, less noble, and the outlines of her figure, in about an equal proportion, less perfect. In short, nature had drawn some such distinction between the exceeding grace and high moral charms that encircled the beauty of the princess, and those which belonged to her noble friend, as the notions of men had established between their respective conditions; though, considered singly, as women, either would have been deemed pre-eminently winning and attractive.
At the moment we have selected for the opening of the scene that is to follow, Isabella, fresh from the morning toilet, was seated in a chair, leaning lightly on one of its arms, in an attitude that interest in the subject she was discussing, and confidence in her companion, had naturally produced; while Beatriz de Bobadilla occupied a low stool at her feet, bending her body in respectful affection so far forward, as to allow the fairer hair of the princess to mingle with her own dark curls, while the face of the latter appeared to repose on the head of her friend. As no one else was present, the reader will at once infer, from the entire absence of Castilian etiquette and Spanish reserve, that the dialogue they held was strictly confidential, and that it was governed more by the feelings of nature, than by the artificial rules that usually regulate the intercourse of courts.
"I have prayed, Beatriz, that God would direct my judgment in this weighty concern," said the princess, in continuation of some previous observation; "and I hope I have as much kept in view the happiness of my future subjects, in the choice I have made, as my own."
"None shall presume to question it," said Beatriz de Bobadilla; "for had it pleased you to wed the Grand Turk, the Castilians would not gainsay your wish, such is their love!"
"Say, rather, such is thy love for me, my good Beatriz, that thou fanciest this," returned Isabella, smiling, and raising her face from the other's head. "Our Castilians might overlook such a sin, but I could not pardon myself for forgetting that I am a Christian. Beatriz, I have been sorely tried, in this matter!"
"But the hour of trial is nearly passed. Holy Maria! what lightness of reflection, and vanity, and misjudging of self, must exist in man, to embolden some who have dared to aspire to become your husband! You were yet a child when they betrothed you to Don Carlos, a prince old enough to be your father; and then, as if that were not sufficient to warm Castilian blood, they chose the King of Portugal for you, and he might well have passed for a generation still more remote! Much as I love you, Doña Isabella, and my own soul is scarce dearer to me than your person and mind, for nought do I respect you more, than for the noble and princely resolution, child as you then were, with which you denied the king, in his wicked wish to make you Queen of Portugal."
"Don Enriquez is my brother, Beatriz; and thine and my royal master."
"Ah! bravely did you tell them all," continued Beatriz de Bobadilla, with sparkling eyes, and a feeling of exultation that caused her to overlook the quiet rebuke of her mistress; "and worthy was it of a princess of the royal house of Castile! 'The Infantas of Castile,' you said, 'could not be disposed of, in marriage, without the consent of the nobles of the realm;' and with that fit reply they were glad to be content."
"And yet, Beatriz, am I about to dispose of an Infanta of Castile, without even consulting its nobles."
"Say not that, my excellent mistress. There is not a loyal and gallant cavalier between the Pyrenees and the sea, who will not, in his heart, approve of your choice. The character, and age, and other qualities of the suitor, make a sensible difference in these concerns. But unfit as Don Alfonso of Portugal was, and is, to be the wedded husband of Doña Isabella of Castile, what shall we say to the next suitor who appeared as a pretender to your royal hand--Don Pedro Giron, the Master of Calatrava! truly a most worthy lord for a maiden of the royal house! Out upon him! A Pachecho might think himself full honorably mated, could he have found a damsel of Bobadilla to elevate his race!"
"That ill-assorted union was imposed upon my brother by unworthy favorites; and God, in his holy providence, saw fit to defeat their wishes, by hurrying their intended bridegroom to an unexpected grave!"
"Ay! had it not pleased his blessed will so to dispose of Don Pedro, other means would not have been wanting!"
"This little hand of thine, Beatriz," returned the princess, gravely, though she smiled affectionately on her friend as she took the hand in question, "was not made for the deed its owner menaced."
"That which its owner menaced," replied Beatriz, with eyes flashing fire, "this hand would have executed, before Isabella of Castile should be the doomed bride of the Grand Master of Calatrava. What! was the purest, loveliest virgin of Castile, and she of royal birth--nay, the rightful heiress of the crown--to be sacrificed to a lawless libertine, because it had pleased Don Henry to forget his station and duties, and make a favorite of a craven miscreant!"
"Thou always forgettest, Beatriz, that Don Enriquez is our lord the king, and my royal brother."
"I do not forget, Señora, that you are the royal sister of our lord the king, and that Pedro de Giron, or Pachecho, whichever it might suit the ancient Portuguese page to style him, was altogether unworthy to sit in your presence, much less to become your wedded husband. Oh! what days of anguish were those, my gracious lady, when your knees ached with bending in prayer, that this might not be! But God would not permit it--neither would I! That dagger should have pierced his heart, before ear of his should have heard the vows of Isabella of Castile!"
"Speak no more of this, good Beatriz, I pray thee," said the princess, shuddering, and crossing herself; "they were, in sooth, days of anguish; but what were they in comparison with the passion of the Son of God, who gave himself a sacrifice for our sins! Name it not, then; it was good for my soul to be thus tried; and thou knowest that the evil was turned from me--more, I doubt not, by the efficacy of our prayers, than by that of thy dagger. If thou wilt speak of my suitors, surely there are others better worthy of the trouble."
A light gleamed about the dark eye of Beatriz, and a smile struggled toward her pretty mouth; for well did she understand that the royal, but bashful maiden, would gladly hear something of him on whom her choice had finally fallen. Although ever disposed to do that which was grateful to her mistress, with a woman's coquetry, Beatriz determined to approach the more pleasing part of the subject coyly, and by a regular gradation of events, in the order in which they had actually occurred.
"Then, there was Monsieur de Guienne, the brother of King Louis of France," she resumed, affecting contempt in her manner; "_he_ would fain become the husband of the future Queen of Castile! But even our most unworthy Castilians soon saw the unfitness of that union. Their pride was unwilling to run the chance of becoming a fief of France."
"That misfortune could never have befallen our beloved Castile," interrupted Isabella with dignity; "had I espoused the King of France himself, he would have learned to respect me as the Queen Proprietor of this ancient realm, and not have looked upon me as a subject."
"Then, Señora," continued Beatriz, looking up into Isabella's face, and laughing--"was your own royal kinsman, Don Ricardo of Gloucester; he that they say was born with teeth, and who carries already a burthen so heavy on his back, that he may well thank his patron saint that he is not also to be loaded with the affairs of Castile." [1] [Footnote 1: NOTE--The authorities differ as to which of the English princes was the suitor of Isabella; Edward IV. himself, Clarence, or Richard. Isabella was the grand-daughter of Catherine of Lancaster, who was a daughter of John of Gaunt.]
"Thy tongue runneth riot, Beatriz. They tell me that Don Ricardo is a noble and aspiring prince; that he is, one day, likely to wed some princess, whose merit may well console him for his failure in Castile. But what more hast thou to offer concerning my suitors?"
"Nay, what more can I say, my beloved mistress? We have now reached Don Fernando, literally the first, as he proveth to be the last, and as we know him to be, the best of them all."
"I think I have been guided by the motives that become my birth and future hopes, in choosing Don Ferdinand," said Isabella, meekly, though she was uneasy in spite of her royal views of matrimony; "since nothing can so much tend to the peace of our dear kingdom, and to the success of the great cause of Christianity, as to unite Castile and Aragon under one crown."
"By uniting their sovereigns in holy wedlock," returned Beatriz, with respectful gravity, though a smile again struggled around her pouting lips. "What if Don Fernando is the most youthful, the handsomest, the most valiant, and the most agreeable prince in Christendom, it is no fault of yours, since you did not make him, but have only accepted him for a husband!"
"Nay, this exceedeth discretion and respect, my good Beatriz," returned Isabella, affecting to frown, even while she blushed deeply at her own emotions, and looked gratified at the praises of her betrothed. "Thou knowest that I have never beheld my cousin, the King of Sicily."
"Very true, Señora; but Father Alonso de Coca hath--and a surer eye, or truer tongue than his, do not exist in Castile."
"Beatriz, I pardon thy license, however unjust and unseemly, because I know thou lovest me, and lookest rather at mine own happiness, than at that of my people," said the princess, the effect of whose gravity now was not diminished by any betrayal of natural feminine weakness--for she felt slightly offended. "Thou knowest, or ought'st to know, that a maiden of royal birth is bound principally to consult the interests of the state, in bestowing her hand, and that the idle fancies of village girls have little in common with her duties. Nay, what virgin of noble extraction, like thyself, even, would dream of aught else than of submitting to the counsel of her family, in taking a husband? If I have selected Don Fernando of Aragon, from among many princes, it is, doubtless, because the alliance is more suited to the interests of Castile, than any other that hath offered. Thou seest, Beatriz, that the Castilians and the Aragonese spring from the same source, and have the same habits and prejudices. They speak the same language"-- "Nay, dearest lady, do not confound the pure Castilian with the dialect of the mountains!"
"Well, have thy fling, wayward one, if thou wilt; but we can easier teach the nobles of Aragon our purer Spanish, than we can teach it to the Gaul. Then, Don Fernando is of my own race; the House of Trastamara cometh of Castile and her monarchs, and we may at least hope that the King of Sicily will be able to make himself understood."
"If he could not, he were no true knight! The man whose tongue should fail him, when the stake was a royal maiden of a beauty surpassing that of the dawn--of an excellence that already touches on heaven--of a crown"-- "Girl, girl, thy tongue is getting the mastery of thee--such discourse ill befitteth thee and me."
"And yet, Doña Ysabel, my tongue is close bound to my heart."
"I do believe thee, my good Beatriz; but we should bethink us both of our last shrivings, and of the ghostly counsel that we then received. Such nattering discourse seemeth light, when we remember our manifold transgressions, and our many occasions for forgiveness. As for this marriage, I would have thee think that it has been contracted on my part, with the considerations and motives of a princess, and not through any light indulgence of my fancies. Thou knowest that I have never beheld Don Fernando, and that he hath never even looked upon me."
"Assuredly, dearest lady and honored mistress, all this I know, and see, and believe; and I also agree that it were unseemly and little befitting her birth, for even a noble maiden to contract the all-important obligations of marriage, with no better motive than the light impulses of a country wench. Nothing is more just than that we are alike bound to consult our own dignity, and the wishes of kinsmen and friends; and that our duty, and the habits of piety and submission in which we have been reared, are better pledges for our connubial affection than any caprices of a girlish imagination. Still, my honored lady, it is most fortunate that your high obligations point to one as youthful, brave, noble, and chivalrous, as is the King of Sicily, as we well know, by Father Alonso's representations, to be the fact; and that all my friends unite in saying that Don Andres de Cabrera, madcap and silly as he is, will make an exceedingly excellent husband for Beatriz de Bobadilla!"
Isabella, habitually dignified and reserved as she was, had her confidants and her moments for unbending; and Beatriz was the principal among the former, while the present instant was one of the latter. She smiled, therefore, at this sally; and parting, with her own fair hand, the dark locks on the brow of her friend, she regarded her much as the mother regards her child, when sudden passages of tenderness come over the heart.
"If madcap should wed madcap, _thy_ friends, at least, have judged rightly," answered the princess. Then, pausing an instant, as if in deep thought, she continued in a graver manner, though modesty shone in her tell-tale complexion, and the sensibility that beamed in her eyes betrayed that she now felt more as a woman than as a future queen bent only on the happiness of her people: "As this interview draweth near, I suffer an embarrassment I had not thought it easy to inflict on an Infanta of Castile. To thee, my faithful Beatriz, I will acknowledge, that were the King of Sicily as old as Don Alfonso of Portugal, or were he as effeminate and unmanly as Monsieur of Guienne; were he, in sooth, less engaging and young, I should feel less embarrassment in meeting him, than I now experience."
"This is passing strange, Señora! Now, I will confess that I would not willingly abate in Don Andres, one hour of his life, which has been sufficiently long as it is; one grace of his person, if indeed the honest cavalier hath any to boast of; or one single perfection of either body or mind."
"Thy case is not mine, Beatriz. Thou knowest the Marquis of Moya; hast listened to his discourse, and art accustomed to his praises and his admiration."
"Holy St. Iago of Spain! Do not distrust any thing, Señora, on account of unfamiliarity with such matters--for, of all learning, it is easiest to learn to relish praise and admiration!"
"True, daughter"--(for so Isabella often termed her friend, though her junior: in later life, and after the princess had become a queen, this, indeed, was her usual term of endearment)--"true, daughter, when praise and admiration are freely given and fairly merited. But I distrust, myself, my claims to be thus viewed, and the feelings with which Don Fernando may first behold me. I know--nay, I _feel_ him to be graceful, and noble, and valiant, and generous, and good; comely to the eye, and strict of duty to our holy religion; as illustrious in qualities as in birth; and I tremble to think of my own unsuitableness to be his bride and queen."
"God's Justice! --I should like to meet the impudent Aragonese noble that would dare to hint as much as this! If Don Fernando is noble, are you not nobler, Señora, as coming of the senior branch of the same house; if he is young, are you not equally so; if he is wise, are you not wiser; if he is comely, are you not more of an angel than a woman; if he is valiant, are you not virtuous; if he is graceful, are you not grace itself; if he is generous, are you not good, and what is more, are you not the very soul of generosity; if he is strict of duty in matters of our holy religion, are you not an angel?"
"Good sooth--good sooth--Beatriz, thou art a comforter! I could reprove thee for this idle tongue, but I know thee honest."
"This is no more than that deep modesty, honored mistress, which ever maketh you quicker to see the merits of others, than to perceive your own. Let Don Fernando look to it! Though he come in all the pomp and glory of his many crowns, I warrant you we find him a royal maiden in Castile, who shall abash him and rebuke his vanity, even while she appears before him in the sweet guise of her own meek nature!"
"I have said naught of Don Fernando's vanity, Beatriz--nor do I esteem him in the least inclined to so weak a feeling; and as for pomp, we well know that gold no more abounds at Zaragosa than at Valladolid, albeit he hath many crowns, in possession, and in reserve. Notwithstanding all thy foolish but friendly tongue hath uttered, I distrust myself, and not the King of Sicily. Methinks I could meet any other prince in Christendom with indifference--or, at least, as becometh my rank and sex; but I confess, I tremble at the thought of encountering the eyes and opinions of my noble cousin."
Beatriz listened with interest; and when her royal mistress ceased speaking, she kissed her hand affectionately, and then pressed it to her heart.
"Let Don Fernando tremble, rather, Señora, at encountering yours," she answered.
"Nay, Beatriz, we know that he hath nothing to dread, for report speaketh but too favorably of him. But, why linger here in doubt and apprehension, when the staff on which it is my duty to lean, is ready to receive its burthen: Father Alonso doubtless waiteth for us, and we will now join him."
The princess and her friend now repaired to the chapel of the palace, where her confessor celebrated the daily mass. The self-distrust which disturbed the feelings of the modest Isabella was appeased by the holy rites, or, rather, it took refuge on that rock where she was accustomed to place all her troubles, with her sins. As the little assemblage left the chapel, one, hot with haste, arrived with the expected, but still doubted tidings, that the King of Sicily had reached Dueñas in safety, and that, as he was now in the very centre of his supporters, there could no longer be any reasonable distrust of the speedy celebration of the contemplated marriage.
Isabella was much overcome with this news, and required more than usual of the care of Beatriz de Bobadilla, to restore her to that sweet serenity of mind and air, which ordinarily rendered her presence as attractive as it was commanding. An hour or two spent in meditation and prayer, however, finally produced a gentle calm in her feelings, and these two friends were again alone, in the very apartment where we first introduced them to the reader.
"Hast thou seen Don Andres de Cabrera?" demanded the princess, taking a hand from a brow which had been often pressed in a sort of bewildered recollection.
Beatriz de Bobadilla blushed--and then she laughed outright, with a freedom that the long-established affection of her mistress did not rebuke.
"For a youth of thirty, and a cavalier well hacked in the wars of the Moors, Don Andres hath a nimble foot," she answered. "He brought hither the tidings of the arrival; and with it he brought his own delightful person, to show it was no lie. For one so experienced, he hath a strong propensity to talk; and so, in sooth, while you, my honored mistress, would be in your closet alone, I could but listen to all the marvels of the journey. It seems, Señora, that they did not reach Dueñas any too soon; for the only purse among them was mislaid, or blown away by the wind on account of its lightness."
"I trust this accident hath been repaired. Few of the house of Trastamara have much gold at this trying moment, and yet none are wont to be entirely without it."
"Don Andres is neither beggar nor miser. He is now in our Castile, where I doubt not he is familiar with the Jews and money-lenders; as these last must know the full value of his lands, the King of Sicily will not want. I hear, too, that the Count of Treviño hath conducted nobly with him."
"It shall be well for the Count of Treviño that he hath had this liberality. But, Beatriz, bring forth the writing materials; it is meet that I, at once, acquaint Don Enriquez with this event, and with my purpose of marriage."
"Nay, dearest mistress, this is out of all rule. When a maiden, gentle or simple, intendeth marriage against her kinsmen's wishes, it is the way to wed first, and to write the letter and ask the blessing when the evil is done."
"Go to, light-of-speech! Thou hast spoken; now bring the pens and paper. The king is not only my lord and sovereign, but he is my nearest of kin, and should be my father."
"And Doña Joanna of Portugal, his royal consort, and our illustrious queen, should be your mother; and a fitting guide would she be to any modest virgin! No--no--my beloved mistress; your royal mother was the Doña Isabella of Portugal--and a very different princess was she from this, her wanton niece."
"Thou givest thyself too much license, Doña Beatriz, and forgettest my request. I desire to write to my brother the king."
It was so seldom that Isabella spoke sternly, that her friend started, and the tears rushed to her eyes at this rebuke; but she procured the writing materials, before she presumed to look into Isabella's face, in order to ascertain if she were really angered. There all was beautiful serenity again; and the Lady of Bobadilla, perceiving that her mistress's mind was altogether occupied with the matter before her, and that she had already forgotten her displeasure, chose to make no further allusion to the subject.
Isabella now wrote her celebrated letter, in which she appeared to forget all her natural timidity, and to speak solely as a princess. By the treaty of Toros de Guisando, in which, setting aside the claims of Joanna of Portugal's daughter, she had been recognized as the heiress of the throne, it had been stipulated that she should not marry without the king's consent; and she now apologized for the step she was about to take, on the substantial plea that her enemies had disregarded the solemn compact entered into not to urge her into any union that was unsuitable or disagreeable to herself. She then alluded to the political advantages that would follow the union of the crowns of Castile and Aragon, and solicited the king's approbation of the step she was about to take. This letter, after having been submitted to John de Vivero, and others of her council, was dispatched by a special messenger--after which act the arrangements necessary as preliminaries to a meeting between the betrothed were entered into. Castilian etiquette was proverbial, even in that age; and the discussion led to a proposal that Isabella rejected with her usual modesty and discretion.
"It seemeth to me," said John de Vivero, "that this alliance should not take place without some admission, on the part of Don Fernando, of the inferiority of Aragon to our own Castile. The house of the latter kingdom is but a junior branch of the reigning House of Castile, and the former territory of old was admitted to have a dependency on the latter."
This proposition was much applauded, until the beautiful and natural sentiments of the princess, herself, interposed to expose its weakness and its deformities.
"It is doubtless true," she said, "that Don Juan of Aragon is the son of the younger brother of my royal grandfather; but he is none the less a king. Nay, besides his crown of Aragon--a country, if thou wilt, which is inferior to Castile--he hath those of Naples and Sicily; not to speak of Navarre, over which he ruleth, although it may not be with too much right. Don Fernando even weareth the crown of Sicily, by the renunciation of Don Juan; and shall he, a crowned sovereign, make concessions to one who is barely a princess, and whom it may never please God to conduct to a throne? Moreover, Don John of Vivero, I beseech thee to remember the errand that bringeth the King of Sicily to Valladolid. Both he and I have two parts to perform, and two characters to maintain--those of prince and princess, and those of Christians wedded and bound by holy marriage ties. It would ill become one that is about to take on herself the duties and obligations of a wife, to begin the intercourse with exactions that should be humiliating to the pride and self-respect of her lord. Aragon may truly be an inferior realm to Castile--but Ferdinand of Aragon is even now every way the equal of Isabella of Castile; and when he shall receive my vows, and, with them, my duty and my affections"--Isabella's color deepened, and her mild eye lighted with a sort of holy enthusiasm--"as befitteth a woman, though an infidel, he would become, in some particulars, my superior. Let me, then, hear no more of this; for it could not nearly as much pain Don Fernando to make the concessions ye require, as it paineth me to hear of them."
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"Nice customs curt'sy to great kings. Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confined within the weak list of a country's fashion. We are the makers of manners; and the liberty that follows our places, stops the mouths of all fault-finders." --Henry V. Notwithstanding her high resolution, habitual firmness, and a serenity of mind, that seemed to pervade the moral system of Isabella, like a deep, quiet current of enthusiasm, but which it were truer to assign to the high and fixed principles that guided all her actions, her heart beat tumultuously, and her native reserve, which almost amounted to shyness, troubled her sorely, as the hour arrived when she was first to behold the prince she had accepted for a husband. Castilian etiquette, no less than the magnitude of the political interests involved in the intended union, had drawn out the preliminary negotiations several days; the bridegroom being left, all that time, to curb his impatience to behold the princess, as best he might.
On the evening of the 15th of October, 1469, however, every obstacle being at length removed, Don Fernando threw himself into the saddle, and, accompanied by only four attendants, among whom was Andres de Cabrera, he quietly took his way, without any of the usual accompaniments of his high rank, toward the palace of John of Vivero, in the city of Valladolid. The Archbishop of Toledo was of the faction of the princess, and this prelate, a warlike and active partisan, was in readiness to receive the accepted suitor, and to conduct him to the presence of his mistress.
Isabella, attended only by Beatriz de Bobadilla, was in waiting for the interview, in the apartment already mentioned; and by one of those mighty efforts that even the most retiring of the sex can make, on great occasions, she received her future husband with quite as much of the dignity of a princess as of the timidity of a woman. Ferdinand of Aragon had been prepared to meet one of singular grace and beauty; but the mixture of angelic modesty with a loveliness that almost surpassed that of her sex, produced a picture approaching so much nearer to heaven than to earth, that, though one of circumspect behavior, and much accustomed to suppress emotion, he actually started, and his feet were momentarily riveted to the floor, when the glorious vision first met his eye. Then, recovering himself, he advanced eagerly, and taking the little hand which neither met nor repulsed the attempt, he pressed it to his lips with a warmth that seldom accompanies the first interviews of those whose passions are usually so factitious.
"This happy moment hath at length arrived, my illustrious and beautiful cousin!" he said, with a truth of feeling that went directly to the pure and tender heart of Isabella; for no skill in courtly phrases can ever give to the accents of deceit, the point and emphasis that belong to sincerity. "I have thought it would never arrive; but this blessed moment--thanks to our own St. Iago, whom I have not ceased to implore with intercessions--more than rewards me for all anxieties."
"I thank my Lord the Prince, and bid him right welcome," modestly returned Isabella. "The difficulties that have been overcome, in order to effect this meeting, are but types of the difficulties we shall have to conquer as we advance through life."
Then followed a few courteous expressions concerning the hopes of the princess that her cousin had wanted for nothing, since his arrival in Castile, with suitable answers; when Don Ferdinand led her to an armed-chair, assuming himself the stool on which Beatriz de Bobadilla was wont to be seated, in her familiar intercourse with her royal mistress. Isabella, however, sensitively alive to the pretensions of the Castilians, who were fond of asserting the superiority of their own country over that of Aragon, would not quietly submit to this arrangement, but declined to be seated, unless her suitor would take the chair prepared for him also, saying-- "It ill befitteth one who hath little more than some royalty of blood, and her dependence on God, to be thus placed, while the King of Sicily is so unworthily bestowed."
"Let me entreat that it may be so," returned the king. "All considerations of earthly rank vanish in this presence; view me as a knight, ready and desirous of proving his fealty in any court or field of Christendom, and treat me as such."
Isabella, who had that high tact which teaches the precise point where breeding becomes neuter and airs commence, blushed and smiled, but no longer declined to be seated. It was not so much the mere words of her cousin that went to her heart, as the undisguised admiration of his looks, the animation of his eye, and the frank sincerity of his manner. With a woman's instinct she perceived that the impression she had made was favorable, and, with a woman's sensibility, her heart was ready, under the circumstances, to dissolve in tenderness at the discovery. This mutual satisfaction soon opened the way to a freer conversation; and, ere half an hour was passed, the archbishop--who, though officially ignorant of the language and wishes of lovers, was practically sufficiently familiar with both--contrived to draw the two or three courtiers who were present, into an adjoining room, where, though the door continued open, he placed them with so much discretion that neither eye nor ear could be any restraint on what was passing. As for Beatriz de Bobadilla, whom female etiquette required should remain in the same room with her royal mistress, she was so much engaged with Andres de Cabrera, that half a dozen thrones might have been disposed of between the royal pair, and she none the wiser.
Although Isabella did not lose that mild reserve and feminine modesty that threw so winning a grace around her person, even to the day of her death, she gradually grew more calm as the discourse proceeded; and, falling back on her self-respect, womanly dignity, and, not a little, on those stores of knowledge that she had been diligently collecting, while others similarly situated had wasted their time in the vanities of courts, she was quickly at her ease, if not wholly in that tranquil state of mind to which she had been accustomed.
"I trust there can now be no longer any delay to the celebration of our union by holy church," observed the king, in continuation of the subject. "All that can be required of us both, as those entrusted with the cares and interests of realms, hath been observed, and I may have a claim to look to my own happiness. We are not strangers to each other, Doña Isabella; for our grandfathers were brothers, and from infancy up, have I been taught to reverence thy virtues, and to strive to emulate thy holy duty to God."
"I have not betrothed myself lightly, Don Fernando," returned the princess, blushing, even while she assumed the majesty of a queen; "and with the subject so fully discussed, the wisdom of the union so fully established, and the necessity of promptness so apparent, no idle delays shall proceed from me. I had thought that the ceremony might be had on the fourth day from this, which will give us both time to prepare for an occasion so solemn, by suitable attention to the offices of the church."
"It must be as thou wiliest," said the king, respectfully bowing; "and now there remaineth but a few preparations, and we shall have no reproaches of forgetfulness. Thou knowest, Doña Isabella, how sorely my father is beset by his enemies, and I need scarce tell thee that his coffers are empty. In good sooth, my fair cousin, nothing but my earnest desire to possess myself, at as early a day as possible, of the precious boon that Providence and thy goodness"-- "Mingle not, Don Fernando, any of the acts of God and his providence, with the wisdom and petty expedients of his creatures," said Isabella, earnestly.
"To seize upon the precious boon, then, that Providence appeared willing to bestow," rejoined the king, crossing himself, while he bowed his head, as much, perhaps, in deference to the pious feelings of his affianced wife, as in deference to a higher Power--"would not admit of delay, and we quitted Zaragosa better provided with hearts loyal toward the treasures we were to find in Valladolid, than with gold. Even that we had, by a mischance, hath gone to enrich some lucky varlet in an inn."
"Doña Beatriz de Bobadilla hath acquainted me with the mishap," said Isabella, smiling; "and truly we shall commence our married lives with but few of the goods of the world in present possession. I have little more to offer thee, Fernando, than a true heart, and a spirit that I think may be trusted for its fidelity."
"In obtaining thee, my excellent cousin, I obtain sufficient to satisfy the desires of any reasonable man. Still, something is due to our rank and future prospects, and it shall not be said that thy nuptials passed like those of a common subject."
"Under ordinary circumstances it might not appear seemly for one of my sex to furnish the means for her own bridal," answered the princess, the blood stealing to her face until it crimsoned even her brow and temples; maintaining, otherwise, that beautiful tranquillity of mien which marked her ordinary manner--"but the well-being of two states depending on our union, vain emotions must be suppressed. I am not without jewels, and Valladolid hath many Hebrews: thou wilt permit me to part with the baubles for such an object."
"So that thou preservest for me the jewel in which that pure mind is encased," said the King of Sicily, gallantly, "I care not if I never see another. But there will not be this need; for our friends, who have more generous souls than well-filled coffers too, can give such warranty to the lenders as will procure the means. I charge myself with this duty, for henceforth, my cousin--may I not say my betrothed!" -- "The term is even dearer than any that belongeth to blood, Fernando," answered the princess, with a simple sincerity of manner that set at nought the ordinary affectations and artificial feelings of her sex, while it left the deepest reverence for her modesty--"and we might be excused for using it. I trust God will bless our union, not only to our own happiness, but to that of our people."
"Then, my betrothed, henceforth we have but a common fortune, and thou wilt trust in me for the provision for thy wants."
"Nay, Fernando," answered Isabella, smiling, "imagine what we will, we cannot imagine ourselves the children of two hidalgos about to set forth in the world with humble dowries. Thou art a king, even now; and by the treaty of Toros de Guisando, I am solemnly recognized as the heiress of Castile. We must, therefore, have our separate means, as well as our separate duties, though I trust hardly our separate interests."
"Thou wilt never find me failing in that respect which is due to thy rank, or in that duty which it befitteth me to render thee, as the head of our ancient House, next to thy royal brother, the king."
"Thou hast well considered, Don Fernando, the treaty of marriage, and accepted cheerfully, I trust, all of its several conditions?"
"As becometh the importance of the measures, and the magnitude of the benefit I was to receive."
"I would have them acceptable to thee, as well as expedient; for, though so soon to become thy wife, I can never cease to remember that I shall be Queen of this country."
"Thou mayest be assured, my beautiful betrothed, that Ferdinand of Aragon will be the last to deem thee aught else."
"I look on my duties as coming from God, and on myself as one rigidly accountable to him for their faithful discharge. Sceptres may not be treated as toys, Fernando, to be trifled with; for man beareth no heavier burden, than when he beareth a crown."
"The maxims of our House have not been forgotten in Aragon, my betrothed--and I rejoice to find that they are the same in both kingdoms."
"We are not to think principally of ourselves in entering upon this engagement," continued Isabella, earnestly--"for that would be supplanting the duties of princes by the feelings of the lover. Thou hast frequently perused, and sufficiently conned the marriage articles, I trust?"
"There hath been sufficient leisure for that, my cousin, as they have now been signed these nine months."
"If I may have seemed to thee exacting in some particulars," continued Isabella, with the same earnest and beautiful simplicity as usually marked her deportment in all the relations of life--"it is because the duties of a sovereign may not be overlooked. Thou knowest, moreover, Fernando, the influence that the husband is wont to acquire over the wife, and wilt feel the necessity of my protecting my Castilians, in the fullest manner, against my own weaknesses."
"If thy Castilians do not suffer until they suffer from that cause, Doña Isabella, their lot will indeed be blessed."
"These are words of gallantry, and I must reprove their use on an occasion so serious, Fernando. I am a few months thy senior, and shall assume an elder sister's rights, until they are lost in the obligations of a wife. Thou hast seen in those articles, how anxiously I would protect my Castilians against any supremacy of the stranger. Thou knowest that many of the greatest of this realm are opposed to our union, through apprehension of Aragonese sway, and wilt observe how studiously we have striven to appease their jealousies."
"Thy motives, Doña Isabella, have been understood, and thy wishes in this and all other particulars shall be respected."
"I would be thy faithful and submissive wife," returned the princess, with an earnest but gentle look at her betrothed; "but I would also that Castile should preserve her rights and her independence. What will be thy influence, the maiden that freely bestoweth her hand, need hardly say; but we must preserve the appearance of separate states."
"Confide in me, my cousin. They who live fifty years hence will say that Don Fernando knew how to respect his obligations and to discharge his duty."
"There is the stipulation, too, to war upon the Moor. I shall never feel that the Christians of Spain have been true to the faith, while the follower of the arch-imposter of Mecca remaineth in the peninsula."
"Thou and thy archbishop could not have imposed a more agreeable duty, than to place my lance in rest against the infidels. My spurs have been gained in those wars, already; and no sooner shall we be crowned, than thou wilt see my perfect willingness to aid in driving back the miscreants to their original sands."
"There remaineth but one thing more upon my mind, gentle cousin. Thou knowest the evil influence that besets my brother, and that it hath disaffected a large portion of his nobles as well as of his cities. We shall both be sorely tempted to wage war upon him, and to assume the sceptre before it pleaseth God to accord it to us, in the course of nature. I would have thee respect Don Enriquez, not only as the head of our royal house, but as my brother and anointed master. Should evil counsellors press him to attempt aught against our persons or rights, it will be lawful to resist; but I pray thee, Fernando, on no excuse seek to raise thy hand in rebellion against my rightful sovereign."
"Let Don Enriquez, then, be chary of his Beltraneja!" answered the prince with warmth. "By St. Peter! I have rights of mine own that come before those of that ill-gotten mongrel! The whole House of Trastamara hath an interest in stifling that spurious scion which hath been so fraudulently engrafted on its princely stock!"
"Thou art warm, Don Fernando, and even the eye of Beatriz de Bobadilla reproveth thy heat. The unfortunate Joanna never can impair our rights to the throne, for there are few nobles in Castile so unworthy as to wish to see the crown bestowed where it is believed the blood of Pelayo doth not flow."
"Don Enriquez hath not kept faith with thee, Isabella, since the treaty of Toros de Guisando!"
"My brother is surrounded by wicked counsellors--and then, Fernando,"--the princess blushed crimson as she spoke--"neither have we been able rigidly to adhere to that convention, since one of its conditions was that my hand should not be bestowed without the consent of the king."
"He hath driven us into this measure, and hath only to reproach himself with our failure on this point."
"I endeavor so to view it, though many have been my prayers for forgiveness of this seeming breach of faith. I am not superstitious, Fernando, else might I think God would frown on a union that is contracted in the face of pledges like these. But, it is well to distinguish between motives, and we have a right to believe that He who readeth the heart, will not judge the well-intentioned severely. Had not Don Enriquez attempted to seize my person, with the plain purpose of forcing me to a marriage against my will, this decisive step could not have been necessary, and would not have been taken."
"I have reason to thank my patron saint, beautiful cousin, that thy will was less compliant than thy tyrants had believed."
"I could not plight my troth to the King of Portugal, or to Monsieur de Guienne, or to any that they proposed to me, for my future lord," answered Isabella, ingenuously. "It ill befitted royal or noble maidens to set up their own inexperienced caprices in opposition to the wisdom of their friends, and the task is not difficult for a virtuous wife to learn to love her husband, when nature and opinion are not too openly violated in the choice; but I have had too much thought for my soul to wish to expose it to so severe a trial, in contracting the marriage duties."
"I feel that I am only too unworthy of thee, Isabella--but thou must train me to be that thou wouldst wish; I can only promise thee a most willing and attentive scholar."
The discourse now became more general, Isabella indulging her natural curiosity and affectionate nature, by making many inquiries concerning her different relatives in Aragon. After the interview had lasted two hours or more, the King of Sicily returned to Dueñas, with the same privacy as he had observed in entering the town. The royal pair parted with feelings of increased esteem and respect, Isabella indulging in those gentle anticipations of domestic happiness that more properly belong to the tender nature of woman.
The marriage took place, with suitable pomp, on the morning of the 19th October, 1469, in the chapel of John de Vivero's palace; no less than two thousand persons, principally of condition, witnessing the ceremony. Just as the officiating priest was about to commence the offices, the eye of Isabella betrayed uneasiness, and turning to the Archbishop of Toledo, she said-- "Your grace hath promised that there should be nothing wanting to the consent of the church on this solemn occasion. It is known that Don Fernando of Aragon and I stand within the prohibited degrees."
"Most true, my Lady Isabella," returned the prelate, with a composed mien and a paternal smile. "Happily, our Holy Father Pius hath removed this impediment, and the church smileth on this blessed union in every particular."
The archbishop then took out of his pocket a dispensation, which he read, in a clear, sonorous, steady voice; when every shade disappeared from the serene brow of Isabella, and the ceremony proceeded. Years elapsed before this pious and submissive Christian princess discovered that she had been imposed on, the bull that was then read having been an invention of the old King of Aragon and the prelate, not without suspicions of a connivance on the part of the bridegroom. This deception had been practised from a perfect conviction that the sovereign pontiff was too much under the influence of the King of Castile, to consent to bestow the boon in opposition to that monarch's wishes. It was several years before Sixtus IV. repaired this wrong, by granting a more genuine authority.
Nevertheless, Ferdinand and Isabella became man and wife. What followed in the next twenty years must be rather glanced at than related. Henry IV. resented the step, and vain attempts were made to substitute his supposititious child, La Beltraneja, in the place of his sister, as successor to the throne. A civil war ensued, during which Isabella steadily refused to assume the crown, though often entreated; limiting her efforts to the maintenance of her rights as heiress presumptive. In 1474, or five years after her marriage, Don Henry died, and she then became Queen of Castile, though her spurious niece was also proclaimed by a small party among her subjects. The war of the succession, as it was called, lasted five years longer, when Joanna, or La Beltraneja, assumed the veil, and the rights of Isabella were generally acknowledged. About the same time, died Don John II., when Ferdinand mounted the throne of Aragon. These events virtually reduced the sovereignties of the peninsula, which had so long been cut up into petty states, to four, viz., the possessions of Ferdinand and Isabella, which included Castile, Leon, Aragon, Valencia, and many other of the finest provinces of Spain; Navarre, an insignificant kingdom in the Pyrenees; Portugal, much as it exists to-day; and Granada, the last abiding-place of the Moor, north of the strait of Gibraltar.
Neither Ferdinand, nor his royal consort, was forgetful of that clause in their marriage contract, which bound the former to undertake a war for the destruction of the Moorish power. The course of events, however, caused a delay of many years, in putting this long-projected plan in execution; but when the time finally arrived, that Providence which seemed disposed to conduct the pious Isabella, through a train of important incidents, from the reduced condition in which we have just described her to have been, to the summit of human power, did not desert its favorite. Success succeeded success--and victory, victory; until the Moor had lost fortress after fortress, town after town, and was finally besieged in his very capital--his last hold in the peninsula. As the reduction of Granada was an event that, in Christian eyes, was to be ranked second only to the rescuing of the holy sepulchre from the hands of the Infidels, so was it distinguished by some features of singularity, that have probably never before marked the course of a siege. The place submitted on the 25th November, 1491--twenty-two years after the date of the marriage just mentioned, and, it may not be amiss to observe, on the very day of the year that has become memorable in the annals of this country, as that on which the English, three centuries later, reluctantly yielded their last foothold on the coast of the republic.
In the course of the preceding summer, while the Spanish forces lay before the town, and Isabella, with her children, were anxious witnesses of the progress of events, an accident occurred that had well nigh proved fatal to the royal family, and brought destruction on the Christian arms. The pavillion of the queen took fire, and was consumed, placing the whole encampment in the utmost jeopardy. Many of the tents of the nobles were also destroyed, and much treasure, in the shape of jewelry and plate, was lost, though the injury went no further. In order to guard against the recurrence of such an accident, and probably viewing the subjection of Granada as the great act of their mutual reign--for, as yet, Time threw his veil around the future, and but one human eye foresaw the greatest of all the events of the period, which was still in reserve--the sovereigns resolved on attempting a work that, of itself, would render this siege memorable. The plan of a regular town was made, and laborers set about the construction of good substantial edifices, in which to lodge the army; thus converting the warfare into that of something like city against city. In three months this stupendous work was completed, with its avenues, streets, and squares, and received the name of Santa Fé, or Holy Faith--an appellation quite as well suited to the zeal which could achieve such a work, in the heat of a campaign, as to that general reliance on the providence of God which animated the Christians in carrying on the war. The construction of this place struck terror into the hearts of the Moors, for they considered it a proof that their enemies intended to give up the conflict only with their lives; and it is highly probable that it had a direct and immediate influence on the submission of Boabdil, the King of Granada, who yielded the Alhambra a few weeks after the Spaniards had taken possession of their new abodes.
Santa Fé still exists, and is visited by the traveller as a place of curious origin; while it is rendered remarkable by the fact--real or assumed--that it is the only town of any size in Spain, that has never been under Moorish sway.
The main incidents of our tale will now transport us to this era, and to this scene; all that has been related as yet, being merely introductory matter, to prepare the reader for the events that are to follow.
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"What thing a right line is,--the learned know; But how availes that him, who in the right Of life and manners doth desire to grow? What then are all these humane arts, and lights, But seas of errors? In whose depths who sound, Of truth finde only shadowes, and no ground."
Human Learning.
The morning of the 2d of January, 1492, was ushered in with a solemnity and pomp that were unusual even in a court and camp as much addicted to religious observances and royal magnificence, as that of Ferdinand and Isabella. The sun had scarce appeared, when all in the extraordinary little city of Santa Fé were afoot, and elate with triumph. The negotiations for the surrender of Granada, which had been going on secretly for weeks, were terminated; the army and nation had been formally apprised of their results, and this was the day set for the entry of the conquerors.
The court had been in mourning for Don Alonso of Portugal, the husband of the Princess Royal of Castile, who had died a bridegroom; but on this joyous occasion the trappings of woe were cast aside, and all appeared in their gayest and most magnificent apparel. At an hour that was still early, the Grand Cardinal moved forward, ascending what is called the Hill of Martyrs, at the head of a strong body of troops, with a view to take possession. While making the ascent, a party of Moorish cavaliers was met; and at their head rode one in whom, by the dignity of his mien and the anguish of his countenance, it was easy to recognize the mental suffering of Boabdil, or Abdallah, the deposed monarch. The cardinal pointed out the position occupied by Ferdinand, who, with that admixture of piety and worldly policy which were so closely interwoven in his character, had refused to enter within the walls of the conquered city, until the symbol of Christ had superseded the banners of Mahomet; and who had taken his station at some distance from the gates, with a purpose and display of humility that were suited to the particular fanaticism of the period. As the interview that occurred has often been related, and twice quite recently by distinguished writers of our own country, it is unnecessary to dwell on it here. Abdallah next sought the presence of the purer-minded and gentle Isabella, where his reception, with less affection of the character, had more of the real charity and compassion of the Christian; when he went his way toward that pass in the mountains that has ever since been celebrated as the point where he took his last view of the palaces and towers of his fathers, from which it has obtained the poetical and touching name of El Ultimo Suspiro Del Moro.
Although the passage of the last King of Granada, from his palace to the hills, was in no manner delayed, as it was grave and conducted with dignity, it consequently occupied some time. These were hours in which the multitude covered the highways, and the adjacent fields were garnished with a living throng, all of whom kept their eyes riveted on the towers of the Alhambra, where the signs of possession were anxiously looked for by every good Catholic who witnessed the triumph of his religion.
Isabella, who had made this conquest a condition in the articles of marriage--whose victory in truth it was--abstained, with her native modesty, from pressing forward on this occasion. She had placed herself at some distance in the rear of the position of Ferdinand. Still--unless, indeed, we except the long-coveted towers of the Alhambra--she was the centre of attraction. She appeared in royal magnificence, as due to the glory of the occasion; her beauty always rendered her an object of admiration; her mildness, inflexible justice, and unyielding truth, had won all hearts; and she was really the person who was most to profit by the victory, Granada being attached to her own crown of Castile, and not to that of Aragon, a country that possessed little or no contiguous territory.
Previously to the appearance of Abdallah, the crowd moved freely, in all directions; multitudes of civilians having flocked to the camp to witness the entry. Among others were many friars, priests, and monks--the war, indeed, having the character of a crusade. The throng of the curious was densest near the person of the queen, where, in truth, the magnificence of the court was the most imposing. Around this spot, in particular, congregated most of the religious, for they felt that the pious mind of Isabella created a sort of moral atmosphere in and near her presence, that was peculiarly suited to their habits, and favorable to their consideration. Among others, was a friar of prepossessing mien, and, in fact, of noble birth, who had been respectfully addressed as Father Pedro, by several grandees, as he made his way from the immediate presence of the queen, to a spot where the circulation was easier. He was accompanied by a youth of an air so much superior to that of most of those who did not appear that day in the saddle, that he attracted general attention. Although not more than twenty, it was evident, from his muscular frame, and embrowned but florid cheeks, that he was acquainted with exposure; and by his bearing, many thought, notwithstanding he did not appear in armor on an occasion so peculiarly military, that both his mien and his frame had been improved by familiarity with war. His attire was simple, as if he rather avoided than sought observation, but it was, nevertheless, such as was worn by none but the noble. Several of those who watched this youth, as he reached the less confined portions of the crowd, had seen him received graciously by Isabella, whose hand he had even been permitted to kiss, a favor that the formal and fastidious court of Castile seldom bestowed except on the worthy, or on those, at least, who were unusually illustrious from their birth. Some whispered that he was a Guzman, a family that was almost royal; while others thought that he might be a Ponce, a name that had got to be one of the first in Spain, through the deeds of the renowned Marquis-Duke of Cadiz, in this very war; while others, again, affected to discern in his lofty brow, firm step, and animated eye, the port and countenance of a Mendoza.
It was evident that the subject of all these commentaries was unconscious of the notice that was attracted by his vigorous form, handsome face, and elastic, lofty tread; for, like one accustomed to be observed by inferiors, his attention was confined to such objects as amused his eye, or pleased his fancy, while he lent a willing ear to the remarks that, from time to time, fell from the lips of his reverend companion.
"This is a most blessed and glorious day for Christianity!" observed the friar, after a pause a little longer than common. "An impious reign of seven hundred years hath expired, and the Moor is at length lowered from his pride; while the cross is elevated above the banners of the false prophet. Thou hast had ancestors, my son, who might almost arise from their tombs, and walk the earth in exultation, if the tidings of these changes were permitted to reach the souls of Christians long since departed."
"The Blessed Maria intercede for them, father, that they may not be disturbed, even to see the Moor unhoused; for I doubt much, agreeable as the Infidel hath made it, if they find Granada as pleasant as Paradise."
"Son Don Luis, thou hast got much levity of speech, in thy late journeyings; and I doubt if thou art as mindful of thy paters and confessions, as when under the care of thy excellent mother, of sainted memory!"
This was not only said reprovingly, but with a warmth that amounted nearly to anger.
"Chide me not so warmly, father, for a lightness of speech that cometh of youthful levity, rather than of disrespect for holy church. Nay, thou rebukest warmly, and then, as I come like a penitent to lay my transgressions before thee, and to seek absolution, thou fastenest thine eye on vacancy, and gazest as if one of the spirits of which thou so lately spokest actually had arisen and come to see the Moor crack his heart strings at quitting his beloved Alhambra!"
"Dost see that man, Luis!" demanded the friar, still gazing in a fixed direction, though he made no gesture to indicate to which particular individual of the many who were passing in all directions, he especially alluded.
"By my veracity, I see a thousand, father, though not one to fasten the eye as if he were fresh from Paradise. Would it be exceeding discretion to ask who or what hath thus riveted thy gaze?"
"Dost see yonder person of high and commanding stature, and in whom gravity and dignity are so singularly mingled with an air of poverty; or, if not absolutely of poverty--for he is better clad, and, seemingly, in more prosperity now, than I remember ever to have seen him--still, evidently not of the rich and noble; while his bearing and carriage would seem to bespeak him at least a monarch?"
"I think I now perceive him thou meanest, father; a man of very grave and reverend appearance, though of simple deportment. I see nothing extravagant, or ill-placed, either in his attire, or in his bearing."
"I mean not that; but there is a loftiness in his dignified countenance that one is not accustomed to meet in those who are unused to power."
"To me, he hath the air and dress of a superior navigator, or pilot--of a man accustomed to the seas--ay, he hath sundry symbols about him that bespeak such a pursuit."
"Thou art right, Don Luis, for such is his calling. He cometh of Genoa, and his name is Christoval Colon; or, as they term it in Italy, Christoforo Colombo."
"I remember to have heard of an admiral of that name, who did good service in the wars of the south, and who formerly led a fleet into the far east."
"This is not he, but one of humbler habits, though possibly of the same blood, seeing that both are derived from the identical place. This is no admiral, though he would fain become one--ay, even a king!"
"The man is, then, either of a weak mind, or of a light ambition."
"He is neither. In mind, he hath outdone many of our most learned churchmen; and it is due to his piety to say that a more devout Christian doth not exist in Spain. It is plain, son, that thou hast been much abroad, and little at court, or thou wouldst have known the history of this extraordinary being, at the mention of his name, which has been the source of merriment for the frivolous and gay this many a year, and which has thrown the thoughtful and prudent into more doubts than many a fierce and baneful heresy."
"Thou stirrest my curiosity, father, by such language. Who and what is the man?"
"An enigma, that neither prayers to the Virgin, the learning of the cloisters, nor a zealous wish to reach the truth, hath enabled me to read. Come hither, Luis, to this bit of rock, where we can be seated, and I will relate to thee the opinions that render this being so extraordinary. Thou must know, son, it is now seven years since this man first appeared among us. He sought employment as a discoverer, pretending that, by steering out into the ocean, on a western course, for a great and unheard-of distance, he could reach the farther Indies, with the rich island of Cipango, and the kingdom of Cathay, of which one Marco Polo hath left us some most extraordinary legends!"
"By St. James of blessed memory! the man must be short of his wits!" interrupted Don Luis, laughing. "In what way could this thing be, unless the earth were round--the Indies lying east, and not west of us?"
"That hath been often objected to his notions; but the man hath ready answers to much weightier arguments."
"What weightier than this can be found? Our own eyes tell us that the earth is flat."
"Therein he differeth from most men--and to own the truth, son Luis, not without some show of reason. He is a navigator, as thou wilt understand, and he replies that, on the ocean, when a ship is seen from afar, her upper sails are first perceived, and that as she draweth nearer, her lower sails, and finally her hull cometh into view. But thou hast been over sea, and may have observed something of this?"
"Truly have I, father. While mounting the English sea, we met a gallant cruiser of the king's, and, as thou said'st, we first perceived her upper sail, a white speck upon the water; then followed sail after sail, until we came nigh and saw her gigantic hull, with a very goodly show of bombards and cannon--some twenty at least, in all."
"Then thou agreest with this Colon, and thinkest the earth round?"
"By St. George of England! not I. I have seen too much of the world, to traduce its fair surface in so heedless a manner. England, France, Burgundy, Germany, and all those distant countries of the north, are just as level and flat as our own Castile."
"Why, then, didst thou see the upper sails of the Englishman first?"
"Why, father--why--because they were first visible. Yes, because they came first into view."
"Do the English put the largest of their sails uppermost on the masts?"
"They would be fools if they did. Though no great navigators--our neighbors the Portuguese, and the people of Genoa, exceeding all others in that craft--though no great navigators, the English are not so surpassingly stupid. Thou wilt remember the force of the winds, and understand that the larger the sail the lower should be its position."
"Then how happened it that thou sawest the smaller object before the larger?"
"Truly, excellent Fray Pedro, thou hast not conversed with this Christoforo for nothing! A question is not a reason."
"Socrates was fond of questions, son; but _he_ expected answers." " _Peste! _ as they say at the court of King Louis. I am not Socrates, my good father, but thy old pupil and kinsman, Luis de Bobadilla, the truant nephew of the queen's favorite, the Marchioness of Moya, and as well-born a cavalier as there is in Spain--though somewhat given to roving, if my enemies are to be believed."
"Neither thy pedigree, thy character, nor thy vagaries, need be given to me, Don Luis de Bobadilla, since I have known thee and thy career from childhood. Thou hast one merit that none will deny thee, and that is, a respect for truth; and never hast thou more completely vindicated thy character, in this particular, than when thou saidst thou were not Socrates."
The worthy friar's good-natured smile, as he made this sally, took off some of its edge; and the young man laughed, as if too conscious of his own youthful follies to resent what he heard.
"But, dear Fray Pedro, lay aside thy government, for once, and stoop to a rational discourse with me on this extraordinary subject. _Thou_, surely, wilt not pretend that the earth is round?"
"I do not go as far as some, on this point, Luis, for I see difficulties with Holy Writ, by the admission. Still, this matter of the sails much puzzleth me, and I have often felt a desire to go from one port to another, by sea, in order to witness it. Were it not for the exceeding nausea that I ever feel in a boat, I might attempt the experiment."
"That would be a worthy consummation of all thy wisdom!" exclaimed the young man, laughing. "Fray Pedro de Carrascal turned rover, like his old pupil, and that, too, astride a vagary! But set thy heart at rest, my honored kinsman and excellent instructor, for I can save thee the trouble. In all my journeyings, by sea and by land--and thou knowest that, for my years, they have been many--I have ever found the earth flat, and the ocean the flattest portion of it, always excepting a few turbulent and uneasy waves."
"No doubt it so seemeth to the eye; but this Colon, who hath voyaged far more than thou, thinketh otherwise. He contendeth that the earth is a sphere, and that, by sailing west, he can reach points that have been already attained by journeying east."
"By San Lorenzo! but the idea is a bold one! Doth the man really propose to venture out into the broad Atlantic, and even to cross it to some distant and unknown land?"
"That is his very idea; and for seven weary years hath he solicited the court to furnish him with the means. Nay, as I hear, he hath passed much more time--other seven years, perhaps--in urging his suit in different lands."
"If the earth be round," continued Don Luis, with a musing air, "what preventeth all the water from flowing to the lower parts of it? How is it, that we have any seas at all? and if, as thou hast hinted, he deemeth the Indies on the other side, how is it that their people stand erect? --it cannot be done without placing the feet uppermost."
"That difficulty hath been presented to Colon, but he treateth it lightly. Indeed, most of our churchmen are getting to believe that there is no up, or down, except as it relateth to the surface of the earth; so that no great obstacle existeth in that point."
"Thou would'st not have me understand, father, that a man can walk on his head--and that, too, with the noble member in the air? By San Francisco! thy men of Cathay must have talons like a cat, or they would be falling, quickly!"
"Whither, Luis?"
"Whither, Fray Pedro? --to Tophet, or the bottomless pit. It can never be that men walk on their heads, heels uppermost, with no better foundation than the atmosphere. The caravels, too, must sail on their masts--and that would be rare navigation! What would prevent the sea from tumbling out of its bed, and falling on the Devil's fires and extinguishing them?"
"Son Luis," interrupted the monk, gravely, "thy lightness of speech is carried too far. But, if thou so much deridest the opinion of this Colon, what are thine own notions of the formation of this earth, that God hath so honored with his spirit and his presence?"
"That it is as flat as the buckler of the Moor I slew in the last sortie, which is as flat as steel can hammer iron."
"Dost thou think it hath limits?"
"That do I--and please heaven, and Doña Mercedes de Valverde, I will see them before I die!"
"Then thou fanciest there is an edge, or precipice, at the four sides of the world, which men may reach, and where they can stand and look off, as from an exceeding high platform?"
"The picture doth not lose, father, for the touch of thy pencil! I have never bethought me of this before; and yet some such spot there must be, one would think. By San Fernando, himself! that would be a place to try the metal of even Don Alonso de Ojeda, who might stand on the margin of the earth, put his foot on a cloud, and cast an orange to the moon!"
"Thou hast bethought thee little of any thing serious, I fear, Luis; but to me, this opinion and this project of Colon are not without merit. I see but two serious objections to them, one of which is, the difficulty connected with Holy Writ; and the other, the vast and incomprehensible, nay, useless, extent of the ocean that must necessarily separate us from Cathay; else should we long since have heard from that quarter of the world."
"Do the learned favor the man's notions?"
"The matter hath been seriously argued before a council held at Salamanca, where men were much divided upon it. One serious obstacle is the apprehension that should the world prove to be round, and could a ship even succeed in getting to Cathay by the west, there would be great difficulty in her ever returning, since there must be, in some manner, an ascent and a descent. I must say that most men deride this Colon; and I fear he will never reach his island of Cipango, as he doth not seem in the way even to set forth on the journey. I marvel that he should now be here, it having been said he had taken his final departure for Portugal."
"Dost thou say, father, that the man hath long been in Spain?" demanded Don Luis, gravely, with his eye riveted on the dignified form of Columbus, who stood calmly regarding the gorgeous spectacle of the triumph, at no great distance from the rock where the two had taken their seats.
"Seven weary years hath he been soliciting the rich and the great to furnish him with the means of undertaking his favorite voyage."
"Hath he the gold to prefer so long a suit?"
"By his appearance, I should think him poor--nay, I know that he hath toiled for bread, at the occupation of a map-maker. One hour he hath passed in arguing with philosophers and in soliciting princes, while the next hath been occupied in laboring for the food that he hath taken for sustenance."
"Thy description, father, hath whetted curiosity to so keen an edge, that I would fain speak with this Colon. I see he remaineth yonder, in the crowd, and will go and tell him that I, too, am somewhat of a navigator, and will extract from him a few of his peculiar ideas."
"And in what manner wilt thou open the acquaintance, son?"
"By telling him that I am Don Luis de Bobadilla, the nephew of the Doña Beatriz of Moya, and a noble of one of the best houses of Castile."
"And this, thou thinkest, will suffice for thy purpose, Luis!" returned the friar, smiling. "No--no--my son; this may do with most map-sellers, but it will not effect thy wishes with yonder Christoval Colon. That man is so filled with the vastness of his purposes; is so much raised up with the magnitude of the results that his mind intently contemplateth, day and night; seemeth so conscious of his own powers, that even kings and princes can, in no manner, lessen his dignity. That which thou proposest, Don Fernando, our honored master, might scarcely attempt, and hope to escape without some rebuke of manner, if not of tongue."
"By all the blessed saints! Fray Pedro, thou givest an extraordinary account of this man, and only increasest the desire to know him. Wilt thou charge thyself with the introduction?"
"Most willingly, for I wish to inquire what hath brought him back to court, whence, I had understood, he lately went, with the intent to go elsewhere with his projects. Leave the mode in my hands, son Luis, and we will see what can be accomplished."
The friar and his mercurial young companion now arose from their seats on the rock, and threaded the throng, taking the direction necessary to approach the man who had been the subject of their discourse, and still remained that of their thoughts. When near enough to speak, Fray Pedro stopped, and stood patiently waiting for a moment when he might catch the navigator's eye. This did not occur for several minutes, the looks of Colon being riveted on the towers of the Alhambra, where, at each instant, the signal of possession was expected to appear; and Luis de Bobadilla, who, truant, and errant, and volatile, and difficult to curb, as he had proved himself to be, never forgot his illustrious birth and the conventional distinctions attached to personal rank, began to manifest his impatience at being kept so long dancing attendance on a mere map-seller and a pilot. He in vain urged his companion to advance, however; but one of his own hurried movements at length drew aside the look of Columbus, when the eyes of the latter and of the friar met, and being old acquaintances, they saluted in the courteous manner of the age.
"I felicitate you, Señor Colon, on the glorious termination of this siege, and rejoice that you are here to witness it, as I had heard affairs of magnitude had called you to another country."
"The hand of God, father, is to be traced in all things. You perceive in this success the victory of the cross; but to me it conveyeth a lesson of perseverance, and sayeth as plainly as events can speak, that what God hath decreed, must come to pass."
"I like your application, Señor; as, indeed, I do most of your thoughts on our holy religion. Perseverance is truly necessary to salvation; and I doubt not that a fitting symbol to the same may be found in the manner in which our pious sovereigns have conducted this war, as well as in its glorious termination."
"True, father; and also doth it furnish a symbol to the fortunes of all enterprises that have the glory of God and the welfare of the church in view," answered Colon, or Columbus, as the name has been Latinized; his eye kindling with that latent fire which seems so deeply seated in the visionary and the enthusiast. "It may seem out of reason to you, to make such applications of these great events; but the triumph of their Highnesses this day, marvellously encourageth me to persevere, and not to faint, in my own weary pilgrimage, both leading to triumphs of the cross."
"Since you are pleased to speak of your own schemes, Señor Colon," returned the friar, ingenuously, "I am not sorry that the matter hath come up between us; for here is a youthful kinsman of mine, who hath been somewhat of a rover, himself, in the indulgence of a youthful fancy, that neither friends nor yet love could restrain; and having heard of your noble projects, he is burning with a desire to learn more of them from your own mouth, should it suit your condescension so to indulge him."
"I am always happy to yield to the praiseworthy wishes of the young and adventurous, and shall cheerfully communicate to your young friend all he may desire to know," answered Columbus, with a simplicity and dignity that at once put to flight all the notions of superiority and affability with which Don Luis had intended to carry on the conversation, and which had the immediate effect to satisfy the young man that he was to be the obliged and honored party, in the intercourse that was to follow. "But, Señor, you have forgotten to give me the name of the cavalier."
"It is Don Luis de Bobadilla, a youth whose best claims to your notice, perhaps, are, a most adventurous and roving spirit, and the fact that he may call your honored friend, the Marchioness of Moya, his aunt."
"Either would be sufficient, father. I love the spirit of adventure in the youthful; for it is implanted, no doubt, by God, in order that they may serve his all-wise and beneficent designs; and it is of such as these that my own chief worldly stay and support must be found. Then, next to Father Juan Perez de Marchena and Señor Alonzo de Quintanilla, do I esteem Doña Beatriz, among my fastest friends; her kinsman, therefore, will be certain of my esteem and respect."
All this sounded extraordinary to Don Luis; for, though the dress and appearance of this unknown stranger, who even spoke the Castilian with a foreign accent, were respectable, he had been told he was merely a pilot, or navigator, who earned his bread by toil; and it was not usual for the noblest of Castile to be thus regarded, as it might be, with a condescending favor, by any inferior to those who could claim the blood and lineage of princes. At first he was disposed to resent the words of the stranger; then to laugh in his face; but, observing that the friar treated him with great deference, and secretly awed by the air of the reputed projector, he was not only successful in maintaining a suitable deportment, but he made a proper and courteous reply, such as became his name and breeding. The three then retired together, a little aloof from the thickest of the throng, and found seats, also, on one of the rocks, of which so many were scattered about the place.
"Don Luis hath visited foreign lands, you say, father," said Columbus, who did not fail to lead the discourse, like one entitled to it by rank, or personal claims, "and hath a craving for the wonders and dangers of the ocean?"
"Such hath been either his merit or his fault, Señor; had he listened to the wishes of Doña Beatriz, or to my advice, he would not have thrown aside his knightly career for one so little in unison with his training and birth."
"Nay, father, you treat the youth with unmerited severity; he who passeth a life on the ocean, cannot be said to pass it in either an ignoble or a useless manner. God separated different countries by vast bodies of water, not with any intent to render their people strangers to each other, but, doubtless, that they might meet amid the wonders with which he hath adorned the ocean, and glorify his name and power so much the more. We all have our moments of thoughtlessness in youth--a period when we yield to our impulses rather than to our reason; and as I confess to mine, I am little disposed to bear too hard on Señor Don Luis, that he hath had his."
"You have probably battled with the Infidel, by sea, Señor Colon," observed the young man, not a little embarrassed as to the manner in which he should introduce the subject he most desired.
"Ay, and by land, too, son"--the familiarity startled the young noble, though he could not take offence at it--"and by land, too. The time hath been, when I had a pleasure in relating my perils and escapes, which have been numerous, both from war and tempests; but, since the power of God hath awakened my spirit to mightier things, that his will may be done, and his word spread throughout the whole earth, my memory ceaseth to dwell on them." Fray Pedro crossed himself, and Don Luis smiled and shrugged his shoulders, as one is apt to do when he listens to any thing extravagant; but the navigator proceeded in the earnest, grave manner that appeared to belong to his character. "It is now very many years since I was engaged in that remarkable combat between the forces of my kinsman and namesake, the younger Colombo, as he was called, to distinguish him from his uncle, the ancient admiral of the same name, which took place not far north from Cape St. Vincent. On that bloody day, we contended with the foe--Venetians, richly laden--from morn till even, and yet the Lord carried me through the hot contest unharmed. On another occasion, the galley in which I fought was consumed by fire, and I had to find my way to land--no trifling distance--by the aid of an oar. To me, it seemeth that the hand of God was in this, and that he would not have taken so signal and tender a care of one of his insignificant creatures, unless to use him largely for his own honor and glory."
Although the eye of the navigator grew brighter as he uttered this, and his cheek flushed with a species of holy enthusiasm, it was impossible to confound one so grave, so dignified, so measured even in his exaggerations (if such they were), with the idle and light-minded, who mistake momentary impulses for indelible impressions, and passing vanities for the convictions that temper character. Fray Pedro, instead of smiling, or in any manner betraying that he regarded the other's opinions lightly, devoutly crossed himself again, and showed by the sympathy expressed in his countenance, how much he entered into the profound religious faith of the speaker.
"The ways of God are often mysterious to his creatures," said the friar; "but we are taught that they all lead to the exaltation of his name and to the glory of his attributes."
"It is so that I consider it, father; and with such views have I always regarded my own humble efforts to honor him. We are but instruments, and useless instruments, too, when we look at how little proceedeth from our own spirits and power."
"There cometh the blessed symbol that is our salvation and guide!" exclaimed the friar, holding out both arms eagerly, as if to embrace some distant object in the heavens, immediately falling to his knees, and bowing his shaven and naked head, in deep humility, to the earth.
Columbus turned his eyes in the direction indicated by his companion's gestures, and he beheld the large silver cross that the sovereigns had carried with them throughout the late war, as a pledge of its objects, glittering on the principal tower of the Alhambra. At the next instant, the banners of Castile and of St. James were unfolded from other elevated places. Then came the song of triumph, mingled with the chants of the church. Te Deum was sung, and the choirs of the royal chapel chanted in the open fields the praises of the Lord of Hosts. A scene of magnificent religious pomp, mingled with martial array, followed, that belongs rather to general history than to the particular and private incidents of our tale.
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"Who hath not proved how feebly words essay To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray? Who doth not feel, until his failing sight Faints into dimness with its own delight, His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess The might--the majesty of loveliness!"
Byron.
That night the court of Castile and Aragon slept in the palace of the Alhambra. As soon as the religious ceremony alluded to in the last chapter had terminated, the crowd rushed into the place, and the princes followed, with a dignity and state better suited to their high character. The young Christian nobles, accompanied by their wives and sisters--for the presence of Isabella, and the delay that attended the surrender, had drawn together a vast many of the gentler sex, in addition to those whose duty it was to accompany their royal mistress--hurried eagerly through the celebrated courts and fretted apartments of this remarkable residence; nor was curiosity appeased even when night came to place a temporary stay to its indulgence. The Court of the Lions in particular, a place still renowned throughout Christendom for its remains of oriental beauty, had been left by Boabdil in the best condition; and, although it was midwinter, by the aid of human art it was even then gay with flowers; while the adjacent halls, those of the Two Sisters and of Abencerrages, were brilliant with light, and alive with warriors and courtiers, dignified priests and luxuriant beauty.
Although no Spanish eye could be otherwise than familiar with the light peculiar graces of Moorish architecture, these of the Alhambra so much surpassed those of any other palace which had been erected by the Mussulman dynasties of that part of the world, that their glories struck the beholders with the freshness of novelty, as well as with the magnificence of royalty. The rich conceits in stucco, an art of eastern origin then little understood in Christendom; the graceful and fanciful arabesques--which, improved on by the fancies of some of the greatest geniuses the world ever saw, have descended to our own times, and got to be so familiar in Europe, though little known on this side of the Atlantic--decorated the walls, while brilliant fountains cast their waters into the air, and fell in glittering spray, resembling diamonds.
Among the throng that moved through this scene of almost magical beauty, was Beatriz de Bobadilla, who had long been the wife of Don Andres de Cabrera, and was now generally known as the Marchioness of Moya; the constant, near, and confidential friend of the queen, a character she retained until her royal mistress was numbered with the dead. On her arm leaned lightly a youthful female, of an appearance so remarkable, that few strangers would have passed her without turning to take a second look at features and a countenance that were seldom seen and forgotten. This was Doña Mercedes de Valverde, one of the noblest and richest heiresses of Castile; the relative, ward, and adopted daughter of the queen's friend--favorite being hardly the term one would apply to the relation in which Doña Beatriz stood toward Isabella. It was not the particular beauty of Doña Mercedes, however, that rendered her appearance so remarkable and attractive; for, though feminine, graceful, of exquisite form, and even of pleasing features, there were many in that brilliant court who would generally be deemed fairer. But no other maiden of Castile had a countenance so illuminated by the soul within, or no other female face habitually wore so deep an impression of sentiment and sensibility; and the professed physiognomist would have delighted to trace the evidences of a deeply-seated, earnest, but unobtrusive enthusiasm, which even cast a shade of melancholy over a face that fortune and the heart had equally intended should be sunny and serene. Serene it was, notwithstanding; the shadow that rested on it seeming to soften and render interesting its expression, rather than to disturb its tranquillity or to cloud its loveliness.
On the other side of the noble matron walked Luis de Bobadilla, keeping a little in advance of his aunt, in a way to permit his own dark, flashing looks to meet, whenever feeling and modesty would allow it, the fine, expressive blue eyes of Mercedes. The three conversed freely, for the royal personages had retired to their private apartments, and each group of passengers was so much entranced with the novelty of its situation and its own conversation, as to disregard the remarks of others.
"This is a marvel, Luis," observed Doña Beatriz, in continuation of a subject that evidently much interested them all, "that thou, a truant and a rover thyself, should now have heard for the first time of this Colon! It is many years since he has been soliciting their Highnesses for their royal aid in effecting his purposes. The matter of his schemes was solemnly debated before a council at Salamanca; and he hath not been without believers at the Court itself."
"Among whom is to be classed Doña Beatriz de Cabrera," said Mercedes, with that melancholy smile that had the effect to bring out glimpses of all the deep but latent feeling that lay concealed beneath the surface: "I have often heard Her Highness declare that Colon hath no truer friend in Castile."
"Her Highness is seldom mistaken, child--and never in my heart. I do uphold the man; for to me he seemeth one fitted for some great and honorable undertaking; and surely none greater hath ever been proposed or imagined by human mind, than this he urgeth. Think of our becoming acquainted with the nations of the other side of the earth, and of finding easy and direct means of communicating with them, and of imparting to them the consolations of Holy Church!"
"Ay, Señora my aunt," cried Luis, laughing, "and of walking in their delightful company with all our heels in the air, and our heads downward! I hope this Colon hath not neglected to practice a little in the art, for it will need some time to gain a sure foot, in such circumstances. He might commence on the sides of these mountains, by way of a horn-book, throwing the head boldly off at a right-angle; after which, the walls and towers of this Alhambra would make a very pretty grammar, or stepping-stone to new progress."
Mercedes had unconsciously but fervently pressed the arm of her guardian, as Doña Beatriz admitted her interest in the success of the great project; but at this sally of Don Luis, she looked serious, and threw a glance at him, that he himself felt to be reproachful. To win the love of his aunt's ward was the young man's most ardent wish; and a look of dissatisfaction could at any moment repress that exuberance of spirits which often led him into an appearance of levity that did injustice to the really sterling qualities of both his heart and mind. Under the influence of that look, then, he was not slow to repair the wrong he had done himself, by adding almost as soon as he had ceased to speak-- "The Doña Mercedes is of the discovering party, too, I see; this Colon appeareth to have had more success with the dames of Castile than with her nobles"-- "Is it extraordinary, Don Luis," interrupted the pensive-looking girl, "that women should have more confidence in merit, more generous impulses, more zeal for God, than men?"
"It must be even so, since you and my aunt, Doña Beatriz, side with the navigator. But I am not always to be understood in the light I express myself;" Mercedes now smiled, but this time it was archly--"I have never studied with the minstrels, nor, sooth to say, deeply with the churchmen. To be honest with you, I have been much struck with this noble idea; and if Señor Colon doth, in reality, sail in quest of Cathay and the Indies, I shall pray their Highnesses to let me be one of the party, for, now that the Moor is subdued, there remaineth little for a noble to do in Spain."
"If thou should'st really go on this expedition," said Doña Beatriz, with grave irony, "there will, at least, be one human being topsy-turvy, in the event of thy reaching Cathay. But yonder is an attendant of the court; I doubt if Her Highness doth not desire my presence."
The Lady of Moya was right--the messenger coming to announce to her that the queen required her attendance. The manners of the day and country rendered it unseemly that Doña Mercedes should continue her promenade accompanied only by Don Luis, and the marchioness led the way to her own apartments, where a saloon suitable to her rank and to her favor with the queen, had been selected for her from among the numberless gorgeous rooms of the Moorish kings. Even here, the marchioness paused a moment, in thought, before she would leave her errant nephew alone with her ward.
"Though a rover, he is no troubadour, and cannot charm thy ear with false rhymes. It were better, perhaps, that I sent him beneath thy balcony, with his guitar; but knowing so well his dulness, I will confide in it, and leave him with thee, for the few minutes that I shall be absent. A cavalier who hath so strong a dislike to reversing the order of nature, will not surely condescend to go on his knees, even though it be to win a smile from the sweetest maiden in all Castile."
Don Luis laughed; Doña Beatriz smiled, as she kissed her ward, and left the room; while Doña Mercedes blushed, and riveted her gaze on the floor. Luis de Bobadilla was the declared suitor and sworn knight of Mercedes de Valverde; but, though so much favored by birth, fortune, affinity, and figure, there existed some serious impediments to his success. In all that was connected with the considerations that usually decide such things, the union was desirable; but there existed, nevertheless, a strong influence to overcome, in the scruples of Doña Beatriz, herself. High-principled, accustomed to the just-minded views of her royal mistress, and too proud to do an unworthy act, the very advantages that a marriage with her ward offered to her nephew, had caused the marchioness to hesitate. Don Luis had little of the Castilian gravity of character--and, by many, his animal spirits were mistaken for lightness of disposition and levity of thought. His mother was a woman of a very illustrious French family; and national pride had induced most observers to fancy that the son inherited a constitutional disposition to frivolity, that was to be traced to the besetting weakness of a whole people. A consciousness of his being so viewed at home, had, indeed, driven the youth abroad; and as, like all observant travellers, he was made doubly sensible of the defects of his own state of society on his return, a species of estrangement had grown up between him and his natural associates that had urged the young man, again and again, to wander into foreign lands. Nothing, indeed, but his early and constantly increasing passion for Mercedes had induced him to return; a step that, fortunately for himself, he had last taken in time to assist in the reduction of Granada. Notwithstanding these traits, which, in a country like Castile, might be properly enough termed peculiarities, Don Luis de Bobadilla was a knight worthy of his lineage and name. His prowess in the field and in the tourney, indeed, was so very marked as to give him a high military character, in despite of what were deemed his failings; and he passed rather as an inconsiderate and unsafe young man, than as one who was either debased or wicked. Martial qualities, in that age in particular, redeemed a thousand faults; and Don Luis had even been known to unhorse, in the tourney, Alonzo de Ojeda, then the most expert lance in Spain. Such a man could not be despised, though he might be distrusted. But the feeling which governed his aunt, referred quite as much to her own character as to his. Deeply conscientious, while she understood her nephew's real qualities much better than mere superficial observers, she had her doubts about the propriety of giving the rich heiress who was entrusted to her care, to so near a relative, when all could not applaud the act. She feared, too, that her own partiality might deceive her, and that Luis might in truth be the light and frivolous being he sometimes appeared to be in Castilian eyes, and that the happiness of her ward would prove the sacrifice of the indiscretion. With these doubts, then, while she secretly desired the union, she had in public looked coldly on her nephew's suit; and, though unable, without a harshness that circumstances would not warrant, to prevent all intercourse, she had not only taken frequent occasions to let Mercedes understand her distrust, but she had observed the precaution not to leave so handsome a suitor, notwithstanding he was often domiciliated in her own house, much alone with her ward.
The state of Mercedes' feelings was known only to herself. She was beautiful, of an honorable family, and an heiress; and as human infirmities were as besetting beneath the stately mien of the fifteenth century as they are to-day, she had often heard the supposed faults of Don Luis' character sneered at, by those who felt distrustful of his good looks and his opportunities. Few young females would have had the courage to betray any marked preference under such circumstances, until prepared to avow their choice, and to take sides with its subject against the world; and the quiet but deep enthusiasm that prevailed in the moral system of the fair young Castilian, was tempered by a prudence that prevented her from running into most of its lighter excesses. The forms and observances that usually surround young women of rank, came in aid of this native prudence; and even Don Luis himself, though he had watched the countenance and emotions of her to whom he had so long urged his suit, with a lover's jealousy and a lover's instincts, was greatly in doubt whether he had succeeded in the least in touching her heart. By one of those unlooked-for concurrences of circumstances that so often decide the fortunes of men, whether as lovers or in more worldly-minded pursuits, these doubts were now about to be unexpectedly and suddenly removed.
The triumph of the Christian arms, the novelty of her situation, and the excitement of the whole scene, had aroused the feelings of Mercedes from that coy concealment in which they usually lay smothered beneath the covering of maiden diffidence; and throughout the evening her smile had been more open, her eye brighter, and her cheeks more deeply flushed, than was usual even with one whose smiles were always sweet, whose eyes were never dull, and whose cheeks answered so sensitively to the varying impulses within.
As his aunt quitted the room, leaving him alone with Mercedes for the first time since his return from his last ramble, Don Luis eagerly threw himself on a stool that stood near the feet of his adored, who placed herself on a sumptuous couch, that, twenty-four hours before, had held the person of a princess of Abdallah's family.
"Much as I honor and reverence Her Highness," the young man hurriedly commenced, "my respect and veneration are now increased ten-fold! Would that she might send for my beloved aunt thrice where she now wants her services only once! and may her presence become so necessary to her sovereign that the affairs of Castile cannot go on without her counsel, if so blessed an opportunity as this, to tell you all I feel, Doña Mercedes, is to follow her obedience!"
"It is not they who are most fluent of speech, or the most vehement, who always feel the deepest, Don Luis de Bobadilla."
"Nor do they feel the least. Mercedes, thou canst not doubt my love! It hath grown with my growth--increased with each increase of my ideas--until it hath got to be so interwoven with my mind itself, that I can scarce use a faculty that thy dear image doth not mingle with it. In all that is beautiful, I behold thee; if I listen to the song of a bird, it is thy carol to the lute; or if I feel the gentle south wind from the fragrant isles fanning my cheek, I would fain think it thy sigh."
"You have dwelt so much among the light conceits of the French court, Don Luis, you appear to have forgotten that the heart of a Castilian girl is too true, and too sincere, to meet such rhapsodies with favor."
Had Don Luis been older, or more experienced in the sex, he would have been flattered by this rebuke--for he would have detected in the speaker's manner, both feeling of a gentler nature than her words expressed, and a tender regret.
"If thou ascribest to me rhapsodies, thou dost me great injustice. I may not do credit to my own thoughts and feelings; but never hath my tongue uttered aught to thee, Mercedes, that the heart hath not honestly urged. Have I not loved thee since thou and I were children? Did I ever fail to show my preference for thee when we were boy and girl, in all the sports and light-hearted enjoyments of that guileless period?"
"Guileless, truly," answered Mercedes, her look brightening as it might be with agreeable fancies and a flood of pleasant recollections--doing more, in a single instant, to break down the barriers of her reserve, than years of schooling had effected toward building them up. "Thou wert then, at least, sincere, Luis, and I placed full faith in thy friendship, and in thy desire to please."
"Bless thee, bless thee, for these precious words, Mercedes! for the first time in two years, hast thou spoken to me as thou wert wont to do, and called me Luis without that courtly, accursed, Don."
"A noble Castilian should never regard his honors lightly, and he oweth it to his rank to see that others respect them, too;" answered our heroine, looking down, as if she already half repented of the familiarity. "You are quick to remind me of my forgetfulness, Don Luis de Bobadilla."
"This unlucky tongue of mine can never follow the path that its owner wisheth! Hast thou not seen in all my looks--all my acts--all my motives--a desire to please thee, and thee alone, lovely Mercedes? When Her Highness gave her royal approbation of my success, in the last tourney, did I not seek thine eye, in order to ask if thou notedst it? Hast thou ever expressed a wish, that I have not proved an eager desire to see it accomplished?"
"Nay, now, Luis, thou emboldenest me to remind thee that I expressed a wish that thou wouldst not go on thy last voyage to the north, and yet thou didst depart! I felt that it would displease Doña Beatriz; thy truant disposition having made her uneasy lest thou shouldst get altogether into the habits of a rover, and into disfavor with the queen."
"It was for this that thou madst the request, and it wounded my pride to think that Mercedes de Valverde should so little understand my character, as to believe it possible a noble of my name and lineage could so far forget his duties as to sink into the mere associate of pilots and adventurers."
"Thou didst not know that I believed this of thee."
"Hadst thou asked of me, Mercedes, to remain for thy sake--nay, hadst thou imposed the heaviest services on me, as thy knight, or as one who enjoyed the smallest degree of thy favor--I would have parted with life sooner than I would have parted from Castile. But not even a look of kindness could I obtain, in reward for all the pain I had felt on thy account"-- "Pain, Luis!"
"Is it not pain to love to the degree that one might kiss the earth that received the foot-print of its object--and yet to meet with no encouragement from fair words, no friendly glance of the eye, nor any sign or symbol to betoken that the being one hath enshrined in his heart's core, ever thinketh of her suitor except as a reckless rover and a hair-brained adventurer?"
"Luis de Bobadilla, no one that really knoweth thy character, can ever truly think thus of thee."
"A million of thanks for these few words, beloved girl, and ten millions for the gentle smile that hath accompanied them! Thou mightst mould me to all thy wishes"-- "My wishes, Don Luis?"
"To all thy severe opinions of sobriety and dignity of conduct, wouldst thou but feel sufficient interest in me to let me know that my acts can give thee either pain or pleasure."
"Can it be otherwise? Could'st thou, Luis, see with indifference the proceedings of one thou hast known from childhood, and esteemed as a friend?"
"Esteem! Blessed Mercedes! dost thou own even that little in my favor?"
"It is not little, Luis, to esteem--but much. They who prize virtue never esteem the unworthy; and it is not possible to know thy excellent heart and manly nature, without esteeming thee. Surely I have never _concealed_ my _esteem_ from thee or from any one else."
"Hast thou _concealed_ aught? Ah! Mercedes, complete this heavenly condescension, and admit that one--as lightly as thou wilt--but that one soft sentiment hath, at times, mingled with this esteem."
Mercedes blushed brightly, but she would not make the often-solicited acknowledgment. It was some little time before she answered at all. When she did speak, it was hesitatingly, and with frequent pauses, as if she distrusted the propriety or the discretion of that which she was about to utter.
"Thou hast travelled much and far, Luis," she said; "and hast lost some favor on account of thy roving propensities; why not regain the confidence of thy aunt by the very means through which it has been lost?"
"I do not comprehend thee. This is singular counsel to come from one like thee, who art prudence itself!"
"The prudent and discreet think well of their acts and words, and are the more to be confided in. Thou seemest to have been struck with these bold opinions of the Señor Colon; and while thou hast derided them, I can see that they have great weight on thy mind."
"I shall, henceforth, regard thee with ten-fold respect, Mercedes; for thou hast penetrated deeper than my foolish affectation of contempt, and all my light language, and discovered the real feeling that lieth underneath. Ever since I have heard of this vast project, it hath, indeed, haunted my imagination; and the image of the Genoese hath constantly stood beside thine, dearest girl, before my eyes, if not in my heart. I doubt if there be not some truth in his opinions; so noble an idea cannot be wholly false!"
The fine, full eye of Mercedes was fastened intently on the countenance of Don Luis; and its brilliancy increased as some of that latent enthusiasm which dwelt within, kindled and began to glow at this outlet of the feelings of the soul.
"There _is_," she answered, solemnly--"there _must_ be truth in it! The Genoese hath been inspired of Heaven, with his sublime thoughts, and he will live, sooner or later, to prove their truth. Imagine this earth fairly encircled by a ship; the farthest east, the land of the heathen, brought in close communion with ourselves, and the cross casting its shadows under the burning sun of Cathay! These are glorious, heavenly anticipations, Luis, and would it not be an imperishable renown, to share in the honor of having aided in bringing about so great a discovery?"
"By Heaven! I will see the Genoese as soon as the morrow's sun shall appear, and offer to make one in his enterprise. He shall not need for gold, if that be his only want."
"Thou speakest like a generous, noble-minded, fearless young Castilian, as thou art!" said Mercedes, with an enthusiasm that set at naught the usual guards of her discretion and her habits, "and as becometh Luis de Bobadilla. But gold is not plenty with any of us at this moment, and it will surpass the power of an ordinary subject to furnish that which will be necessary. Nor is it meet than any but sovereigns should send forth such an expedition, as there may be vast territories to govern and dispose of, should Colon succeed. My powerful kinsman--the Duke of Medina Celi--hath had this matter in close deliberation, and he viewed it favorably, as is shown by his letters to Her Highness; but even he conceived it a matter too weighty to be attempted by aught but a crowned head, and he hath used much influence with our mistress, to gain her over to the opinion of the Genoese's sagacity. It is idle to think, therefore, of aiding effectually in this noble enterprise, unless it be through their Highnesses."
"Thou knowest, Mercedes, that I can do naught for Colon, with the court. The king is the enemy of all who are not as wary, cold, and as much given to artifice as himself"-- "Luis! thou art in his palace--beneath his roof, enjoying his hospitality and protection, at this very moment!"
"Not I," answered the young man, with warmth--"this is the abode of my royal mistress, Doña Isabella; Granada being a conquest of Castile, and not of Aragon. Touching the queen, Mercedes, thou shalt never hear disrespectful word from me, for, like thyself, she is all that is virtuous, gentle, and kind in woman; but the king hath many of the faults of us corrupt and mercenary men. Thou canst not tell me of a young, generous, warm-blooded cavalier, even among his own Aragonese, who truly and confidingly loveth Don Fernando; whilst all of Castile adore the Doña Isabella."
"This may be true in part, Luis, but it is altogether imprudent. Don Fernando is a king, and I fear me, from the little I have seen while dwelling in a court, that they who manage the affairs of mortals must make large concessions to their failings, or human depravity will thwart the wisest measures that can be devised. Moreover, can one truly love the wife and not esteem the husband? To me it seemeth that the tie is so near and dear as to leave the virtues and the characters of a common identity."
"Surely, thou dost not mean to compare the modest piety, the holy truth, the sincere virtue, of our royal mistress, with the cautious, wily policy of our scheming master!"
"I desire not to make comparisons between them, Luis. We are bound to honor and obey both; and if Doña Isabella hath more of the confiding truth and pure-heartedness of her sex, than His Highness, is it not ever so as between man and woman?"
"If I could really think that thou likenest me, in any way, with that managing and false-faced King of Aragon, much as I love thee, Mercedes, I would withdraw, forever, in pure shame."
"No one will liken thee, Luis, to the false-tongued or the double-faced; for it is thy failing to speak truth when it might be better to say nothing, as witness the present discourse, and to look at those who displease thee, as if ever ready to point thy lance and spur thy charger in their very teeth."
"My looks have been most unfortunate, fair Mercedes, if they have left such memories in thee!" answered the youth, reproachfully.
"I speak not in any manner touching myself, for to me, Luis, thou hast ever been gentle and kind," interrupted the young Castilian girl, with a haste and earnestness that hurried the blood to her cheeks a moment afterward; "but solely that thou mayst be more guarded in thy remarks on the king."
"Thou beganst by saying that I was a rover"-- "Nay, I have used no such term of reproach, Don Luis; thy aunt may have said this, but it could have been with no intent to wound. I said that thou hadst travelled _far_ and _much_."
"Well--well--I merit the title, and shall not complain of my honors. Thou saidst that I had travelled _far_ and _much_, and thou spokest approvingly of the project of this Genoese. Am I to understand, Mercedes, it is thy wish that I should make one of the adventurers?"
"Such was my meaning, Luis, for I have thought it an emprise fitting thy daring mind and willing sword; and the glory of success would atone for a thousand trifling errors, committed under the heat and inconsideration of youth."
Don Luis regarded the flushed cheek and brightened eyes of the beautiful enthusiast nearly a minute, in silent but intense observation; for the tooth of doubt and jealousy had fastened on him, and, with the self-distrust of true affection, he questioned how far he was worthy to interest so fair a being, and had misgivings concerning the motive that induced her to wish him to depart.
"I wish I could read thy heart, Doña Mercedes," he at length resumed; "for, while the witching modesty and coy reserve of thy sex, serve but to bind us so much the closer in thy chains, they puzzle the understanding of men more accustomed to rude encounters in the field than to the mazes of their ingenuity. Dost thou desire me to embark in an adventure that most men, the wise and prudent Don Fernando at their head--he whom thou so much esteemest, too--look upon as the project of a visionary, and as leading to certain destruction? Did I think this, I would depart to-morrow, if it were only that my hated presence should never more disturb thy happiness."
"Don Luis, you have no justification for this cruel suspicion," said Mercedes, endeavoring to punish her lover's distrust by an affectation of resentment, though the tears struggled through her pride, and fell from her reproachful eyes. "You know that no one, here or elsewhere, hateth you; you know that you are a general favorite, though Castilian prudence and Castilian reserve may not always view your wandering life with the same applause as they give to the more attentive courtier and rigidly observant knight."
"Pardon me, dearest, most beloved Mercedes; thy coldness and aversion sometime madden me."
"Coldness! aversion! Luis de Bobadilla! When hath Mercedes de Valverde ever shown either, to _thee_?"
"I fear that Doña Mercedes de Valverde is, even now, putting me to some such proof."
"Then thou little knowest her motives, and ill appreciatest her heart. No, Luis, I am not averse, and would not appear cold, to _thee_. If thy wayward feelings get so much the mastery, and pain thee thus, I will strive to be more plain. Yes! rather than thou shouldst carry away with thee the false notion, and perhaps plunge, again, into some unthinking sea-adventure, I will subdue my maiden pride, and forget the reserve and caution that best become my sex and rank, to relieve thy mind. In advising thee to attach thyself to this Colon, and to enter freely into his noble schemes, I had thine own happiness in view, as thou hast, time and again, sworn to me, thy happiness _could_ only be secured"-- "Mercedes! what meanest thou? My happiness can only be secured by a union with thee!"
"And thy union with me can only be secured by thy ennobling that besetting propensity to roving, by some act of worthy renown, that shall justify Doña Beatriz in bestowing her ward on a truant nephew, and gain the favor of Doña Isabella."
"And thou! --would this adventure win thee, too, to view me with kindness?"
"Luis, if thou _wilt_ know all, I am won already--nay--restrain this impetuosity, and hear all I have to say. Even while I confess so much more than is seemly in a maiden, thou art not to suppose I can further forget myself. Without the cheerful consent of my guardian, and the gracious approbation of Her Highness, I will wed no man--no, not even _thee_, Luis de Bobadilla, dear as I acknowledge thee to be to my heart"--the ungovernable emotions of female tenderness caused the words to be nearly smothered in tears--"would I wed, without the smiles and congratulations of all who have a right to smile, or weep, for any of the house of Valverde. Thou and I cannot marry like a village hind and village girl; it is suitable that we stand before a prelate, with a large circle of approving friends to grace our union. Ah! Luis, thou hast reproached me with coldness and indifference to thee"--sobs nearly stifled the generous girl--"but others have not been so blind--nay, speak not, but suffer me, now that my heart is overflowing, to unburden myself to thee, entirely, for I fear that shame and regret will come soon enough to cause repentance for what I now confess--but all have not been blind as thou. Our gracious queen well understandeth the female heart, and that thou hast been so slow to discover, she hath long seen; and her quickness of eye and thought hath alone prevented me from saying to thee, earlier, a part at least of that which I now reluctantly confess"-- "How! Is Doña Isabella, too, my enemy? Have I Her Highness' scruples to overcome, as well as those of my cold-hearted and prudish aunt?"
"Luis, thy intemperance causeth thee to be unjust. Doña Beatriz of Moya is neither cold-hearted nor prudish, but all that is the reverse. A more generous or truer spirit never sacrificed self to friendship, and her very nature is frankness and simplicity. Much of that I so love in thee, cometh of her family, and _thou_ shouldst not reproach her for it. As for Her Highness, certes, it is not needed that I should proclaim her qualities. Thou knowest that she is deemed the mother of her people; that she regardeth the interests of all equally, or so far as her knowledge will allow; and that what she doth for any, is ever done with true affection, and a prudence that I have heard the cardinal say, seemeth to be inspired by infinite wisdom."
"Ay, it is not difficult, Mercedes, to seem prudent, and benevolent, and inspired, with Castile for a throne, and Leon, with other rich provinces, for a footstool!"
"Don Luis, if you would retain my esteem," answered the single-minded girl, with a gravity that had none of her sex's weakness in it, though much of her sex's truth--"speak not lightly of my royal mistress. Whatever she may have done in this matter, hath been done with a mother's feelings and a mother's kindness--thy injustice maketh me almost to apprehend, with a mother's wisdom."
"Forgive me, adored, beloved Mercedes! a thousand times more adored and loved than ever, now that thou hast been so generous and confiding. But I cannot rest in peace until I know what the queen hath said and done, in any thing that toucheth thee and me."
"Thou knowest how kind and gracious the queen hath ever been to me, Luis, and how much I have reason to be grateful for her many condescensions and favors. I know not how it is, but, while thy aunt hath never seemed to detect my feelings, and all those related to me by blood have appeared to be in the same darkness, the royal eye hath penetrated a mystery that, at the moment, I do think, was even concealed from myself. Thou rememberest the tourney that took place just before thou left us on thy last mad expedition?"
"Do I not? Was it not thy coldness after my success in that tourney, and when I even wore thy favors, that not only drove me out of Spain, but almost drove me out of the world?"
"If the world could impute thy acts to such a cause, all obstacles would at once be removed, and we might be happy without further efforts. But," and Mercedes smiled, archly, though with great tenderness in her voice and looks, as she added, "I fear thou art much addicted to these fits of madness, and that thou wilt never cease to wish to be driven to the uttermost limits of the world, if not fairly out of it."
"It is in thy power to make me as stationary as the towers of this Alhambra. One such smile, daily, would chain me like a captive Moor at thy feet, and take away all desire to look at other objects than thy beauty. But Her Highness--thou hast forgotten to add what Her Highness hath said and done."
"In that tourney thou wert conqueror, Luis! The whole chivalry of Castile was in the saddle, that glorious day, and yet none could cope with thee! Even Alonzo de Ojeda was unhorsed by thy lance, and all mouths were filled with thy praises; all memories--perhaps, it would be better to say that all memories but one--forgot thy failings."
"And that one was thine, cruel Mercedes."
"Thou knowest better, unkind Luis! That day I remembered nothing but thy noble, generous heart, manly bearing in the tilt-yard, and excellent qualities. The more mindful memory was the queen's, who sent for me, to her closet, when the festivities were over, and caused me to pass an hour with her, in gentle, affectionate discourse, before she touched at all on the real object of her command. She spoke to me, Luis, of our duties as Christians, of our duties as females, and, most of all, of the solemn obligations that we contract in wedlock, and of the many pains that, at best, attend that honored condition. When she had melted me to tears, by an affection that equalled a mother's love, she made me promise--and I confirmed it with a respectful vow--that I would never appear at the altar, while she lived, without her being present to approve of my nuptials; or, if prevented by disease or duty, at least not without a consent given under her royal signature."
"By St. Denis of Paris! Her Highness endeavored to influence thy generous and pure mind against me!"
"Thy name was not even mentioned, Luis, nor would it have been in any way concerned in the discourse, had not my unbidden thoughts turned anxiously toward thee. What Her Highness meditated, I do not even now know, but it was the manner in which my own sensitive feelings brought up thy image, that hath made me, perhaps idly, fancy the effect might be to prevent me from wedding thee, without Doña Isabella's consent. But, knowing, as I well do, her maternal heart and gentle affections, how can I doubt that she will yield to my wishes, when she knoweth that my choice is not really unworthy, though it may seem to the severely prudent in some measure indiscreet."
"But thou thinkest--thou feelest, Mercedes, that it was in fear of me that Her Highness extorted the vow?"
"I apprehended it, as I have confessed, with more readiness than became a maiden's pride, because thou wert uppermost in my mind. Then thy triumphs throughout the day, and the manner in which thy name was in all men's mouths, might well tempt the thoughts to dwell on thy person."
"Mercedes, thou canst not deny that thou believest Her Highness extorted that vow in dread of me?"
"I wish to deny nothing that is true, Don Luis; and you are early teaching me to repent of the indiscreet avowal I have made. That it was in _dread_ of you that Her Highness spoke, I do deny; for I cannot think she has any such feelings toward _you_. She was full of maternal affection for _me_, and I think, for I will conceal naught that I truly believe, that apprehension of thy powers to please, Luis, may have induced her to apprehend that an orphan girl, like myself, might possibly consult her fancy more than her prudence, and wed one who seemed to love the uttermost limits of the earth so much better than his own noble castles and his proper home."
"And thou meanest to respect this vow!"
"Luis! thou scarce reflectest on thy words, or a question so sinful would not be put to me! What Christian maiden ever forgets her vows, whether of pilgrimage, penitence, or performance--and why should I be the first to incur this disgraceful guilt? Besides, had I not vowed, the simple wish of the queen, expressed in her own royal person, would have been enough to deter me from wedding any. She is my sovereign, mistress, and, I might almost say, mother; Doña Beatriz herself scarce manifesting greater interest in my welfare. Now, Luis, thou must listen to my suit, although I see thou art ready to exclaim, and protest, and invoke; but I have heard thee patiently some years, and it is now my turn to speak and thine to listen. I do not think the queen had thee in her mind on the occasion of that vow, which was _offered_ freely by me, rather than _extorted_, as thou seemest to think, by Her Highness. I _do_, then, believe that Doña Isabella supposed there might be a danger of my yielding to thy suit, and that she had apprehensions that one so much given to roving, might not bring, or keep, happiness in the bosom of a family. But, Luis, if Her Highness hath not done thy noble, generous heart, justice; if she hath been deceived by appearances, like most of those around her; if she hath not known thee, in short, is it not thine own fault? Hast thou not been a frequent truant from Castile; and, even when present, hast thou been as attentive and assiduous in thy duties at court, as becometh thy high birth and admitted claims? It is true, Her Highness, and all others who were present, witnessed thy skill in the tourney, and in these wars thy name hath had frequent and honorable mention for prowess against the Moor; but while the female imagination yields ready homage to this manliness, the female heart yearneth for other, and gentler, and steadier virtues, at the fireside and in the circle within. This, Doña Isabella hath seen, and felt, and knoweth, happy as hath been her own marriage with the King of Aragon; and is it surprising that she hath felt this concern for me? No, Luis; feeling hath made thee unjust to our royal mistress, whom it is now manifestly thy interest to propitiate, if thou art sincere in thy avowed desire to obtain my hand."
"And how is this to be done, Mercedes? The Moor is conquered, and I know not that any knight would meet me to do battle for thy favor."
"The queen wisheth nothing of this sort--neither do I. We both know thee as an accomplished Christian knight already, and, as thou hast just said, there is no one to meet thy lance, for no one hath met with the encouragement to justify the folly. It is through this Colon that thou art to win the royal consent."
"I believe I have, in part, conceived thy meaning; but would fain hear thee speak more plainly."
"Then I will tell thee in words as distinct as my tongue can utter them," rejoined the ardent girl, the tint of tenderness gradually deepening on her cheek to the flush of a holy enthusiasm, as she proceeded: "Thou knowest already the general opinions of the Señor Colon, and the mode in which he proposeth to effect his ends. I was still a child when he first appeared in Castile, to urge the court to embark in this great enterprise, and I can see that Her Highness hath often been disposed to yield her aid, when the coldness of Don Fernando, or the narrowness of her ministers, hath diverted her mind from the object. I think she yet regardeth the scheme with favor; for it is quite lately that Colon, who had taken leave of us all, with the intent to quit Spain and seek elsewhere for means, was summoned to return, through the influence of Fray Juan Perez, the ancient confessor of Her Highness. He is now here, as thou hast seen, waiting impatiently for an audience, and it needeth only to quicken the queen's memory, to obtain for him that favor. Should he get the caravels he asketh, no doubt many of the nobles will feel a desire to share in an enterprise that will confer lasting honor on all concerned, if successful; and thou mightst make one."
"I know not how to regard this solicitude, Mercedes, for it seemeth strange to wish to urge those we affect to value, to enter on an expedition whence they may never return."
"God will protect thee!" answered the girl, her face glowing with pious ardour: "the enterprise will be undertaken for his glory, and his powerful hand will guide and shield the caravels."
Don Luis de Bobadilla smiled, having far less religious faith and more knowledge of physical obstacles than his mistress. He did full justice to her motives, notwithstanding his hastily expressed doubts; and the adventure was of a nature to arouse his constitutional love of roving, and his desire for encountering dangers. Both he and Mercedes well knew that he had fairly earned no small part of that distrust of his character, which alone thwarted their wishes; and, quick of intellect, he well understood the means and manner by which he was to gain Doña Isabella's consent. The few doubts that he really entertained were revealed by the question that succeeded.
"If Her Highness is disposed to favor this Colon," he asked, "why hath the measure been so long delayed?"
"This Moorish war, an empty treasury, and the wary coldness of the king, have prevented it."
"Might not Her Highness look upon all the followers of the man, as so many vain schemers, should we return without success, as will most likely be the case--if, indeed, we ever return?"
"Such is not Doña Isabella's character. She will enter into this project, in honor of God, if she entereth into it at all; and she will regard all who accompany Colon voluntarily, as so many crusaders, well entitled to her esteem. Thou wilt not return unsuccessful, Luis; but with such credit as will cause thy wife to glory in her choice, and to be proud of thy name."
"Thou art a most dear enthusiast, beloved girl! If I could take thee with me, I would embark in the adventure, with no other companion."
A fitting reply was made to this gallant, and, at the moment, certainly sincere speech, after which the matter was discussed between the two, with greater calmness and far more intelligibly. Don Luis succeeded in restraining his impatience; and the generous confidence with which Mercedes gradually got to betray her interest in him, and the sweet, holy earnestness with which she urged the probability of success, brought him at length to view the enterprise as one of lofty objects, rather than as a scheme which flattered his love of adventure.
Doña Beatriz left the lovers alone for quite two hours, the queen requiring her presence all that time; and soon after she returned, her reckless, roving, indiscreet, but noble-hearted and manly nephew, took his leave. Mercedes and her guardian, however, did not retire until midnight; the former laying open her whole heart to the marchioness, and explaining all her hopes as they were connected with the enterprise of Colon. Doña Beatriz was both gratified and pained by this confession, while she smiled at the ingenuity of love, in coupling the great designs of the Genoese with the gratification of its own wishes. Still she was not displeased. Luis de Bobadilla was the son of an only and much-beloved brother, and she had transferred to her nephew most of the affection she had felt for the father. All who knew him, indeed, were fond of the handsome and gallant young cavalier, though the prudent felt compelled to frown on his indiscretions; and he might have chosen a wife, at will, from among the fair and high-born of Castile, with the few occasional exceptions that denote the circumspection and reserve of higher principles than common, and a forethought that extends beyond the usual considerations of marriage. The marchioness, therefore, was not an unwilling listener to her ward; and ere they separated for the night, the ingenuous but modest confessions, the earnest eloquence, and the tender ingenuity, of Mercedes, had almost made a convert of Doña Beatriz.
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"Looke back, who list, unto the former ages, And call to count, what is of them become, Where be those learned wits and antique sages, Which of all wisdom knew the perfect somme? Where those great warriors which did overcome The world with conquest of their might and maine, And made one meare of th'earth and of their raigne."
Ruins of Time.
Two or three days had passed before the Christians began to feel at home in the ancient seat of Mahommedan power. By that time, however, the Alhambra and the town got to be more regulated than they were during the hurry, delight, and grief, of taking possession and departing; and as the politic and far from ill-disposed Ferdinand had issued strict orders that the Moors should not only be treated with kindness, but with delicacy, the place gradually settled down into tranquillity, and men began to fall into their ancient habits and to interest themselves in their customary pursuits.
Don Fernando was much occupied with new cares, as a matter of course; but his illustrious consort, who reserved herself for great occasions, exercising her ordinary powers in the quiet, gentle manner that became her sex and native disposition, her truth and piety, had already withdrawn, as far as her high rank and substantial authority would allow, from the pageantry and martial scenes of a warlike court, and was seeking, with her wonted readiness, the haunts of private affection, and that intercourse which is most congenial to the softer affections of a woman. Her surviving children were with her, and they occupied much of her maternal care; but she had also many hours for friendship, and for the indulgence of an affection that appeared to include all her subjects within the ties of family.
On the morning of the third day that succeeded the evening of the interview related in the preceding chapter, Doña Isabella had collected about her person a few of those privileged individuals who might be said to have the entrée to her more private hours; for while that of Castile was renowned among Christian courts for etiquette, habits that it had probably derived from the stately oriental usages of its Mahommedan neighbors, the affectionate nature of the queen had cast a halo around her own private circle, that at once rendered it graceful as well as delightful to all who enjoyed the high honor of entering it. At that day, churchmen enjoyed a species of exclusive favor, mingling with all the concerns of life, and not unfrequently controlling them. While we are quick to detect blemishes of this sort among foreign nations, and are particularly prone to point out the evils that have flowed from the meddling of the Romish divines, we verify the truth of the venerable axiom that teaches us how much easier it is to see the faults of others than to discover our own; for no people afford stronger evidences of the existence of this control, than the people of the United States, more especially that portion of them who dwell in places that were originally settled by religionists, and which still continue under the influence of the particular sects that first prevailed; and perhaps the strongest national trait that exists among us at this moment--that of a disposition to extend the control of society beyond the limits set by the institutions and the laws, under the taking and plausible appellation of Public Opinion--has its origin in the polity of churches of a democratic character, that have aspired to be an _imperium in imperio_, confirmed and strengthened by their modes of government and by provincial habits. Be the fact as it may among ourselves, there is no question of the ascendency of the Catholic priesthood throughout Christendom, previously to the reformation; and Isabella was too sincerely devout, too unostentatiously pious, not to allow them every indulgence that comported with her own sense of right, and among others, that of a free access to her presence, and an influence on all her measures.
On the occasion just named, among others who were present was Fernando de Talavera, a prelate of high station, who had just been named to the new dignity of Archbishop of Granada, and the Fray Pedro de Carrascal, the former teacher of Luis de Bobadilla, an unbeneficed divine, who owed his favor to great simplicity of character, aided by his high birth. Isabella, herself, was seated at a little table, where she was employed with her needle, the subject of her toil being a task as homely as a shirt for the king, it being a part of her womanly propensities to acquit herself of this humble duty, as scrupulously as if she had been the wife of a common tradesman of her own capital. This was one of the habits of the age, however, if not a part of the policy of princes; for most travellers have seen the celebrated saddle of the Queen of Burgundy, with a place arranged for the distaff, that, when its owner rode forth, she might set an example of thrift to her admiring subjects; and with our own eyes, in these luxurious times, when few private ladies even condescend to touch any thing as useful as the garment that occupied the needle of Isabella of Castile, we have seen a queen, seated amid her royal daughters, as diligently employed with the needle as if her livelihood depended on her industry. But Doña Isabella had no affectations. In feelings, speech, nature, and acts, she was truth itself; and matrimonial tenderness gave her a deeply felt pleasure in thus being occupied for a husband whom she tenderly loved as a man, while it was impossible she could entirely conceal from herself all his faults as a monarch. Near her sat the companion of her girlish days, the long-tried and devoted Beatriz de Cabrera. Mercedes occupied a stool, at the feet of the Infanta Isabella, while one or two other ladies of the household were placed at hand, with such slight distinctions of rank as denoted the presence of royalty, but with a domestic freedom that made these observances graceful without rendering them fatiguing. The king himself was writing at a table, in a distant corner of the vast apartment; and no one, the newly-created archbishop not excepted, presumed to approach that side of the room. The discourse was conducted in a tone a little lower than common; even the queen, whose voice was always melody, modulating its tones in a way not to interfere with the train of thought into which her illustrious consort appeared to be profoundly plunged. But, at the precise moment that we now desire to present to the reader, Isabella had been deeply lost in reflection for some time, and a general silence prevailed in the female circle around the little work-tables.
"Daughter-Marchioness"--for so the queen usually addressed her friend--"Daughter-Marchioness," said Isabella, arousing herself from the long silence, "hath aught been seen or heard of late of the Señor Colon, the pilot who hath so long urged us on the subject of this western voyage?"
The quick, hurried glance of intelligence and gratification, that passed between Mercedes and her guardian, betrayed the interest they felt in this question, while the latter answered, as became her duty and her respect for her mistress-- "You remember, Señora, that he was written for, by Fray Juan Perez, Your Highness' ancient confessor, who journeyed all the way from his convent of Santa Maria de Rabida, in Andalusia, to intercede in his behalf, that his great designs might not be lost to Castile."
"Thou thinkest his designs, then, great, Daughter-Marchioness?"
"Can any think them otherwise, Señora? They seem reasonable and natural, and if just, is it not a great and laudable undertaking to extend the bounds of the church, and to confer honor and wealth on one's own country? My enthusiastic ward, Mercedes de Valverde, is so zealous in behalf of this navigator's great project, that, next to her duty to her God, and her duty to her sovereigns, it seemeth to make the great concern of her life."
The queen turned a smiling face toward the blushing girl who was the subject of this remark, and she gazed at her, for an instant, with the expression of affection that was so wont to illuminate her lovely countenance when dwelling on the features of her own daughters.
"Dost thou acknowledge this, Doña Mercedes?" she said; "hath Colon so convinced thee, that thou art thus zealous in his behalf?"
Mercedes arose, respectfully, when addressed by the queen, and she advanced a step or two nearer to the royal person before she made any reply.
"It becometh me to speak modestly, in this presence," said the beautiful girl; "but I shall not deny that I feel deep concern for the success of the Señor Colon. The thought is so noble, Señora, that it were a pity it should not be just."
"This is the reasoning of the young and generous-minded; and I confess myself, Beatrice, almost as childish as any, on this matter, at times--Colon, out of question, is still here?"
"Indeed he is, Señora," answered Mercedes, eagerly, and with a haste she immediately repented, for the inquiry was not made directly to herself; "I know of one who hath seen him as lately as the day the troops took possession of the town."
"Who is that person?" asked the queen, steadily, but not severely, her eye having turned again to the face of the girl, with an interest that continued to increase as she gazed.
Mercedes now bitterly regretted her indiscretion, and, in spite of a mighty effort to repress her feelings, the tell-tale blood mounted to her temples, ere she could find resolution to reply.
"Don Luis de Bobadilla, Señora, the nephew of my guardian, Doña Beatriz," she at length answered; for the love of truth was stronger in this pure-hearted young creature, even, than the dread of shame.
"Thou art particular, Señorita," Isabella observed calmly, severity seldom entering into her communication with the just-minded and good; "Don Luis cometh of too illustrious a house to need a herald to proclaim his alliances. It is only the obscure that the world doth not trouble itself about. Daughter-Marchioness," relieving Mercedes from a state scarcely less painful than the rack, by turning her eyes toward her friend, "this nephew of thine is a confirmed rover--but I doubt if he could be prevailed on to undertake an expedition like this of Colon's, that hath in view the glory of God and the benefit of the realm."
"Indeed, Señora"--Mercedes repressed her zeal by a sudden and triumphant effort.
"Thou wert about to speak, Doña Mercedes," gravely observed the queen.
"I crave Your Highness' forgiveness. It was improperly, as your own words were not addressed to me."
"This is not the court of the Queen of Castile, daughter, but the private room of Isabella de Trastamara," said the queen, willing to lessen the effect of what had already passed. "Thou hast the blood of the Admiral of Castile in thy veins, and art even akin to our Lord the King. Speak freely, then."
"I know your gracious goodness to me, Señora, and had nearly forgotten myself, under its influence. All I had to say was, that Don Luis de Bobadilla desireth exceedingly that the Señor Colon might get the caravels he seeketh, and that he himself might obtain the royal permission to make one among the adventurers."
"Can this be so, Beatriz?"
"Luis is a truant, Señora, beyond a question, but it is not with ignoble motives. I have heard him ardently express his desire to be one of Colon's followers, should that person be sent by Your Highness in search of the land of Cathay."
Isabella made no reply, but she laid her homely work in her lap, and sat musing, in pensive silence, for several minutes. During this interval, none near her presumed to speak, and Mercedes retired, stealthily, to her stool, at the feet of the Infanta. At length the queen arose, and, crossing the room, she approached the table where Don Fernando was still busily engaged with the pen. Here she paused a moment, as if unwilling to disturb him; but soon, laying a hand kindly on his shoulder, she drew his attention to herself. The king, as if conscious whence such familiarity could alone proceed, looked around immediately, and, rising from his chair, he was the first to speak.
"These Moriscoes need looking to," he said, betraying the direction that his thoughts had so early taken toward the increase of his power--"I find we have left Abdallah many strongholds in the Apulxarras, that may make him a troublesome neighbor, unless we can push him across the Mediterranean"-- "Of this, Fernando, we will converse on some other opportunity," interrupted the queen, whose pure mind disliked every thing that even had an approach to a breach of faith. "It is hard enough for those who control the affairs of men, always to obey God and their own consciences, without seeking occasions to violate their faith. I have come to thee, on another matter. The hurry of the times, and the magnitude of our affairs, have caused us to overlook the promise given to Colon, the navigator"-- "Still busied with thy needle, Isabella, and for my comfort," observed the king, playing with the shirt that his royal consort had unconsciously brought in her hand; "few subjects have wives as considerate and kind as thou!"
"Thy comfort and happiness stand next to my duty to God and the care of my people," returned Isabella, gratified at the notice the King of Aragon had taken of this little homage of her sex, even while she suspected that it came from a wish to parry the subject that was then uppermost in her thoughts. "I would do naught in this important concern, without thy fullest approbation, if that may be had; and I think it toucheth our royal words to delay no longer. Seven years are a most cruel probation, and, unless we are active, we shall have some of the hot-blooded young nobles of the kingdom undertaking the matter, as their holiday sports."
"Thou say'st true, Señora, and we will refer the subject, at once, to Fernando de Talavera, yonder, who is of approved discretion, and one to be relied on." As the king spoke, he beckoned to the individual named, who immediately approached the royal pair. "Archbishop of Granada," continued the wily king, who had as many politic arts as a modern patriot intently bent on his own advancement--"Archbishop of Granada, our royal consort hath a desire that this affair of Colon should be immediately inquired into, and reported on to ourselves. It is our joint command that you, and others, take the matter, before the next twenty-four hours shall pass, into mature consideration and inquiry, and that you lay the result before ourselves. The names of your associates shall be given to you in the course of the day."
While the tongue of Ferdinand was thus instructing the prelate, the latter read in the expression of the monarch's eye, and in the coldness of his countenance, a meaning that his quick and practiced wits were not slow in interpreting. He signified his dutiful assent, however; received the names of his associates in the commission, of whom Isabella pointed out one or two, and then waited to join in the discourse.
"This project of Colon's is worthy of being more seriously inquired into," resumed the king, when these preliminaries were settled, "and it shall be our care to see that he hath all consideration. They tell me the honest navigator is a good Christian."
"I think him devotedly so, Don Fernando. He hath a purpose, should God prosper his present undertaking, to join in a new effort to regain the holy sepulchre."
"Umph! Such designs may be meritorious, but ours is the true way to advance the faith--this conquest of our own. We have raised the cross, my wife, where the ensigns of infidelity were lately seen, and Granada is so near Castile that it will not be difficult to maintain our altars. Such, at least, are the opinions of a layman--holy prelate--on these matters."
"And most just and wise opinions are they, Señor," returned the archbishop. "That which can be retained, it is wisest to seek, for we lose our labors in gaining things that Providence hath placed so far beyond our control, that they do not seem designed for our purposes."
"There are those, my Lord Archbishop," observed the queen, "who might argue against all attempts to recover the holy sepulchre, hearing opinions like these, from so high authority!"
"Then, Señora, they would misconceive that authority," the politic prelate hurriedly replied. "It is well for all Christendom, to drive the Infidels from the Holy Land; but for Castile it is better to dispossess them of Granada. The distinction is a very plain one, as every sound casuist must admit."
"This truth is as evident to our reason," added Ferdinand, casting a look of calm exultation out at a window, "as that yonder towers were once Abdallah's, and that they are now our own!"
"Better for Castile!" repeated Isabella, in the tones of one who mused. "For her worldly power better, perhaps, but not better for the souls of those who achieve the deed--surely, not better for the glory of God!"
"My much-honored wife, and beloved consort"--said the king.
"Señora"--added the prelate.
But Isabella walked slowly away, pondering on principles, while the eyes of the two worldings she left behind her, met, with the sort of free-masonry that is in much request among those who are too apt to substitute the expedient for the right. The queen did not return to her seat, but she walked up and down that part of the room which the archbishop had left vacant when he approached herself and her husband. Here she remained alone for several minutes, even Ferdinand holding her in too much reverence to presume to disturb her meditations, uninvited. The queen several times cast glances at Mercedes, and, at length, she commanded her to draw near.
"Daughter," said Isabella, who frequently addressed those she loved by this endearing term, "thou hast not forgotten thy freely-offered vow?"
"Next to my duty to God, Señora, I most consider my duty to my sovereign."
Mercedes spoke firmly, and in those tones that seldom deceive. Isabella riveted her eyes on the pale features of the beautiful girl, and when the words just quoted were uttered, a tender mother could not have regarded a beloved child with stronger proofs of affection.
"Thy duty to God overshadoweth all other feelings, daughter, as is just," answered the queen; "thy duty to me is secondary and inferior. Still, thou and all others, owe a solemn duty to your sovereign, and I should be unfit for the high trust that I have received from Providence, did I permit any of these obligations to lessen. It is not I that reign in Castile, but Providence, through its humble and unworthy instrument. My people are my children, and I often pray that I may have heart enough to hold them all. If princes are sometimes obliged to frown on the unworthy, it is but in humble and distant imitation of that Power which cannot smile on evil."
"I hope, Señora," said the girl, timidly, observing that the queen paused, "I have not been so unfortunate as to displease you; a frown from Your Highness would indeed be a calamity!"
"Thou? No, daughter; I would that all the maidens of Castile, noble and simple, were of thy truth, and modesty, and obedience. But we cannot permit thee to become the victim of the senses. Thou art too well taught, Doña Mercedes, not to distinguish between that which is brilliant and that which is truly virtuous"-- "Señora!" cried Mercedes, eagerly--then checking herself, immediately, for she felt it was a disrespect to interrupt her sovereign.
"I listen to what thou wouldst say, daughter," Isabella answered, after pausing for the frightened girl to continue. "Speak freely; thou addressest a parent."
"I was about to say, Señora, that if all that is brilliant is not virtuous, neither is all that is unpleasant to the sight, or what prudence might condemn, actually vicious."
"I understand thee, Señorita, and the remark hath truth in it. Now, let us speak of other things. Thou appearest to be friendly to the designs of this navigator, Colon?"
"The opinion of one untaught and youthful as I, can have little weight with the Queen of Castile, who can ask counsel of prelates and learned churchmen, besides consulting her own wisdom;" Mercedes modestly answered.
"But thou thinkest well of his project; or have I mistaken thy meaning?"
"No, Señora, I _do_ think well of Colon's scheme; for to me it seemeth of that nobleness and grandeur that Providence would favor, for the good of man and the advancement of the church."
"And thou believest that nobles and cavaliers can be found willing to embark with this obscure Genoese, in his bold undertaking?"
The queen felt the hand that she affectionately held in both her own, tremble, and when she looked at her companion she perceived that her face was crimsoned and her eyes lowered. But the generous girl thought the moment critical for the fortunes of her lover, and she rallied all her energies in order to serve his interests.
"Señora, I do," she answered, with a steadiness that both surprised and pleased the queen, who entered into and appreciated all her feelings; "I think Don Luis de Bobadilla will embark with him; since his aunt hath conversed freely with him on the nature and magnitude of the enterprise, his mind dwelleth on little else. He would be willing to furnish gold for the occasion, could his guardians be made to consent."
"Which any guardian would be very wrong to do. We may deal freely with our own, but it is forbidden to jeopard the goods of another. If Don Luis de Bobadilla persevere in this intention, and act up to his professions, I shall think more favorably of his character than circumstances have hitherto led me to do."
"Señora!"
"Hear me, daughter; we cannot now converse longer on this point, the council waiting my presence, and the king having already left us. Thy guardian and I will confer together, and thou shalt not be kept in undue suspense; but Mercedes de Valverde"-- "My Lady the Queen"-- "Remember thy vow, daughter. It was freely given, and must not be hastily forgotten."
Isabella now kissed the pale cheek of the girl and withdrew, followed by all the ladies; leaving the half-pleased and yet half-terrified Mercedes standing in the centre of the vast apartment, resembling a beautiful statue of Doubt.
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"He that of such a height hath built his mind, And reared the dwelling of his thoughts so strong As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame Of his resolved powers."
Daniel.
The following day the Alhambra was crowded with courtiers as usual; applicants for favors, those who sought their own, and those who solicited the redress of imaginary wrongs. The ante-chambers were thronged, and the different individuals in waiting jealously eyed each other, as if to inquire how far their neighbors would be likely to thwart their several views or to advance their wishes. Men bowed, in general, coldly and with distrust; and the few that did directly pass their greetings, met with the elaborated civility that commonly characterizes the intercourse of palaces.
While curiosity was active in guessing at the business of the different individuals present, and whispers, nods, shrugs of the shoulders, and meaning glances, passed among the old stagers, as they communicated to each other the little they knew, or thought they knew, on different subjects, there stood in the corner of the principal apartment, one in particular, who might be distinguished from all around him, by his stature, the gravity and dignity of his air, and the peculiar sort of notice that he attracted. Few approached him, and they that did, as they turned their backs, cast those glances of self-sufficiency and ridicule about them, that characterize the vulgar-minded when they fancy that they are deriding or sneering in consonance with popular opinion. This was Columbus, who was very generally regarded by the multitude as a visionary schemer, and who necessarily shared in that sort of contemptuous obloquy that attaches itself to the character. But even the wit and jokes of the crowd had been expended upon this subject, and the patience of those who danced attendance was getting to be exhausted, when a little stir at the door announced the approach of some new courtier. The manner in which the throng quickly gave way, denoted the presence of some one of high rank, and presently Don Luis de Bobadilla stood in the centre of the room.
"It is the nephew of Her Highness' favorite," whispered one.
"A noble of one of the most illustrious families of Castile," said another; "but a fitting associate of this Colon, as neither the authority of his guardians, the wishes of the queen, nor his high station, can keep him from the life of a vagabond."
"One of the best lances in Spain, if he had the prudence and wisdom to turn his skill to profit," observed a third.
"That is the youthful knight who hath so well deported himself in this last campaign," growled an inferior officer of the infantry, "and who unhorsed Don Alonso de Ojeda in the tourney; but his lance is as unsteady in its aim, as it is good in the rest. They tell me he is a rover."
As if purposely to justify this character, Luis looked about him anxiously a moment, and then made his way directly to the side of Colon. The smiles, nods, shrugs, and half-suppressed whispers that followed, betrayed the common feeling; but a door on the side of the closet opening, all eyes were immediately bent in that direction, and the little interruption just mentioned was as soon forgotten.
"I greet you, Señor," said Luis, bowing respectfully to Columbus. "Since our discourse of last evening I have thought of little besides its subject, and have come hither to renew it."
That Columbus was pleased by this homage, appeared in his eye, his smile, and the manner in which he raised his body, as if full of the grandeur of his own designs; but he was compelled to defer the pleasure that it always gave him to dilate on his enterprise.
"I am commanded hither, noble Señor," he answered, cordially, "by the holy Archbishop of Granada, who, it seemeth, hath it in charge from their Highnesses, to bring my affair to a speedy issue, and who hath named this very morning for that purpose. We touch upon the verge of great events: the day is not distant, when this conquest of Granada will be forgotten, in the greater importance of the mighty things that God hath held in reserve!"
"By San Pedro, my new patron! I do believe you, Señor. Cathay must lie at or near the spot you have named, and your own eyes shall not see it, and its gorgeous stories of wealth, sooner than mine. Remember Pedro de Muños, I pray you, Señor Colon."
"He shall not be forgotten, I promise you, young lord; and all the great deeds of your ancestors will be eclipsed by the glory achieved by their son. But I hear my name called; we will talk of this anon."
"El Señor Christoval Colon!" was called by one of the pages, in a loud authoritative voice, and the navigator hurried forward, buoyed up with hope and joy.
The manner in which one so generally regarded with indifference, if not with contempt, had been selected from all that crowd of courtiers, excited some surprise; but as the ordinary business of the antechamber went on, and the subordinates of office soon appeared in the rooms, to hear solicitations and answer questions, the affair was quickly forgotten. Luis withdrew disappointed, for he had hoped to enjoy another long discourse with Columbus, on a subject which, as it was connected with his dearest hopes, now occupied most of his thoughts. We shall leave him, however, and all in the ante-chambers, to follow the great navigator further into the depths of the palace.
Fernando de Talavera had not been unmindful of his orders. Instead, however, of associating with this prelate, men known to be well disposed to listen to the propositions of Columbus, the king and queen had made the mistake of choosing some six or eight of their courtiers, persons of probity and of good general characters, but who were too little accustomed to learned research, properly to appreciate the magnitude of the proposed discoveries. Into the presence of these distinguished nobles and churchmen was Columbus now ushered, and among them is the reader to suppose him seated. We pass over the customary ceremonies of the introduction, and proceed at once to the material part of the narrative. The Archbishop of Granada was the principal speaker on the part of the commissioners.
"We understand, Señor Colon," continued the prelate, "should you be favored by their Highnesses' power and authority, that you propose to undertake a voyage into the unknown Atlantic, in quest of the land of Cathay and the celebrated island of Cipango?"
"That is my design, holy and illustrious prelate. The matter hath been so often up between the agents of the two sovereigns and myself, that there is little occasion to enlarge on my views."
"These were fully discussed at Salamanca, of a verity, where many learned churchmen were of your way of thinking, Señor, though more were against it. Our Lord the King, and our Lady the Queen, however, are disposed to view the matter favorably, and this commission hath been commanded that we might arrange all previous principles, and determine the rights of the respective parties. What force in vessels and equipments do you demand, in order to achieve the great objects you expect, under the blessing of God, to accomplish?"
"You have well spoken, Lord Archbishop; it will be by the blessing of God, and under his especial care, that all will be done, for his glory and worship are involved in the success. With so good an ally on my side, little worldly means will be necessary. Two caravels of light burden are all I ask, with the flag of the sovereigns, and a sufficiency of mariners."
The commissioners turned toward each other in surprise, and while some saw in the moderate request the enthusiastic heedlessness of a visionary, others detected the steady reliance of faith.
"That is not asking much, truly," observed the prelate, who was among the first; "and, though these wars have left us of Castile with an exhausted treasury, we could compass that little without the aid of a miracle. The caravels might be found, and the mariners levied, but there are weighty points to determine before we reach that concession. You expect, Señor, to be intrusted with the command of the expedition, in your own person?"
"Without that confidence I could not be answerable for success. I ask the full and complete authority of an admiral, or a sea-commander, of their Highnesses. The force employed will be trifling in appearance, but the risks will be great, and the power of the two crowns must completely sustain that of him on whose shoulders will rest the entire weight of the responsibility."
"This is but just, and none will gainsay it. But, Señor, have you thought maturely on the advantages that are to accrue to the sovereigns, should they sustain you in this undertaking?"
"Lord Archbishop, for eighteen years hath this subject occupied my thoughts, and employed my studies, both by day and by night. In the whole of that long period have I done little that hath not had a direct bearing on the success of this mighty enterprise. The advantages to all concerned, that will flow from it, have, therefore, scarce been forgotten."
"Name them, Señor."
"First, then, as is due to his all-seeing and omnipotent protection, glory will be given to the Almighty, by the spreading of his church and the increase of his worshippers." Fernando de Talavera and all the churchmen present piously crossed themselves, an act in which Columbus himself joined. "Their Highnesses, as is meet, will reap the next advantages, in the extension of their empire and in the increase of their subjects. Wealth will flow in upon Castile and Aragon, in a rapid stream, His Holiness freely granting to Christian monarchs the thrones and territories of all infidel princes whose possessions may be discovered, or people converted to the faith, through their means."
"This is plausible, Señor," returned the prelate, "and founded on just principles. His Holiness certainly is entrusted with that power, and hath been known to use it, for the glory of God. You doubtless know, Señor Colon, that Don John of Portugal hath paid great attention to these matters already, and that he and his predecessors have probably pushed discovery to the verge of its final limits. His enterprise hath also obtained from Rome certain privileges that may not be meddled with."
"I am not ignorant of the Portuguese enterprise, holy prelate, nor of the spirit with which Don John hath exercised his power. His vessels voyage along the western shore of Africa, and in a direction altogether different from that I propose to take. My purpose is to launch forth, at once, into the broad Atlantic, and by following the sun toward his place of evening retirement, reach the eastern bounds of the Indies, by a road that will lessen the journey many months."
Although the archbishop and most of his coadjutors belonged to the numerous class of those who regarded Columbus as a brain-heated visionary, the earnest, but lofty dignity, with which he thus simply touched upon his projects; the manner in which he quietly smoothed down his white locks, when he had spoken; and the enthusiasm that never failed to kindle in his eye, as he dwelt on his noble designs, produced a deep impression on all present, and there was a moment when the general feeling was to aid him to the extent of the common means. It was a singular and peculiar proof of the existence of this transient feeling that one of the commissioners immediately inquired-- "Do you propose, Señor Colon, to seek the court of Prestor John?"
"I know not, noble Señor, that such a potentate hath even an existence," answered Columbus, whose notions had got the fixed and philosophical bias that is derived from science, and who entered little into the popular fallacies of the day, though necessarily subject to much of the ignorance of the age; "I find nothing to establish the truth of there being such a monarch at all, or such territories."
This admission did not help the navigator's cause; for to affirm that the earth was a sphere, and that Prestor John was a creature of the imagination, was abandoning the marvellous to fall back on demonstration and probabilities--a course that the human mind, in its uncultivated condition, is not fond of taking.
"There are men who will be willing to put faith in the truth of Prestor John's power and territories," interrupted one of the commissioners, who was indebted to his present situation purely to King Ferdinand's policy, "who will flatly deny that the earth is round; since we all know that there are kings, and territories, and Christians, while we see that the earth and the ocean are plains."
This opinion was received with an assenting smile by most present, though Fernando de Talavera had doubts of its justice.
"Señor," answered Columbus, mildly, "if all in this world was in truth what it seemeth, confessions would be little needed, and penance would be much lighter."
"I esteem you a good Christian, Señor Colon," observed the archbishop, sharply.
"I am such as the grace of God and a weak nature have made me, Lord Archbishop; though I humbly trust that when I shall have achieved this great end, that I may be deemed more worthy of the divine protection, as well as of the divine favor."
"It hath been said that thou deemest thyself especially set apart by Providence for this work."
"I feel that within me, holy prelate, that encourageth such a hope; but I build naught on mysteries that exceed my comprehension."
It would be difficult to say whether Columbus lost or gained in the opinions of his auditors, by this answer. The religious feeling of the age was in perfect consonance with the sentiment; but, to the churchmen present, it seemed arrogant in a humble and unknown layman, even to believe it possible that he could be the chosen vessel, when so many who appeared to have higher claims were rejected. Still no expression of this feeling was permitted, for it was then, as it is now--he who seemed to rely on the power of God, carrying with him a weight and an influence that ordinarily checked rebukes.
"You propose to endeavor to reach Cathay by means of sailing forth into the broad Atlantic," resumed the archbishop, "and yet you deny the existence of Prestor John."
"Your pardon, holy prelate--I do propose to reach Cathay and Cipango in the mode you mention, but I do not absolutely deny the existence of the monarch you have named. For the probability of the success of my enterprise, I have already produced my proofs and reasons, which have satisfied many learned churchmen; but evidence is wanting to establish the last."
"And yet Giovanni di Montecorvino, a pious bishop of our holy church, is said to have converted such a prince to the true faith, nearly two centuries since."
"The power of God can do any thing, Lord Archbishop, and I am not one to question the merits of his chosen ministers. All I can answer on this point is, to say that I find no scientific or plausible reasons to justify me in pursuing what may prove to be as deceptive as the light which recedes before the hand that would touch it. As for Cathay and its position and its wonders, we have the better established evidence of the renowned Venetians, Marco and Nicolo Polo, who not only travelled in those territories, but sojourned years at the court of their monarch. But, noble gentlemen, whether there is a Prestor John, or a Cathay, there is certainly a limit to the western side of the Atlantic, and that limit I am ready to seek."
The archbishop betrayed his incredulity in the upward turn of his eyes; but having his commands from those who were accustomed to be obeyed, and knowing that the theory of Columbus had been gravely heard and reported on, years before, at Salamanca, he determined prudently to keep within his proper sphere, and to proceed at once to that into which it was his duty to inquire.
"You have set forth the advantages that you think may be derived to the sovereigns, should your project succeed, Señor," he said, "and truly they are not light, if all your brilliant hopes may be realized; but it now remaineth to know what conditions you reserve for yourself, as the reward of all your risks and many years of anxious labor."
"All that hath been duly considered, illustrious archbishop, and you will find the substance of my wishes set forth in this paper, though many of the smaller provisions will remain to be enumerated."
As Columbus spoke he handed the paper in question to Ferdinand of Talavera. The prelate ran his eyes over it hastily at first, but a second time with more deliberation, and it would be difficult to say whether ridicule or indignation was most strongly expressed in his countenance, as he deridingly threw the document on a table. When this act of contempt was performed, he turned toward Columbus, as if to satisfy himself that the navigator was not mad.
"Art thou serious in demanding these terms, Señor?" he asked sternly, and with a look that would have caused most men, in the humble station of the applicant, to swerve from their purpose.
"Lord Archbishop," answered Columbus, with a dignity that was not easily disturbed, "this matter hath now occupied my mind quite eighteen years. During the whole of this long period I have thought seriously of little else, and it may be said to have engaged my mind sleeping and waking. I saw the truth early and intensely, but every day seems to bring it brighter and brighter before my eyes. I feel a reliance on success, that cometh from dependence on God. I think myself an agent, chosen for the accomplishment of great ends, and ends that will not be decided by the success of this one enterprise. There is more beyond, and I must retain the dignity and the means necessary to accomplish it. I cannot abate, in the smallest degree, the nature or the amount of these conditions."
Although the manner in which these words were uttered lent them weight, the prelate fancied that the mind of the navigator had got to be unsettled by his long contemplation of a single subject. The only things that left any doubt concerning the accuracy of this opinion, were the method and science with which he had often maintained, even in his own presence, the reasonableness of his geographical suppositions; arguments which, though they had failed to convince one bent on believing the projector a visionary, had, nevertheless, greatly puzzled the listener. Still, the demands he had just read seemed so extravagant, that, for a single instant, a sentiment of pity repressed the burst of indignation to which he felt disposed to give vent.
"How like ye, noble lords," he cried, sarcastically, turning to two or three of his fellow-commissioners, who had eagerly seized the paper and were endeavoring to read it, and all at the same moment, "the moderate and modest demands of the Señor Christoval Colon, the celebrated navigator who confounded the Council of Salamanca! Are they not such as becometh their Highnesses to accept on bended knees, and with many thanks?"
"Read them, Lord Archbishop," exclaimed several in a breath. "Let us first know their nature."
"There are many minor conditions that might be granted, as unworthy of discussion," resumed the prelate, taking the paper; "but here are two that must give the sovereigns infinite satisfaction. The Señor Colon actually satisfieth himself with the rank of Admiral and Viceroy over all the countries he may discover; and as for gains, one-tenth--the church's share, my brethren--yea, even one-tenth, one _humble_ tenth of the proceeds and customs, will content him!"
The general murmur that passed among the commissioners, denoted a common dissatisfaction, and at that instant Columbus had not a true supporter in the room.
"Nor is this all, illustrious nobles, and holy priests," continued the archbishop, following up his advantage as soon as he believed his auditors ready to hear him--"nor is this all; lest these high dignities should weary their Highnesses' shoulders, and those of their royal progeny, the liberal Genoese actually consenteth to transmit them to his own posterity, in all time to come; converting the kingdom of Cathay into a realm for the uses of the house of Colon, to maintain the dignity of which, the tenth of all the benefits are to be consigned to its especial care!"
There would have been an open laugh at this sally, had not the noble bearing of Columbus checked its indulgence; and even Ferdinand of Talavera, under the stern rebuke of an eye and mien that carried with them a grave authority, began to think he had gone too far.
"Your pardon, Señor Colon," he immediately and more courteously added; "but your conditions sounded so lofty that they have quite taken me by surprise. You cannot seriously mean to maintain them?"
"Not one jot will I abate, Lord Priest: that much will be my due; and he that consenteth to less than he deserveth, becometh an instrument of his own humiliation. I shall give to the sovereigns an empire that will far exceed in value all their other possessions, and I claim my reward. I tell you, moreover, reverend prelate, that there is much in reserve, and that these conditions will be needed to fulfil the future."
"These are truly modest proposals for a nameless Genoese!" exclaimed one of the courtiers, who had been gradually swelling with disgust and contempt. "The Señor Colon will be certain of commanding in the service of their Highnesses, and if nothing is done he will have that high honor without cost; whereas, should this most improbable scheme lead to any benefits, he will become a vice-king, humbly contenting himself with the church's revenue!"
This remark appeared to determine the wavering, and the commissioners rose, in a body, as if the matter were thought to be unworthy of further discussion. With the view to preserve at least the appearance of impartiality and discretion, however, the archbishop turned once more toward Columbus, and now, certain of obtaining his ends, he spoke to him in milder tones.
"For the last time, Señor," he said, "I ask if you still insist on these unheard-of terms?"
"On them, and on no other," said Columbus, firmly. "I know the magnitude of the services I shall perform, and will not degrade them--will in no manner lessen their dignity, by accepting aught else. But, Lord Archbishop, and you, too, noble Señor, that treateth my claims so lightly, I am ready to add to the risk of person, life, and name, that of gold. I will furnish one-eighth of the needful sums, if ye will increase my benefits in that proportion."
"Enough, enough," returned the prelate, preparing to quit the room; "we will make our report to the sovereigns, this instant, and thou shalt speedily know their pleasure."
Thus terminated the conference. The courtiers left the room, conversing earnestly among themselves, like men who did not care to repress their indignation; while Columbus, filled with the noble character of his own designs, disappeared in another direction, with the bearing of one whose self-respect was not to be lessened by clamor, and who appreciated ignorance and narrowness of views too justly to suffer them to change his own high purposes.
Ferdinand of Talavera was as good as his word. He was the queen's confessor, and, in virtue of that holy office, had at all times access to her presence. Full of the subject of the late interview, he took his way directly to the private apartments of the queen, and, as a matter of course, was at once admitted. Isabella heard his representations with mortification and regret, for she had begun to set her heart on the sailing of this extraordinary expedition. But the influence of the archbishop was very great, for his royal penitent knew the sincerity and devotedness of his heart.
"This carrieth presumption to insolence, Señora," continued the irritated churchman; "have we not here a mendicant adventurer demanding honors and authority that belong only to God and his anointed, the princes of the earth? Who is this Colon? --a nameless Genoese, without rank, services, or modesty, and yet doth he carry his pretensions to a height that might cause even a Guzman to hesitate."
"He is a good Christian, holy prelate," Isabella meekly answered, "and seemeth to delight in the service and glory of God, and to wish to favor the extension of his visible and Catholic church."
"True, Señora, and yet may there be deceit in this"-- "Nay, Lord Archbishop, I do not think that deceit is the man's failing, for franker speech and more manly bearing it is not usual to see, even in the most powerful. He hath solicited us for years, and yet no act of meanness may be fairly laid to his charge."
"I shall not judge the heart of this man harshly, Doña Isabella, but we may judge of his actions and his pretensions, and how far they may be suitable to the dignity of the two crowns, freely and without censure. I confess him grave, and plausible, and light of neither discourse nor manner, virtues certainly, as the world moveth in courts"--Isabella smiled, but she said nothing, for her ghostly counsellor was wont to rebuke with freedom, and she to listen with humility--"where the age is not exhibiting its purest models of sobriety of thought and devotion, but even these may exist without the spirit that shall be fitted for heaven. But what are gravity and decorum, if sustained by an inflated pride and inordinate rapacity? ambition being a term too lofty for such a craving. Reflect, Señora, on the full nature of these demands. This Colon requireth to be established, forever, in the high state of a substitute for a king, not only for his own person, but for those of his descendants throughout all time, with the title and authority of Admiral over all adjacent seas, should he discover any of the lands he so much exalts, before he will consent to enter into the command of certain of Your Highnesses' vessels, a station of itself only too honorable for one of so little note! Should his most extravagant pretensions be realized--and the probabilities are that they will entirely fail--his demands would exceed his services; whereas, in the case of failure, the Castilian and Aragonese names would be covered with ridicule, and a sore disrespect would befal the royal dignity for having been thus duped by an adventurer. Much of the glory of this late conquest would be tarnished, by a mistake so unfortunate."
"Daughter-Marchioness," observed the queen, turning toward the faithful, and long-tried friend who was occupied with her needle near her own side--"these conditions of Colon do, truly, seem to exceed the bounds of reason."
"The enterprise also exceedeth all the usual bounds of risks and adventures, Señora," was the steady reply of Doña Beatriz, as she glanced toward the countenance of Mercedes. "Noble efforts deserve noble rewards."
The eye of Isabella followed the glance of her friend, and it remained fixed for some time on the pale, anxious features of her favorite's ward. The beautiful girl herself was unconscious of the attention she excited; but one who knew her secret might easily detect the intense feeling with which she awaited the issue. The opinions of her confessor had seemed so reasonable, that Isabella was on the point of assenting to the report of the commissioners, and of abandoning altogether the secret hopes and expectations she had begun to couple with the success of the navigator's schemes, when a gentler feeling, one that belonged peculiarly to her own feminine heart, interposed to give the mariner another chance. It is seldom that woman is dead to the sympathies connected with the affections, and the wishes that sprang from the love of Mercedes de Valverde were the active cause of the decision that the Queen of Castile came to at that critical moment.
"We must be neither harsh nor hasty with this Genoese, Lord Archbishop," she said, turning again to the prelate. "He hath the virtues of devoutness and fair-dealing, and these are qualities that sovereigns learn to prize. His demands no doubt have become somewhat exaggerated by long brooding, in his thoughts, on a favorite and great scheme; but kind words and reason may yet lead him to more moderation. Let him, then, be tried with propositions of our own, and doubtless, his necessities, if not a sense of justice, will cause him to accept them. The viceroyalty doth, indeed, exceed the usual policy of princes, and, as you say, holy prelate, the tenth is the church's share; but the admiral's rank may be fairly claimed. Meet him, then, with these moderated proposals, and substitute a fifteenth for a tenth; let him be a viceroy in his own person, during the pleasure of Don Fernando and myself, but let him relinquish the claim for his posterity."
Fernando de Talavera thought even these concessions too considerable, but, while he exercised his sacred office with a high authority, he too well knew the character of Isabella to presume to dispute an order she had once issued, although it was in her own mild and feminine manner. After receiving a few more instructions, therefore, and obtaining the counsel of the king, who was at work in an adjoining cabinet, the prelate went to execute this new commission.
Two or three days now passed before the subject was finally disposed of, and Isabella was again seated in the domestic circle, when admission was once more demanded in behalf of her confessor. The archbishop entered with a flushed face, and his whole appearance was so disturbed that it must have been observed by the most indifferent person.
"How now, holy archbishop,"--demanded Isabella--"doth thy new flock vex thy spirit, and is it so very hard to deal with an infidel?" " 'Tis naught of that, Señora--'tis naught relating to my new people. I find even the followers of the false prophet more reasonable than some who exult in Christ's name and favor. This Colon is a madman, and better fitted to become a saint in Mussulmans' eyes, than even a pilot in Your Highness' service."
At this burst of indignation, the queen, the Marchioness of Moya, and Doña Mercedes de Valverde, simultaneously dropped their needle-work, and sat looking at the prelate, with a common concern. They had all hoped that the difficulties which stood in the way of a favorable termination to the negotiation would be removed, and that the time was at hand, when the being who, in spite of the boldness and unusual character of his projects, had succeeded in so signally commanding their respect, and in interesting their feelings, was about to depart, and to furnish a practical solution to problems that had as much puzzled their reasons as they had excited their curiosity. But here was something like a sudden and unlooked-for termination to all their expectations; and while Mercedes felt something like despair chilling her heart, the queen and Doña Beatriz were both displeased.
"Didst thou duly explain to Señor Colon, the nature of our proposals, Lord Archbishop?" the former asked, with more severity of manner than she was accustomed to betray; "and doth he still insist on the pretensions to a vice-regal power, and on the offensive condition in behalf of his posterity?"
"Even so, Your Highness; were it Isabella of Castile treating with Henry of England or Louis of France, the starving Genoese could not hold higher terms or more inflexible conditions. He abateth nothing. The man deemeth himself chosen of God, to answer certain ends, and his language and conditions are such as one who felt a holy impulse to his course, could scarcely feel warranted in assuming."
"This constancy hath its merit," observed the queen; "but there is a limit to concession. I shall urge no more in the navigator's favor, but leave him to the fortune that naturally followeth self-exaltation and all extravagance of demand."
This speech apparently sealed the fate of Columbus in Castile. The archbishop was appeased, and, first holding a short private conference with his royal penitent, he left the room. Shortly after, Christoval Colon, as he was called by the Spaniards--Columbus, as he styled himself in later life--received, for a definite answer, the information that his conditions were rejected, and that the negotiation for the projected voyage to the Indies was finally at an end.
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"Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour, I've seen my fondest hopes decay; I never loved a tree or flower, But 'twas the first to fade away."
Lalla Rookh.
The season had now advanced to the first days of February, and, in that low latitude, the weather was becoming genial and spring-like. On the morning succeeding that of the interview just related, some six or eight individuals, attracted by the loveliness of the day, and induced morally by a higher motive, were assembled before the door of one of those low dwellings of Santa Fé that had been erected for the accommodation of the conquering army. Most of these persons were grave Spaniards of a certain age, though young Luis de Bobadilla was also there, and the tall, dignified form of Columbus was in the group. The latter was equipped for the road, and a stout, serviceable Andalusian mule stood ready to receive its burden, near at hand. A charger was by the side of the mule, showing that the rider of the last was about to have company. Among the Spaniards were Alonzo de Quintanilla, the accountant-general of Castile, a firm friend of the navigator, and Luis de St. Angel, the receiver of the ecclesiastical revenues of Aragon, who was one of the firmest converts that Columbus had made to the philosophical accuracy of his opinions and to the truth of his vast conceptions.
The two last had been in earnest discourse with the navigator, but the discussion had closed, and Señor de St. Angel, a man of generous feelings and ardent imagination, was just expressing himself warmly, in the following words-- "By the lustre of the two crowns!" he cried, "this ought not to come to pass. But, adieu, Señor Colon--God have you in his holy keeping, and send you wiser and less prejudiced judges, hereafter. The past can only cause us shame and grief, while the future is in the womb of time."
The whole party, with the exception of Luis de Bobadilla, then took their leave. As soon as the place was clear, Columbus mounted, and passed through the thronged streets, attended by the young noble on his charger. Not a syllable was uttered by either, until they were fairly on the plain, though Columbus often sighed like a man oppressed with grief. Still, his mien was calm, his bearing dignified, and his eye lighted with that unquenchable fire which finds its fuel in the soul within.
When fairly without the gates, Columbus turned courteously to his young companion and thanked him for his escort; but, with a consideration for the other that was creditable to his heart, he added-- "While I am so grateful for this honor, coming from one so noble and full of hopes, I must not forget your own character. Didst thou not remark, friend Luis, as we passed through the streets, that divers Spaniards pointed at me, as the object of scorn?"
"I did, Señor," answered Luis, his cheek glowing with indignation, "and had it not been that I dreaded your displeasure, I would have trodden the vagabonds beneath my horse's feet, failing of a lance to spit them on!"
"Thou hast acted most wisely in showing forbearance. But these are men, and their common judgment maketh public opinion; nor do I perceive that the birth, or the opportunities, causeth material distinctions between them, though the manner of expression vary. There are vulgar among the noble, and noble among the lowly. This very act of kindness of thine, will find its deriders and contemners in the court of the two sovereigns."
"Let him look to it, who presumeth to speak lightly of you, Señor, to Luis de Bobadilla! We are not a patient race, and Castilian blood is apt to be hot blood."
"I should be sorry that any man but myself should draw in my quarrel. But, if we take offence at all who think and speak folly, we may pass our days in harness. Let the young nobles have their jest, if it give them pleasure--but do not let me regret my friendship for thee."
Luis promised fairly, and then, as if his truant thoughts would revert to the subject unbidden, he hastily resumed-- "You speak of the noble as of a class different from your own--surely, Señor Colon, thou art noble?"
"Would it make aught different in thy opinions and feelings, young man, were I to answer no?"
The cheek of Don Luis flushed, and, for an instant, he repented of his remark; but falling back on his own frank and generous nature, he answered immediately, without reservation or duplicity-- "By San Pedro, my new patron! I could wish you were noble, Señor, if it were merely for the honor of the class. There are so many among us who do no credit to their spurs, that we might gladly receive such an acquisition."
"This world is made up of changes, young Señor," returned Columbus, smiling. "The seasons undergo their changes; night follows day; comets come and go; monarchs become subjects, and subjects monarchs; nobles lose the knowledge of their descent, and plebeians rise to the rank of nobles. There is a tradition among us, that we were formerly of the privileged class; but time and our unlucky fortune have brought us down to humble employments. Am I to lose the honor of Don Luis de Bobadilla's company in the great voyage, should I be more fortunate in France than I have been in Castile, because his commander happeneth to have lost the evidences of his nobility?"
"That would be a most unworthy motive, Señor, and I hasten to correct your mistake. As we are now about to part for some time, I ask permission to lay bare my whole soul to you. I confess that when first I heard of this voyage, it struck me as a madman's scheme"-- "Ah! friend Luis," interrupted Columbus, with a melancholy shake of the head, "this is the opinion of but too many! I fear Don Ferdinand of Aragon, as well as that stern prelate, his namesake, who hath lately disposed of the question, thinketh in the same manner."
"I crave your pardon, Señor Colon, if I have uttered aught to give you pain; but if I have once done you injustice, I am ready enough to expiate the wrong, as you will quickly see. Thinking thus, I entered into discourse with you, with a view to amuse myself with fancied ravings; but, though no immediate change of opinion followed as to the truth of the theory, I soon perceived that a great philosopher and profound reasoner had the matter in hand. Here my judgment might have rested, and my opinion been satisfied, but for a circumstance of deep moment to myself. You must know, Señor, though come of the oldest blood of Spain, and not without fair possessions, that I may not always have answered the hopes of those who have been charged with the care of my youth"-- "This is unnecessary, noble sir"-- "Nay, by St. Luke! it shall be said. Now, I have two great and engrossing passions, that sometimes interfere with each other. The one is a love for rambling--a burning desire to see foreign lands, and this, too, in a free and roving fashion--with a disposition for the sea and the doings of havens; and the other is a love for Mercedes de Valverde, the fairest, gentlest, most affectionate, warmest-hearted, and truest maiden of Castile!"
"Noble, withal," put in Columbus, smiling.
"Señor," answered Luis, gravely, "I jest not concerning my guardian angel. She is not only noble, and every way fitted to honor my name, but she hath the blood of the Guzmans, themselves, in her veins. But I have lost favor with others, if not with my lovely mistress, in yielding to this rambling inclination; and even my own aunt, who is her guardian, hath not looked smilingly on my suit. Doña Isabella, whose word is law among all the noble virgins of the court, hath also her prejudices, and it hath become necessary to regain her good opinion, to win the Doña Mercedes. It struck me"--Luis was too manly to betray his mistress by confessing that the thought was hers--"it struck me, that if my rambling tastes took the direction of some noble enterprise, like this you urge, that what hath been a demerit might be deemed a merit in the royal eyes, which would be certain soon to draw all other eyes after them. With this hope, then, I first entered into the present intercourse, until the force of your arguments hath completed my conversion, and now no churchman hath more faith in the head of his religion, than I have that the shortest road to Cathay is athwart the broad Atlantic; or no Lombard is more persuaded that his Lombardy is flat, than I feel convinced that this good earth of ours is a sphere."
"Speak reverently of the ministers of the altar, young Señor," said Columbus, crossing himself, "for no levity should be used in connection with their holy office. It seemeth, then," he added, smiling, "I owe my disciple to the two potent agents of love and reason; the former, as most potent, overcoming the first obstacles, and the latter getting uppermost at the close of the affair, as is wont to happen--love, generally, triumphing in the onset, and reason, last."
"I'll not deny the potency of the power, Señor, for I feel it too deeply to rebel against it. You now know my secret, and when I have made you acquainted with my intentions, all will be laid bare. I here solemnly vow"--Don Luis lifted his cap and looked to heaven, as he spoke--"to join you in this voyage, on due notice, sail from whence you may, in whatever bark you shall choose, and whenever you please. In doing this, I trust, first to serve God and his church; secondly, to visit Cathay and those distant and wonderful lands; and lastly, to win Doña Mercedes de Valverde."
"I accept the pledge, young sir," rejoined Columbus, struck by his earnestness, and pleased with his sincerity--"though it might have been a more faithful representation of your thoughts had the order of the motives been reversed."
"In a few months I shall be master of my own means," continued the youth, too intent on his own purposes to heed what the navigator had said--"and then, nothing but the solemn command of Doña Isabella, herself, shall prevent our having one caravel, at least; and the coffers of Bobadilla must have been foully dealt by, during their master's childhood, if they do not afford two. I am no subject of Don Fernando's, but a servant of the elder branch of the House of Trastamara; and the cold judgment of the king, even, shall not prevent it."
"This soundeth generously, and thy sentiments are such as become a youthful and enterprising noble; but the offer cannot be accepted. It would not become Columbus to use gold that came from so confiding a spirit and so inexperienced a head; and there are still greater obstacles than this. My enterprise must rest on the support of some powerful prince. Even the Guzman hath not deemed himself of sufficient authority to uphold a scheme so large. Did we make the discoveries without that sanction, we should be toiling for others, without security for ourselves, since the Portuguese or some other monarch would wrong us of our reward. That I am destined to effect this great work, I feel, and it must be done in a manner suited to the majesty of the thought and to the magnitude of the subject. And, here, Don Luis, we must part. Should my suit be successful at the court of France, thou shalt hear from me, for I ask no better than to be sustained by hearts and hands like thine. Still, thou must not mar thy fortunes unheedingly, and I am now a fallen man in Castile. It may not serve thee a good turn, to be known to frequent my company any longer--and I again say, here we must part."
Luis de Bobadilla protested his indifference to what others might think; but the more experienced Columbus, who rose so high above popular clamor in matters that affected himself, felt a generous reluctance to permit this confiding youth to sacrifice his hopes, to any friendly impressions in his own favor. The leave-taking was warm, and the navigator felt a glow at his heart, as he witnessed the sincere and honest emotions that the young man could not repress at parting. They separated, however, about half a league from the town, and each bent his way in his own direction; Don Luis de Bobadilla's heart swelling with indignation at the unworthy treatment that there was, in sooth, so much reason for thinking his new friend had received.
Columbus journeyed on, with very different emotions. Seven weary years had he been soliciting the monarchs and nobles of Spain to aid him in his enterprise. In that long period, how much of poverty, contempt, ridicule, and even odium, had he not patiently encountered, rather than abandon the slight hold that he had obtained on a few of the more liberal and enlightened minds of the nation! He had toiled for bread while soliciting the great to aid themselves in becoming still more powerful; and each ray of hope, however feeble, had been eagerly caught at with joy, each disappointment borne with a constancy that none but the most exalted spirit could sustain. But he was now required to endure the most grievous of all his pains. The recall of Isabella had awakened within him a confidence to which he had long been a stranger; and he awaited the termination of the siege with the calm dignity that became his purpose, no less than his lofty philosophy. The hour of leisure had come, and it produced a fatal destruction to all his buoyant hopes. He had thought his motives understood, his character appreciated, and his high objects felt; but he now found himself still regarded as a visionary projector, his intentions distrusted, and his promised services despised. In a word, the bright expectations that had cheered his toil for years, had vanished in a day, and the disappointment was all the greater for the brief, but delusive hopes produced by his recent favor.
It is not surprising, therefore, that, when left alone on the highway, even the spirit of this extraordinary man grew faint within him, and he had to look to the highest power for succor. His head dropped upon his breast, and one of those bitter moments occurred, in which the past and the future, crowd the mind, painfully as to sufferings endured, cheerlessly as to hope. The time wasted in Spain seemed a blot in his existence, and then came the probability of another long and exhausting probation, that, like this, might lead to nothing. He had already reached the lustrum that would fill his threescore years, and life seemed slipping from beneath him, while its great object remained unachieved. Still the high resolution of the man sustained him. Not once did he think of a compromise of what he felt to be his rights--not once did he doubt of the practicability of accomplishing the great enterprise that others derided. His heart was full of courage, even while his bosom was full of grief. "There is a wise, a merciful, and omnipotent God!" he exclaimed, raising his eyes to heaven. "He knoweth what is meet for his own glory, and in him do I put my trust." There was a pause, and the eyes kindled, while a scarcely perceptible smile lighted the grave face, and then were murmured the words--"Yea, he taketh his time, but the Infidel shall be enlightened, and the blessed sepulchre redeemed!"
After this burst of feeling, the grave-looking man, whose hairs had already become whitened to the color of snow, by cares, and toils, and exposures, pursued his way, with the quiet dignity of one who believed that he was not created for naught, and who trusted in God for the fulfilment of his destiny. If quivering sighs occasionally broke out of his breast, they did not disturb the placidity of his venerable countenance; if grief and disappointment still lay heavy on his heart, they rested on a base that was able to support them. Leaving Columbus to follow the common mule-track across the Vega, we will now return to Santa Fé, where Ferdinand and Isabella had re-established their court, after the few first days that succeeded the possession of their new conquest.
Luis de St. Angel was a man of ardent feelings and generous impulses. He was one of those few spirits who live in advance of their age, and who permitted his reason to be enlightened and cheered by his imagination, though it was never dazzled by it. As he and his friend Alonzo de Quintanilla, after quitting Columbus as already related, walked toward the royal pavillion, they conversed freely together concerning the man, his vast conceptions, the treatment he had received, and the shame that would alight on Spain in consequence, were he suffered thus to depart forever. Blunt of speech, the receiver of the ecclesiastical revenues did not measure his terms, every syllable of which found an echo in the heart of the accountant-general, who was an old and fast friend of the navigator. In short, by the time they reached the pavilion, they had come to the resolution to make one manly effort to induce the queen to yield to Columbus' terms and to recall him to her presence.
Isabella was always easy of access to such of her servants as she knew to be honest and zealous. The age was one of formality, and, in many respects, of exaggeration, while the court was renowned for ceremony; but the pure spirit of the queen threw a truth and a natural grace around all that depended on her, which rendered mere forms, except as they were connected with delicacy and propriety, useless, and indeed impracticable. Both the applicants for the interview enjoyed her favor, and the request was granted with that simple directness that this estimable woman loved to manifest, whenever she thought she was about to oblige any whom she esteemed.
The queen was surrounded by the few ladies among whom she lived in private, as Luis de St. Angel and Alonzo de Quintanilla entered. Among them, of course, were the Marchioness of Moya and Doña Mercedes de Valverde. The king, on this occasion, was in an adjoining closet, at work, as usual, with his calculations and orders. Official labor was Ferdinand's relaxation, and he seldom manifested more happiness than when clearing off a press of affairs that most men would have found to the last degree burdensome. He was a hero in the saddle, a warrior at the head of armies, a sage in council, and respectable, if not great, in all things but motives.
"What has brought the Señor St. Angel and the Señor Quintanilla, as suitors, so early to my presence?" asked Isabella, smiling in a way to assure both that the boon would be asked of a partial mistress. "Ye are not wont to be beggars, and the hour is somewhat unusual."
"All hours are suitable, gracious lady, when one cometh to _confer_ and not to _seek_ favor," returned Luis de St. Angel, bluntly. "We are not here to solicit for ourselves, but to show Your Highness the manner in which the crown of Castile may be garnished with brighter jewels than any it now possesseth."
Isabella looked surprised, both at the words of the speaker, and at his hurried earnestness, as well as his freedom of speech. Accustomed, however, to something of the last, her own calm manner was not disturbed, nor did she even seem displeased.
"Hath the Moor another kingdom of which to be despoiled," she asked; "or would the receiver of the church's revenues have us war upon the Holy See?"
"I would have Your Highness accept the boons that come from God, with alacrity and gratitude, and not reject them unthankfully," returned de St. Angel, kissing the queen's offered hand with a respect and affection that neutralized the freedom of his words. "Do you know, my gracious mistress, that the Señor Christoval Colon, he from whose high projects we Spaniards have hoped so much, hath actually taken mule and quitted Santa Fé?"
"I expected as much, Señor, though I was not apprized that it had actually come to pass. The king and I put the matter into the hands of the Archbishop of Granada, with other trusty counsellors, and they have found the terms of the Genoese arrogant; so full of exceeding and unreasonable extravagance, that it ill befitted our dignity, and our duty to ourselves, to grant them. One who hath a scheme of such doubtful results, ought to manifest moderation in his preliminaries. Many even believe the man a visionary."
"It is unlike an unworthy pretender, Señora, to abandon his hopes before he will yield his dignity. This Colon feeleth that he is treating for empires, and he negotiates like one full of the importance of his subject."
"He that lightly valueth himself, in matters of gravity, hath need to expect that he will not stand high in the estimation of others," put in Alonzo de Quintanilla.
"And, moreover, my gracious and beloved mistress," added de St. Angel, without permitting Isabella even to answer, "the character of the man, and the value of his intentions, may be appreciated by the price he setteth on his own services. If he succeed, will not the discovery eclipse all others that have been made since the creation of the world? Is it nothing to circle the earth, to prove the wisdom of God by actual experiment, to follow the sun in its daily track, and imitate the motions of that glorious moving mass? And then the benefits that will flow on Castile and Aragon--are they not incalculable? I marvel that a princess who hath shown so high and rare a spirit on all other occasions, should shrink from so grand an enterprise as this!"
"Thou art earnest, my good de St. Angel," returned Isabella, with a smile that betrayed no anger; "and when there is much earnestness there is sometimes much forgetfulness. If there were honor and profit in success, what would there be in failure? Should the king and myself send out this Colon, with a commission to be our viceroy, forever, over undiscovered lands, and no lands be discovered, the wisdom of our councils might be called in question, and the dignity of the two crowns would be fruitlessly and yet deeply committed."
"The hand of the Lord Archbishop is in this! This prelate hath never been a believer in the justice of the navigator's theories, and it is easy to raise objections when the feelings lean against an enterprise. No glory is obtained without risk. Look, Your Highness, at our neighbors, the Portuguese--how much have discoveries done for that kingdom, and how much more may it do for us! We know, my honored mistress, that the earth is round"-- "Are we quite certain of that important fact, Señor," asked the king, who, attracted by the animated and unusual tones of the speaker, had left his closet, and approached unseen. "Is that truth established? Our doctors at Salamanca were divided on that great question, and, by St. James! I do not see that it is so very clear."
"If not round, my Lord the King," answered de St. Angel, turning quickly to face this new opponent, like a well-drilled corps wheeling into a new front, "of what form _can_ it be? Will any doctor, come he of Salamanca, or come he from elsewhere, pretend that the earth is a plain, and that it hath limits, and that one may stand on these limits and jump down upon the sun as he passeth beneath at night--is this reasonable, honored Señor, or is it in conformity with scripture?"
"Will any one, doctor of Salamanca, or elsewhere," rejoined the king, gravely, though it was evident his feelings were little interested in the discussion, "allege that there are nations who forever walk with their heads downward, where the rain falleth upward, and where the sea remaineth in its bed, though its support cometh from above, and is not placed beneath?"
"It is to explain these great mysteries, Señor Don Fernando, my gracious master, that I would have this Colon at once go forth. We may see, nay, we have demonstration, that the earth is a sphere, and yet we do not see that the waters fall from its surface any where. The hull of a ship is larger than her top-masts, and yet the last are first visible on the ocean, which proveth that the body of the vessel is concealed by the form of the water. This being so, and all who have voyaged on the ocean know it to be thus, why doth not the water flow into a level, here, on our own shores? If the earth be round, there must be means to encircle it by water, as well as by land--to complete the entire journey, as well as to perform a part. Colon proposeth to open the way to this exploit, and the monarch that shall furnish the means will live in the memories of our descendants, as one far greater than a conqueror. Remember, illustrious Señor, that all the east is peopled with Infidels, and that the head of the church freely bestoweth their lands on any Christian monarch that may drag them from their benighted condition, into the light of God's favor. Believe me, Doña Isabella, should another sovereign grant the terms Colon requireth, and reap the advantages that are likely to flow from such discoveries, the enemies of Spain would make the world ring with their songs of triumph, while the whole peninsula would mourn over this unhappy decision."
"Whither hath the Señor Colon sped?" demanded the king, quickly; all his political jealousies being momentarily aroused by the remarks of his receiver-general: "He hath not gone again to Don John of Portugal?"
"No, Señor, my master, but to King Louis of France, a sovereign whose love for Aragon amounteth to a proverb."
The king muttered a few words between his teeth, and he paced the apartment, to and fro, with a disturbed manner; for, while no man living cared less to hazard his means, without the prospect of a certain return, the idea of another's reaping an advantage that had been neglected by himself, brought him at once under the control of those feelings that always influenced his cold and calculating policy. With Isabella the case was different. Her pious wishes had ever leaned toward the accomplishment of Columbus' great project, and her generous nature had sympathized deeply with the noble conception, vast moral results, and the glory of the enterprise. Nothing but the manner in which her mind, as well as her religious aspirations, had been occupied by the war in Granada, had prevented her from entering earlier into a full examination of the navigator's views; and she had yielded to the counsel of her confessor, in denying the terms demanded by Columbus, with a reluctance it had not been easy to overcome. Then the gentler feelings of her sex had their influence, for, while she too reflected on what had just been urged, her eye glanced around the room and rested on the beautiful face of Mercedes, who sat silent from diffidence, but whose pale, eloquent countenance betrayed all the pleadings of the pure, enthusiastic love of woman.
"Daughter-Marchioness," asked the queen, turning as usual to her tried friend, in her doubts, "what thinkest thou of this weighty matter? Ought we so to humble ourselves as to recal this haughty Genoese?"
"Say not haughty, Señora, for to me he seemeth much superior to any such feeling; but rather regard him as one that hath a just appreciation of that he hath in view. I agree fully with the receiver-general in thinking that Castile will be much discredited, if, in sooth, a new world should be discovered, and they who favored the enterprise could point to this court and remind it that the glory of the event was in its grasp, and that it threw it away, heedlessly"-- "And this, too, on a mere point of dignity, Señora," put in St. Angel--"on a question of parchment and of sound."
"Nay, nay"--retorted the queen--"there are those who think the honors claimed by Colon would far exceed the service, even should the latter equal all the representations of the Genoese himself."
"Then, my honored mistress, they know not at what the Genoese aims. Reflect, Señora, that it will not be an every-day deed to prove that this earth is a sphere, by actual measurement, whatever we may know in theories. Then cometh the wealth and benefits of those eastern possessions, a quarter of the world whence all riches flow--spices, pearls, silks, and the most precious metals. After these, again, cometh the great glory of God, which crowneth and exceedeth all."
Isabella crossed herself, her cheek flushed, her eye kindled, and her matronly but fine form seemed to tower with the majesty of the feelings that these pictures created.
"I do fear, Don Fernando," she said, "that our advisers have been precipitate, and that the magnitude of this project may justify more than common conditions!"
But the king entered little into the generous emotions of his royal consort; feeling far more keenly the stings of political jealousy, than any promptings of a liberal zeal for either the church or science. He was generally esteemed a wise prince, a title that would seem to infer neither a generous nor a very just one. He smiled at the kindling enthusiasm of his wife, but continued to peruse a paper that had just been handed to him by a secretary.
"Your Highness feels as Doña Isabella of Castile ought to feel when the glory of God and the honor of her crown are in question," added Beatriz de Cabrera, using that freedom of speech that her royal mistress much encouraged in their more private intercourse. "I would rather hear you utter the words of recall to this Colon, than again listen to the shouts of our late triumph over the Moor."
"I know that thou lovest me, Beatriz!" exclaimed the queen: "if there is not a true heart in that breast of thine, the fallen condition of man does not suffer the gem to exist!"
"We all love and reverence Your Highness," continued de St. Angel, "and we wish naught but your glory. Fancy, Señora, the page of history open, and this great exploit of the reduction of the Moor succeeded by the still greater deed of a discovery of an easy and swift communication with the Indies, the spread of the church, and the flow of inexhaustible wealth into Spain! This Colon cannot be supported by the colder and more selfish calculations of man, but his very enterprise seeks the more generous support of her who can risk much for God's glory and the good of the church."
"Nay, Señor de St. Angel, thou flatterest and offendest in the same breath."
"It is an honest nature pouring out its disappointment, my beloved mistress, and a tongue that hath become bold through much zeal for Your Highnesses' fame. Alas! alas! should King Louis grant the terms we have declined, poor Spain will never lift her head again for very shame!"
"Art certain, St. Angel, that the Genoese hath gone for France?" suddenly demanded the king, in his sharp, authoritative voice.
"I have it, Your Highness, from his own mouth. Yes, yes, he is at this moment striving to forget our Castilian dialect, and endeavoring to suit his tongue to the language of the Frenchman. They are bigots and unreflecting disciples of musty prejudices, Señora, that deny the theories of Colon. The old philosophers have reasoned in the same manner; and though it may seem to the timid an audacious and even a heedless adventure to sail out into the broad Atlantic, had not the Portuguese done it he would never have found his islands. God's truth! it maketh my blood boil, when I bethink me of what these Lusitanians have done, while we of Aragon and Castile have been tilting with the Infidels for a few valleys and mountains, and contending for a capital!"
"Señor, you are forgetful of the honor of the sovereigns, as well as of the service of God," interrupted the Marchioness of Moya, who had the tact to perceive that the receiver-general was losing sight of his discretion, in the magnitude of his zeal. "This conquest is one of the victories of the church, and will add lustre to the two crowns in all future ages. The head of the church, himself, hath so recognized it, and all good Christians should acknowledge its character."
"It is not that I undervalue this success, but that I consider the conquest that Colon is likely to achieve over so many millions, that I have thus spoken, Doña Beatriz."
The marchioness, whose spirit was as marked as her love for the queen, made a sharp reply, and, for a few minutes, she and Luis de St. Angel, with Alonzo de Quintanilla, maintained the discussion by themselves, while Isabella conversed apart, with her husband, no one presuming to meddle with their private conference. The queen was earnest, and evidently much excited, but Ferdinand maintained his customary coolness and caution, though his manner was marked with that profound respect which the character of Isabella had early inspired, and which she succeeded in maintaining throughout her married life. This was a picture familiar to the courtiers, one of the sovereigns being as remarkable for his wily prudence, as was the other for her generous and sincere ardor, whenever impelled by a good motive. This divided discourse lasted half an hour, the queen occasionally pausing to listen to what was passing in the other group, and then recurring to her own arguments with her husband.
At length Isabella left the side of Ferdinand, who coldly resumed the perusal of a paper, and she moved slowly toward the excited party, that was now unanimous and rather loud in the expression of its regrets--loud for even the indulgence of so gentle a mistress. Her intention to repress this ardor by her own presence, however, was momentarily diverted from its object by a glimpse of the face of Mercedes, who sat alone, her work lying neglected in her lap, listening anxiously to the opinions that had drawn all her companions to the general circle.
"Thou takest no part in this warm discussion, child," observed the queen, stopping before the chair of our heroine, and gazing an instant into her eloquently expressive face. "Hast thou lost all interest in Colon?"
"I speak not, Señora, because it becometh youth and ignorance to be modest; but though silent, I _feel_ none the less."
"And what are thy feelings, daughter? Dost thou, too, think the services of the Genoese cannot be bought at too high a price?"
"Since Your Highness doth me this honor," answered the lovely girl, the blood gradually flushing her pale face, as she warmed with the subject--"I will not hesitate to speak. I do believe this great enterprise hath been offered to the sovereigns, as a reward for all that they have done and endured for religion and the church. I do think that Colon hath been guided to this court by a divine hand, and by a divine hand hath he been kept here, enduring the long servitude of seven years, rather than abandon his object; and I do think that this late appeal in his favor cometh of a power and spirit that should prevail."
"Thou art an enthusiast, daughter, more especially in this cause," returned the queen, smiling kindly on the blushing Mercedes. "I am greatly moved by thy wishes to aid in this enterprise!"
Thus spoke Isabella, at a moment when she had neither the leisure nor the thought to analyze her own feelings, which were influenced by a variety of motives, rather than by any single consideration. Even this passing touch of woman's affections, however, contributed to give her mind a new bias, and she joined the group, which respectfully opened as she advanced, greatly disposed to yield to de St. Angel's well-meant though somewhat intemperate entreaties. Still she hesitated, for her wary husband had just been reminding her of the exhausted state of the two treasuries, and the impoverished condition in which both crowns had been left by the late war.
"Daughter-Marchioness," said Isabella, slightly answering the reverences of the circle, "dost thou still think this Colon expressly called of God, for the high purposes to which he pretendeth?"
"Señora, I say not exactly that, though I believe the Genoese hath some such opinion of himself. But this much I do think--that Heaven beareth in mind its faithful servitors, and when there is need of important actions, suitable agents are chosen for the work. Now, we do know that the church, at some day, is to prevail throughout the whole world; and why may not this be the allotted time, as well as another? God ordereth mysteriously, and the very adventure that so many of the learned have scoffed at, may be intended to hasten the victory of the church. We should remember, Your Highness, the humility with which this church commenced; how few of the seemingly wise lent it their aid; and the high pass of glory to which it hath reached. This conquest of the Moor savoreth of a fulfilment of time, and his reign of seven centuries terminated, may merely be an opening for a more glorious future."
Isabella smiled upon her friend, for this was reasoning after her own secret thoughts; but her greater acquirements rendered her more discriminating in her zeal, than was the case with the warm-hearted and ardent Marchioness.
"It is not safe to affix the seal of Providence to this or that enterprise, Daughter-Marchioness"--she answered--"and the church alone may say what are intended for miracles, and what is left for human agencies. What sum doth Colon need, Señor de St. Angel, to carry on the adventure in a manner that will content him?"
"He asketh but two light caravels, my honored mistress, and three thousand crowns--a sum that many a young spendthrift would waste on his pleasures, in a few short weeks."
"It is not much, truly," observed Isabella, who had been gradually kindling with the thoughts of the nobleness of the adventure; "but, small as it is, my Lord the King doubteth if our joint coffers can, at this moment, well bear the drain."
"Oh! it were a pity that such an occasion to serve God, such an opportunity to increase the Christian sway, and to add to the glory of Spain, should be lost for this trifle of gold!" exclaimed Doña Beatriz.
"It would be, truly," rejoined the queen, whose cheek now glowed with an enthusiasm little less obvious than that which shone so brightly in the countenance of the ardent Mercedes. "Señor de St. Angel, the king cannot be prevailed on to enter into this affair, in behalf of Aragon; but I take it on myself, as Queen of Castile, and, so far as it may properly advance human interests, for the benefit of my own much-beloved people. If the royal treasury be drained, my private jewels should suffice for that small sum, and I will freely pledge them as surety for the gold, rather than let this Colon depart without putting the truth of his theories to the proof. The result, truly, is of too great magnitude, to admit of further discussion."
An exclamation of admiration and delight escaped those present, for it was not a usual thing for a princess to deprive herself of personal ornaments in order to advance either the interests of the church or those of her subjects. The receiver-general, however, soon removed all difficulties on the score of money, by saying that his coffers could advance the required sum, on the guarantee of the crown of Castile, and that the jewels so freely offered, might remain in the keeping of their royal owner.
"And now to recall Colon," observed the queen, as soon as these preliminaries had been discussed. "He hath already departed, you say, and no time should be lost in acquainting him with this new resolution."
"Your Highness hath here a willing courier, and one already equipped for the road, in the person of Don Luis de Bobadilla," cried Alonzo de Quintanilla, whose eye had been drawn to a window by the trampling of a horse's foot; "and the man who will more joyfully bear these tidings to the Genoese cannot be found in Santa Fé." " 'Tis scarce a service suited to one of his high station," answered Isabella, doubtingly; "and yet we should consider every moment of delay a wrong to Colon"-- "Nay, Señora, spare not my nephew," eagerly interposed Doña Beatriz; "he is only too happy at being employed in doing Your Highness' pleasure."
"Let him, then, be summoned to our presence without another instant's delay. I scarce seem to have decided, while the principal personage of the great adventure is journeying from the court."
A page was immediately despatched in quest of the young noble, and in a few minutes the footsteps of the latter were heard in the antechamber. Luis entered the presence, flushed, excited, and with feelings not a little angered, at the compelled departure of his new friend. He did not fail to impute the blame of this occurrence to those who had the power to prevent it; and when his dark, expressive eye met the countenance of his sovereign, had it been in her power to read its meaning, she would have understood that he viewed her as a person who had thwarted his hopes on more than one occasion. Nevertheless, the influence of Doña Isabella's pure character and gentle manners was seldom forgotten by any who were permitted to approach her person; and his address was respectful, if not warm.
"It is Your Highness' pleasure to command my presence," said the young man, as soon as he made his reverences to the queen.
"I thank you for this promptitude, Don Luis, having some need of your services. Can you tell us what hath befel the Señor Christoval Colon, the Genoese navigator, with whom, they inform me, you have some intimacy?"
"Forgive me, Señora, if aught unbecoming escape me; but a full heart must be opened lest it break. The Genoese is about to shake the dust of Spain from his shoes, and, at this moment, is on his journey to another court, to proffer those services that this should never have rejected."
"It is plain, Don Luis, that all thy leisure time hath not been passed in courts," returned the queen, smiling; "but we have now service for thy roving propensities. Mount thy steed, and pursue the Señor Colon, with the tidings that his conditions will be granted, and a request that he will forthwith return. I pledge my royal word, to send him forth on this enterprise, with as little delay as the necessary preparations and a suitable prudence will allow."
"Señora! Doña Isabella! My gracious queen! Do I hear aright?"
"As a sign of the fidelity of thy senses, Don Luis, here is the pledge of my hand."
This was said kindly, and the gracious manner in which the hand was offered, brought a gleam of hope to the mind of the lover, which it had not felt since he had been apprized that the queen's good opinion was necessary to secure his happiness. Kneeling respectfully, he kissed the hand of his sovereign, after which, without changing his attitude, he desired to know if he should that instant depart on the duty she had named.
"Rise, Don Luis, and lose not a moment to relieve the loaded heart of the Genoese--I might almost say, to relieve ours, also; for, Daughter-Marchioness, since this holy enterprise hath broken on my mind with a sudden and almost miraculous light, it seemeth that a mountain must lie on my breast until the Señor Christoval shall learn the truth!"
Luis de Bobadilla did not wait a second bidding, but hurried from the presence, as fast as etiquette would allow, and the next minute he was in the saddle. At his appearance, Mercedes had shrunk into the recess of a window, where she now, luckily, commanded a view of the court. As her lover gained his seat, he caught a glimpse of her form; and though the spurs were already in his charger's flanks, the rein tightened, and the snorting steed was thrown suddenly on his haunches. So elastic are the feelings of youth, so deceptive and flattering the hopes of those who love, that the glances which were exchanged were those of mutual delight. Neither thought of all the desperate chances of the contemplated voyage; of the probability of its want of success; or of the many motives which might still induce the queen to withhold her consent. Mercedes awoke first from the short trance that succeeded, for, taking the alarm at Luis' indiscreet delay, she motioned him hurriedly to proceed. Again the rowels were buried in the flanks of the noble animal; fire flashed beneath his armed heels, and, at the next minute, Don Luis de Bobadilla had disappeared.
In the mean time Columbus had pursued his melancholy journey across the Vega. He travelled slowly, and several times, even after his companion had left him, did he check his mule, and sit, with his head dropped upon his breast, lost in thought, the very picture of woe. The noble resignation that he manifested in public, nearly gave way in private, and he felt, indeed, how hard his disappointments were to be borne. In this desultory manner of travelling he had reached the celebrated pass of the Bridge of Piños, the scene of many a sanguinary combat, when the sound of a horse's hoofs first overtook his ear. Turning his head, he recognized Luis de Bobadilla in hot pursuit, with the flanks of his horse dyed in blood, and his breast white with foam.
"Joy! joy! a thousand times, joy, Señor Colon," shouted the eager youth, even before he was near enough to be distinctly heard. "Blessed Maria be praised! Joy! Señor, joy! and naught but joy!"
"This is unexpected, Don Luis," exclaimed the navigator, "What meaneth thy return!"
Luis now attempted to explain his errand, but eagerness and the want of breath rendered his ideas confused and his utterance broken and imperfect.
"And why should I return to a hesitating, cold, and undecided court?" demanded Columbus. "Have I not wasted years in striving to urge it to its own good? Look at these hairs, young Señor, and remember that I have lost a time that nearly equals all thy days, in striving uselessly to convince the rulers of this peninsula that my project is founded on truth."
"At length you have succeeded. Isabella, the true-hearted and never-deceiving Queen of Castile, herself hath awoke to the importance of thy scheme, and pledges her royal word to favor it."
"Is this true? _Can_ this be true, Don Luis?"
"I am sent to you express, Señor, to urge your immediate return."
"By whom, young Lord?"
"By Doña Isabella, my gracious mistress, through her own personal commands."
"I cannot forego a single condition already offered."
"It is not expected, Señor. Our excellent and generous mistress granteth all you ask, and hath nobly offered, as I learn, to pledge her private jewels, rather than that the enterprise fail."
Columbus was deeply touched with this information, and, removing his cap, he concealed his face with it for a moment, as if ashamed to betray the weakness that came over him. When he uncovered his face it was radiant with happiness, and every doubt appeared to have vanished. Years of suffering were forgotten in that moment of joy, and he immediately signified his readiness to accompany the youth back to Santa Fé.
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"How beautiful is genius when combined With holiness! Oh! how divinely sweet The tones of earthly harp, whose cords are touch'd By the soft hand of Piety, and hung Upon Religion's shrine, there vibrating With solemn music in the air of God!"
John Wilson.
Columbus was received by his friends, Luis de St. Angel and Alonzo de Quintanilla, with a gratification they found it difficult to express. They were loud in their eulogiums on Isabella, and added to the assurances of Don Luis, such proofs of the seriousness of the queen's intentions, as to remove all doubts from the mind of the navigator. He was then, without further delay, conducted to the presence.
"Señor Colon," said Isabella, as the Genoese advanced and knelt at her feet, "you are welcome back again. All our misunderstandings are finally removed, and henceforth, I trust that we shall act cheerfully and unitedly to produce the same great end. Rise, Señor, and receive this as a gage of my support and friendship."
Columbus saluted the offered hand, and arose from his knees. At that instant, there was probably no one present whose feelings were not raised to the buoyancy of hope; for it was a peculiarity connected with the origin and execution of this great enterprise, that, after having been urged for so long a period, amid sneers, and doubts, and ridicule, it was at first adopted with something very like enthusiasm.
"Señora," returned Columbus, whose grave aspect and noble mien contributed not a little to the advancement of his views--"Señora, my heart thanks you for this kindness--so welcome because so little hoped for this morning--and God will reward it. We have great things in reserve, and I devoutly wish we may all be found equal to our several duties. I hope my Lord the King will not withhold from my undertaking the light of his gracious countenance."
"You are a servitor of Castile, Señor Colon, though little is attempted for even this kingdom, without the approbation and consent of the King of Aragon. Don Fernando hath been gained over to our side, though his greater caution and superior wisdom have not as easily fallen into the measure, as woman's faith and woman's hopes."
"I ask no higher wisdom, no truer faith than those of Isabella's," said the navigator, with a grave dignity that rendered the compliment so much the more acceptable, by giving it every appearance of sincerity. "Her known prudence shall turn from me the derision of the light-minded and idle, and on her royal word I place all my hopes. Henceforth, and I trust forever, I am Your Highness' subject and servant."
The queen was deeply impressed with the air of lofty truth that elevated the thoughts and manners of the speaker. Hitherto she had seen but little of the navigator, and never before under circumstances that enabled her so thoroughly to feel the influence of his air and deportment. Columbus had not the finish of manner that it is fancied courts only can bestow, and which it would be more just to refer to lives devoted to habits of pleasing; but the character of the man shone through the exterior, and, in his case, all that artificial training could supply fell short of the noble aspect of nature, sustained by high aspirations. To a commanding person, and a gravity that was heightened by the loftiness of his purposes, Columbus added the sober earnestness of a deeply-seated and an all-pervading enthusiasm, which threw the grace of truth and probity on what he said and did. No quality of his mind was more apparent than its sense of right, as right was then considered in connection with the opinions of the age; and it is a singular circumstance that the greatest adventure of modern times was thus confided by Providence, as it might be with especial objects, to the care of a sovereign and to the hands of an executive leader, who were equally distinguished by the possession of so rare a characteristic.
"I thank you, Señor, for this proof of confidence," returned the queen, both surprised and gratified; "and so long as God giveth me power to direct, and knowledge to decide, your interests as well as those of this long-cherished scheme, shall be looked to. But we are not to exclude the king from our confederacy, since he hath been finally gained to our opinions, and no doubt now as anxiously looketh forward to success as we do ourselves."
Columbus bowed his acquiescence, and the conjugal affection of Isabella was satisfied with this concession to her husband's character and motives; for, while it was impossible that one so pure and ardent in the cause of virtue, and as disinterested as the queen, should not detect some of the selfishness of Ferdinand's cautious policy, the feelings of a wife so far prevailed in her breast over the sagacity of the sovereign, as to leave her blind to faults that the enemies of Aragon were fond of dwelling on. All admitted the truth of Isabella, but Ferdinand had far less credit with his contemporaries, either on the score of faith or on that of motives. Still he might have been ranked among the most upright of the reigning princes of Europe, his faults being rendered more conspicuous, perhaps, from being necessarily placed in such close connection with, and in such vivid contrast to, the truer virtues of the queen. In short, these two sovereigns, so intimately united by personal and political interests, merely exhibited on their thrones a picture that may be seen, at any moment, in all the inferior gradations of the social scale, in which the worldly views and meretricious motives of man serve as foils to the truer heart, sincerer character, and more chastened conduct of woman.
Don Fernando now appeared, and he joined in the discourse in a manner to show that he considered himself fully committed to redeem the pledges given by his wife. The historians have told us that he had been won over by the intercessions of a favorite, though the better opinion would seem to be that deference for Isabella, whose pure earnestness in the cause of virtue often led him from his more selfish policy, lay at the bottom of his compliance. Whatever may have been the motive, however, it is certain that the king never entered into the undertaking with the ardent, zealous endeavors to insure success, which from that moment distinguished the conduct of his royal consort.
"We have recovered our truant," said Isabella, as her husband approached, her eyes lighting and her cheeks flushed with a pious enthusiasm, like those of Mercedes de Valverde, who was an entranced witness of all that was passing. "We have recovered our truant, and there is not a moment of unnecessary delay to be permitted, until he shall be sent forth on this great voyage. Should he truly attain Cathay and the Indies, it will be a triumph to the church even exceeding this conquest of the territories of the Moor."
"I am pleased to see the Señor Colon at Santa Fé, again," courteously returned the king, "and if he but do the half of that thou seemest to expect, we shall have reason to rejoice that our countenance hath not been withheld. He may not render the crown of Castile still more powerful, but he may so far enrich himself that, as a subject, he will have difficulty in finding the proper uses for his gold."
"There will always be a use for the gold of a Christian," answered the navigator, "while the Infidel remaineth the master of the Holy Sepulchre."
"How is this!" exclaimed Ferdinand, in his quick, sharp voice: "dost thou think, Señor, of a crusade, as well as of discovering new regions?"
"Such, Your Highness, it hath long been my hope, would be the first appropriation of the wealth that will, out of question, flow from the discovery of a new and near route to the Indies. Is it not a blot on Christendom that the Mussulman should be permitted to raise his profane altars on the spot that Christ visited on earth; where, indeed he was born, and where his holy remains lay until his glorious resurrection? This foul disgrace there are hearts and swords enough ready to wipe out; all that is wanted is gold. If the first desire of my heart be to become the instrument of leading the way to the East, by a western and direct passage, the second is, to see the riches that will certainly follow such a discovery, devoted to the service of God, by rearing anew his altars and reviving his worship, in the land where he endured his agony and gave up the ghost for the sins of men."
Isabella smiled at the navigator's enthusiasm, though, sooth to say, the sentiment found something of an echo in her pious bosom; albeit the age of crusades appeared to have gone by. Not so exactly with Ferdinand. He smiled also, but no answering sentiment of holy zeal was awakened within him. He felt, on the contrary, a strong distrust of the wisdom of committing the care of even two insignificant caravels, and the fate of a sum as small as three thousand crowns, to a visionary, who had scarcely made a commencement in one extremely equivocal enterprise, before his thoughts were running on the execution of another, that had baffled the united efforts and pious constancy of all Europe. To him, the discovery of a western passage to the Indies, and the repossession of the holy sepulchre, were results that were equally problematical, and it would have been quite sufficient to incur his distrust, to believe in the practicability of either. Here, however, was a man who was about to embark in an attempt to execute the first, holding in reserve the last, as a consequence of success in the undertaking in which he was already engaged.
There were a few minutes, during which Ferdinand seriously contemplated the defeat of the Genoese's schemes, and had the discourse terminated here, it is uncertain how far his cool and calculating policy might have prevailed over the good faith, sincere integrity, and newly awakened enthusiasm of his wife. Fortunately, the conversation had gone on while he was meditating on this subject, and when he rejoined the circle he found the queen and the navigator pursuing the subject with an earnestness that had entirely overlooked his momentary absence.
"I shall show Your Highness all that she demandeth," continued Columbus, in answer to a question of the queen's. "It is my expectation to reach the territories of the Great Khan, the descendant of the monarch who was visited by the Polos, a century since; at which time a strong desire to embrace the religion of Christ was manifested by many in that gorgeous court, the sovereign included. We are told in the sacred books of prophecy, that the day is to arrive when the whole earth will worship the true and living God; and that time, it would seem, from many signs and tokens that are visible to those who seek them, draweth near, and is full of hope to such as honor God and seek his glory. To bring all those vast regions in subjection to the church, needeth but a constant faith, sustained by the delegated agencies of the priesthood, and the protecting hands of princes."
"This hath a seeming probability," observed the queen, "and Providence so guide us in this mighty undertaking, that it may come to pass! Were those Polos pious missionaries, Señor?"
"They were but travellers; men who sought their own advantage, while they were not altogether unmindful of the duties of religion. It may be well, Señora, first to plant the cross in the islands, and thence to spread the truth over the main land. Cipango, in particular, is a promising region for the commencement of the glorious work, which, no doubt, will proceed with all the swiftness of a miracle."
"Is this Cipango known to produce spices, or aught that may serve to uphold a sinking treasury, and repay us for so much cost and risk?" asked the king, a little inopportunely for the zeal of the two other interlocutors.
Isabella looked pained, the prevailing trait in Ferdinand's character often causing her to feel as affectionate wives are wont to feel when their husbands forget to think, act, or speak up to the level of their own warm-hearted and virtuous propensities; but she suffered no other sign of the passing emotions to escape her.
"According to the accounts of Marco Polo, Your Highness," answered Columbus, "earth hath no richer island. It aboundeth especially in gold; nor are pearls and precious stones at all rare. But all that region is a quarter of infinite wealth and benighted infidelity. Providence seemeth to have united the first with the last, as a reward to the Christian monarch who shall use his power to extend the sway of the church. The sea, thereabouts, is covered with smaller islands, Marco telling us that no less than seven thousand four hundred and forty have been enumerated, not one of all which doth not produce some odoriferous tree, or plant of delicious perfume. It is then, thither, gracious Lord and Lady, my honored sovereigns, that I propose to proceed at once, leaving all meaner objects, to exalt the two kingdoms and to serve the church. Should we reach Cipango in safety, as, by the blessing of God, acting on a zeal and faith that are not easily shaken, I trust we shall be able to do, in the course of two months' diligent navigation, it will be my next purpose to pass over to the continent, and seek the Khan himself, in his kingdom of Cathay. The day that my foot touches the land of Asia will be a glorious day for Spain, and for all who have had a part in the accomplishment of so great an enterprise!"
Ferdinand's keen eyes were riveted on the navigator, as he thus betrayed his hopes with the quiet but earnest manner of deep enthusiasm, and he might have been at a loss, himself, just at that moment, to have analyzed his own feelings. The picture of wealth that Columbus had conjured to his imagination, was as enticing, as his cold and calculating habits of distrust and caution rendered it questionable. Isabella heard only, or thought only, of the pious longings of her pure spirit for the conversion and salvation of the Infidels, and thus each of the two sovereigns had a favorite impulse to bind him, or her, to the prosecution of the voyage.
After this, the conversation entered more into details, and the heads of the terms demanded by Columbus were gone over again, and approved of by those who were most interested in the matter. All thought of the archbishop and his objections was momentarily lost, and had the Genoese been a monarch, treating with monarchs, he could not have had more reason to be satisfied with the respectful manner in which his terms were heard. Even his proposal to receive one-eighth of the profits of this, and all future expeditions to the places he might discover, on condition of his advancing an equal proportion of the outfits, was cheerfully acceded to; making him, at once, a partner with the crown, in the risks and benefits of the many undertakings that it was hoped would follow from the success of this.
Luis de St. Angel and Alonzo de Quintanilla quitted the royal presence, in company with Columbus. They saw him to his lodgings, and left him with a respect and cordiality of manner, that cheered a heart which had lately been so bruised and disappointed. As they walked away in company, the former, who, notwithstanding the liberality of his views and his strong support of the navigator, was not apt to suppress his thoughts, opened a dialogue in the following manner.
"By all the saints! friend Alonzo," he exclaimed, "but this Colon carrieth it with a high hand among us, and in a way, sometimes, to make me doubt the prudence of our interference. He hath treated with the two sovereigns like a monarch, and like a monarch hath he carried his point!"
"Who hath aided him more than thyself, friend Luis?" returned Alonzo de Quintanilla; "for, without thy bold assault on Doña Isabella's patience, the matter had been decided against this voyage, and the Genoese would still be on his way to the court of King Louis."
"I regret it not; the chance of keeping the Frenchman within modest bounds being worth a harder effort. Her Highness--Heaven and all the saints unite to bless her for her upright intentions and generous thoughts--will never regret the trifling cost, even though bootless, with so great an aim in view. But now the thing is done, I marvel, myself, that a Queen of Castile and a King of Aragon should grant such conditions to an unknown and nameless sea-farer; one that hath neither services, family, nor gold, to recommend him!"
"Hath he not had Luis de St. Angel of his side?"
"That hath he," returned the receiver-general, "and that right stoutly, too; and for good and sufficient cause. I only marvel at our success, and at the manner in which this Colon hath borne himself in the affair. I much feared that the high price he set upon his services might ruin all our hopes."
"And yet thou didst reason with the queen, as if thou thoughtst it insignificant, compared with the good that would come of the voyage."
"Is there aught wonderful in this, my worthy friend? We consume our means in efforts to obtain our ends, and, while suffering under the exhaustion, begin first to see the other side of the question. I am chiefly surprised at mine own success! As for this Genoese, he is, truly, a most wonderful man, and, in my heart, I think him right in demanding such high conditions. If he succeed, who so great as he? and, if he fail, the conditions will do him no good, and Castile little harm."
"I have remarked, Señor de St Angel, that when grave men set a light value on themselves, the world is apt to take them at their word, though willing enough to laugh at the pretensions of triflers. After all, the high demands of Colon may have done him much service, since their Highnesses could not but feel that they were negotiating with one who had faith in his own projects."
"It is much as thou sayest, Alonzo; men often prizing us as we seem to prize ourselves, so long as we act at all up to the level of our pretensions. But there is sterling merit in this Colon to sustain him in all that he sayeth and doth; wisdom of speech, dignity and gravity of mien, and nobleness of feeling and sentiment. Truly, I have listened to the man when he hath seemed inspired!"
"Well, he hath now good occasion to manifest whether this inspiration be of the true quality or not," returned the other. "Of a verity, I often distrust the wisdom of our own conclusions."
In this manner did even these two zealous friends of Columbus discuss his character and chances of success; for, while they were among the most decided of his supporters, and had discovered the utmost readiness to uphold him when his cause seemed hopeless, now that the means were likely to be afforded to allow him to demonstrate the justice of his opinions, doubts and misgivings beset their minds. Such is human nature. Opposition awakens our zeal, quickens our apprehension, stimulates our reason, and emboldens our opinions; while, thrown back upon ourselves for the proofs of what we have been long stoutly maintaining under the pressure of resistance, we begin to distrust the truth of our own theories and to dread the demonstrations of a failure. Even the first disciples of the Son of God faltered most in their faith as his predictions were being realized; and most reformers are never so dogmatical and certain as when battling for their principles, or so timid and wavering as when they are about to put their own long-cherished plans in execution. In all this we might see a wise provision of Providence, which gives us zeal to overcome difficulties, and prudence when caution and moderation become virtues rather than faults.
Although Luis de St. Angel and his friend conversed thus freely together, however, they did not the less continue true to their original feelings. Their doubts were transient and of little account; and it was remarked of them, whenever they were in the presence of Columbus himself, that the calm, steady, but deeply seated enthusiasm of that extraordinary man, did not fail to carry with him the opinions, not only of these steady supporters, but those of most other listeners.
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--"Song is on thy hills: Oh, sweet and mournful melodies of Spain, That lull'd my boyhood, how your memory thrills The exile's heart with sudden-wakening pain."
The Forest Sanctuary.
From the moment that Isabella pledged her royal word to support Columbus in his great design, all reasonable doubts of the sailing of the expedition ceased, though few anticipated any results of importance. Of so much greater magnitude, indeed, did the conquest of the kingdom of Granada appear, at that instant, than any probable consequences which could follow from this novel enterprise, that the latter was almost overlooked in the all-absorbing interest that was connected with the former.
There was one youthful and generous heart, however, all of whose hopes were concentrated in the success of the great voyage. It is scarcely necessary to add, we mean that of Mercedes de Valverde. She had watched the recent events as they occurred, with an intensity of expectation that perhaps none but the youthful, fervent, inexperienced, and uncorrupted, can feel: and now that all her hopes were about to be realized, a tender and generous joy diffused itself over her whole moral system, in a way to render her happiness, for the time, even blissful. Although she loved so truly and with so much feminine devotedness, nature had endowed this warm-hearted young creature with a sagacity and readiness of apprehension, which, when quickened by the sentiments that are so apt to concentrate all the energies of her sex, showed her the propriety of the distrust of the queen and her guardian, and fully justified their hesitation in her eyes, which were rather charmed than blinded by the ascendency of her passion. She knew too well what was due to her virgin fame, her high expectations, her great name, and her elevated position near the person, and in the immediate confidence of Isabella, even to wish her hand unworthily bestowed; and while she deferred, with the dignity and discretion of birth and female decorum, to all that opinion and prudence could have a right to ask of a noble maiden, she confided in her lover's power to justify her choice, with the boundless confidence of a woman. Her aunt had taught her to believe that this voyage of the Genoese was likely to lead to great events, and her religious enthusiasm, like that of the queen's, led her to expect most of that which she so fervently wished.
During the time it was known to those near the person of Isabella, that the conditions between the sovereigns and the navigators were being reduced to writing and were receiving the necessary forms, Luis neither sought an interview with his mistress, nor was accidentally favored in that way; but, no sooner was it understood Columbus had effected all that he deemed necessary in this particular, and had quitted the court for the coast, than the young man threw himself, at once, on the generosity of his aunt, beseeching her to favor his views now that he was about to leave Spain on an adventure that most regarded as desperate. All he asked was a pledge of being well received by his mistress and her friends, on his return successful.
"I see that thou hast taken a lesson from this new master of thine," answered the high-souled but kind-hearted Beatriz, smiling--"and would fain have thy terms also. But thou knowest, Luis, that Mercedes de Valverde is no peasant's child to be lightly cared for, but that she cometh of the noblest blood of Spain, having had a Guzman for a mother, and Mendozas out of number among her kinsmen. She is, moreover, one of the richest heiresses of Castile; and it would ill become her guardian to forget her watchfulness, under such circumstances, in behalf of one of the idle wanderers of Christendom, simply because he happeneth to be her own beloved brother's son."
"And if the Doña Mercedes be all thou sayest, Señora--and thou hast not even touched upon her highest claims to merit, her heart, her beauty, her truth, and her thousand virtues--but if she be all that thou sayest, Doña Beatriz, is a Bobadilla unworthy of her?"
"How! if she be, moreover, all _thou_ sayest too, Don Luis! The heart, the truth, and the thousand virtues! Methinks a shorter catalogue might content one who is himself so great a rover, lest some of these qualities be lost in his many journeys!"
Luis laughed, in spite of himself, at the affected seriousness of his aunt; and then successfully endeavoring to repress a little resentment that her language awakened, he answered in a way to do no discredit to a well-established reputation for good-nature.
"I cannot call thee 'Daughter-Marchioness,' in imitation of Her Highness," he answered, with a coaxing smile, so like that her deceased brother was wont to use when disposed to wheedle her out of some concession, that it fairly caused Doña Beatriz to start--"but I can say with more truth, 'Aunt-Marchioness,'--and a very dear aunt, too--wilt thou visit a little youthful indiscretion so severely? I had hoped, now Colon was about to set forth, that all was forgotten in the noble and common end we have in view."
"Luis," returned the aunt, regarding her nephew with the severe resolution that was so often exhibited in her acts as well as in her words, "dost think that a mere display of courage will prove sufficient to win Mercedes from me? to put to sleep the vigilance of her friends? to gain the approbation of her guardian? Learn, too confident boy, that Mercedes de Guzman was the companion of my childhood; my warmest, dearest friend, next to Her Highness; and that she put all faith in my disposition to do full justice by her child. She died by slow degrees, and the fate of the orphan was often discussed between us. That she could ever become the wife of any but a Christian noble, neither of us imagined possible; but there are so many different characters under the same outward professions, that names deceived us not. I do believe that poor woman bethought her more of her child's future worldly fortunes than of her own sins, and that she prayed oftener for the happy conclusion of the first than for the pardon of the last! Thou knowest little of the strength of a mother's love, Luis, and canst not understand all the doubts that beset the heart, when the parent is compelled to leave a tender plant, like Mercedes, to the cold nursing of a selfish and unfeeling world."
"I can readily fancy the mother of my love fitted for heaven without the usual interpositions of masses and paters, Doña Beatriz; but have aunts no consideration for nephews, as well as mothers for children?"
"The tie is close and strong, my child, and yet is it not parental; nor art thou a sensitive, true-hearted, enthusiastic girl, filled with the confidence of thy purity, and overflowing with the affections that, in the end, make mothers what they are."
"By San Iago! and am I not the very youth to render such a creature happy? I, too, am sensitive--too much so, in sooth, for my own peace; I, too, am true-hearted, as is seen by my having had but this one love, when I might have had fifty; and if I am not exactly overflowing with the confidence of purity, I have the confidence of youth, health, strength, and courage, which is quite as useful for a cavalier; and I have abundance of the affection that makes good fathers, which is all that can reasonably be asked of a man."
"Thou, then, thinkest thyself, truant, every way worthy to be the husband of Mercedes de Valverde?"
"Nay, aunt of mine, thou hast a searching way with thy questions! Who is, or can be, exactly worthy of so much excellence? I may not be altogether _deserving_ of her, but then again, I am not altogether _undeserving_ of her. I am quite as noble, nearly as well endowed with estates, of suitable years, of fitting address as a knight, and love her better than I love my own soul. Methinks the last should count for something, since he that loveth devotedly, will surely strive to render its object happy."
"Thou art a silly, inexperienced boy, with a most excellent heart, a happy, careless disposition, and a head that was made to hold better thoughts than commonly reside there!" exclaimed the aunt, giving way to an impulse of natural feeling, even while she frowned on her nephew's folly. "But, hear me, and for once think gravely, and reflect on what I say. I have told thee of the mother of Mercedes, of her dying doubts, her anxiety, and of her confidence in me. Her Highness and I were alone with her, the morning of the day that her spirit took its flight to heaven; and then she poured out all her feelings, in a way that has left on us both an impression that can never cease, while aught can be done by either for the security of the daughter's happiness. Thou hast thought the queen unkind. I know not but, in thy intemperate speech, thou hast dared to charge Her Highness with carrying her care for her subjects' well-being beyond a sovereign's rights"-- "Nay, Doña Beatriz," hastily interrupted Luis, "herein thou dost me great injustice. I may have felt--no doubt I have keenly, bitterly, felt the consequences of Doña Isabella's distrust of my constancy; but never has rebel thought of mine even presumed to doubt her right to command all our services, as well as all our lives. This is due to her sacred authority from all; but we, who so well know the heart and motives of the queen, also know that she doth naught from caprice or a desire to rule; while she doth so much from affection to her people."
As Don Luis uttered this with an earnest look, and features flushed with sincerity, it was impossible not to see that he meant as much as he said. If men considered the consequences that often attend their lightest words, less levity of speech would be used, and the office of tale-bearer, the meanest station in the whole catalogue of social rank, would become extinct for want of occupation. Few cared less, or thought less, about the consequences of what they uttered, than Luis de Bobadilla; and yet this hasty but sincere reply did him good service with more than one of those who exercised a material influence over his fortunes. The honest praise of the queen went directly to the heart of the Marchioness, who rather idolized than loved her royal mistress, the long and close intimacy that had existed between them having made her thoroughly acquainted with the pure and almost holy character of Isabella; and when she repeated the words of her nephew to the latter, her own well-established reputation for truth caused them to be implicitly believed. Whatever may be the correctness of our views in general, one of the most certain ways to the feelings is the assurance of being respected and esteemed; while, of all the divine mandates, the most difficult to find obedience is that which tells us to "love those who hate" us. Isabella, notwithstanding her high destiny and lofty qualities, was thoroughly a woman; and when she discovered that, in spite of her own coldness to the youth, he really entertained so much profound deference for her character, and appreciated her feelings and motives in a way that conscience told her she merited, she was much better disposed to look at his peculiar faults with indulgence, and to ascribe that to mere animal spirits, which, under less favorable auspices, might possibly have been mistaken for ignoble propensities.
But this is a little anticipating events. The first consequence of Luis' speech was a milder expression in the countenance of his aunt, and a disposition to consider his entreaties to be admitted to a private interview with Mercedes, with more indulgence.
"I may have done thee injustice in this, Luis," resumed Doña Beatriz, betraying in her manner the sudden change of feeling mentioned; "for I do think thee conscious of thy duty to Her Highness, and of the almost heavenly sense of justice that reigneth in her heart, and through that heart, in Castile. Thou hast not lost in my esteem by thus exhibiting thy respect and love for the queen, for it is impossible to have any regard for female virtue, and not to manifest it to its best representative."
"Do I not, also, dear aunt, in my attachment to thy ward? Is not my very choice, in some sort, a pledge of the truth and justice of my feelings in these particulars?"
"Ah! Luis de Bobadilla, it is not difficult to teach the heart to lean toward the richest and the noblest, when she happeneth also to be the fairest, maiden of Spain!"
"And am I a hypocrite, Marchioness? Dost thou accuse the son of thy brother of being a feigner of that which he doth not feel? --one influenced by so mean a passion as the love of gold and of lands?"
"Foreign lands, heedless boy," returned the aunt, smiling, "but not of others' lands. No, Luis, none that know thee will accuse thee of hypocrisy. We believe in the truth and ardor of thy attachment, and it is for that very cause that we most distrust thy passion."
"How! Are feigned feelings of more repute with the queen and thyself, than real feelings? A spurious and fancied love, than the honest, downright, manly passion."
"It is this genuine feeling, this honest, downright, manly passion, as thou termest it, which is most apt to awaken sympathy in the tender bosom of a young girl. There is no truer touch-stone, by which to try the faithfulness of feelings, than the heart, when the head is not turned by vanity; and the more unquestionable the passion, the easier is it for its subject to make the discovery. Two drops of water do not glide together more naturally than two hearts, nephew, when there is a strong affinity between them. Didst thou not really love Mercedes, as my near and dear relative, thou mightst laugh and sing in her company at all times that should be suitable for the dignity of a maiden, and it would not cause me an uneasy moment."
"I am thy near and dear relative, aunt of mine, with a miracle! and yet it is more difficult for me to get a sight of thy ward"-- "Who is the especial care of the Queen of Castile."
"Well, be it so; and why should a Bobadilla be proscribed by even a Queen of Castile?"
Luis then had recourse to his most persuasive powers, and, improving the little advantage he had gained, by dint of coaxing and teasing he so far prevailed on Doña Beatriz as to obtain a promise that she would apply to the queen for permission to grant him one private interview with Mercedes. We say the queen, since Isabella, distrusting the influence of blood, had cautioned the Marchioness on this subject; and the prudence of letting the young people see each other as little as possible, had been fully settled between them. It was in redeeming this promise, that the aunt related the substance of the conversation that has just been given, and mentioned to her royal mistress the state of her nephew's feelings as respected herself. The effect of such information was necessarily favorable to the young man's views, and one of its first fruits was the desired permission to have the interview he sought.
"They are not sovereigns," remarked the queen, with a smile that the favorite could see was melancholy, though it surpassed her means of penetration to say whether it proceeded from a really saddened feeling, or whether it were merely the manner in which the mind is apt to glance backward at emotions that it is known can never be again awakened in our bosoms;--"they are not sovereigns, Daughter-Marchioness, to woo by proxy, and wed as strangers. It may not be wise to suffer the intercourse to become too common, but it were cruel to deny the youth, as he is about to depart on an enterprise of so doubtful issue, one opportunity to declare his passion and to make his protestations of constancy. If thy ward hath, in truth, any tenderness for him, the recollection of this interview will soothe many a weary hour while Don Luis is away."
"And add fuel to the flame," returned Doña Beatriz, pointedly.
"We know not that, my good Beatriz, since, the heart being softened by the power of God to a sense of its religious duties, may not the same kind hand direct it and shield it in the indulgence of its more worldly feelings? Mercedes will never forget her duty, and, the imagination feeding itself, it may not be the wisest course to leave that of an enthusiast like our young charge, so entirely to its own pictures. Realities are often less hazardous than the creatures of the fancy. Then, thy nephew will not be a loser by the occasion, for, by keeping constantly in view the object he now seemeth to pursue so earnestly, he will the more endeavor to deserve success."
"I much fear, Señora, that the best conclusions are not to be depended on in an affair that touches the waywardness of the feelings."
"Perhaps not, Beatriz; and yet I do not see that we can well deny this interview, now that Don Luis is so near departure. Tell him I accord him that which he so desireth, and let him bear in mind that a grandee should never quit Castile without presenting himself before his sovereign."
"I fear, Your Highness," returned the Marchioness, laughing, "that Don Luis will feel this last command, however gracious and kind in fact, as a strong rebuke, since he hath more than once done this already, without even presenting himself before his own aunt!"
"On those occasions he went idly, and without consideration; but he is now engaged in an honorable and noble enterprise, and we will make it apparent to him that all feel the difference."
The conversation now changed, it being understood that the request of the young man was to be granted. Isabella had, in this instance, departed from a law she had laid down for her own government, under the influence of her womanly feelings, which often caused her to forget that she was a queen, when no very grave duties existed to keep alive the recollection; for it would have been difficult to decide in which light this pure-minded and excellent female most merited the esteem of mankind--in her high character as a just and conscientious sovereign, or when she acted more directly under the gentler impulses of her sex. As for her friend, she was perhaps more tenacious of doing what she conceived to be her duty, by her ward, than the queen herself; since, with a greater responsibility, she was exposed to the suspicion of acting with a design to increase the wealth and to strengthen the connections of her own family. Still, the wishes of Isabella were laws to the Marchioness of Moya, and she sought an early opportunity to acquaint her ward with her intention to allow Don Luis, for once, to plead his own cause with his mistress, before he departed on his perilous and mysterious enterprise.
Our heroine received this intelligence with the mingled sensations of apprehension, delight, misgivings, and joy, that are so apt to beset the female heart, in the freshness of its affections, when once brought in subjection to the master-passion. She had never thought it possible Luis would sail on an expedition like that in which he was engaged, without endeavoring to see her alone; but, now she was assured that both the queen and her guardian acquiesced in his being admitted, she almost regretted their compliance. These contradictory emotions, however, soon subsided in the tender melancholy that gradually drew around her manner, as the hour for the departure approached. Nor were her feelings on the subject of Luis' ready enlistment in the expedition, more consistent. At times she exulted in her lover's resolution, and in his manly devotion to glory and the good of the church; remembering with pride that, of all the high nobility of Castile, he alone ventured life and credit with the Genoese; and then, again, tormenting doubts came over her, as she feared that the love of roving, and of adventure, was quite as active in his heart, as love of herself. But in all this there was nothing new. The more pure and ingenuous the feelings of those who truly submit to the influence of this passion, the more keenly alive are their distrusts apt to be, and the more tormenting their misgivings of themselves.
Her mind made up, Doña Beatriz acted fairly by the young people. As soon as Luis was admitted to her own presence, on the appointed morning, she told him that he was expected by Mercedes, who was waiting his appearance in the usual reception-room. Scarce giving himself time to kiss the hand of his aunt, and to make those other demonstrations of respect that the customs of the age required from the young to their seniors--more especially when there existed between them a tie of blood as close as that which united the Marchioness of Moya with the Conde de Llera--the young man bounded away, and was soon in the presence of his mistress. As Mercedes was prepared for the interview, she betrayed the feeling of the moment merely by a heightened color, and the greater lustre of eyes that were always bright, though often so soft and melancholy.
"Luis!" escaped from her, and then, as if ashamed of the emotion betrayed in the very tones of her voice, she withdrew the foot that had involuntarily advanced to meet him, even while she kept a hand extended in friendly confidence.
"Mercedes!" and the hand was withdrawn to put a stop to the kisses with which it was covered. "Thou art harder to be seen, of late, than it will be to discover this Cathay of the Genoese; for, between the Doña Isabella and Doña Beatriz, never was paradise watched more closely by guardian angels, than thy person is watched by thy protectors."
"And can it be necessary, Luis, when thou art the danger apprehended?"
"Do they think I shall carry thee off, like some Moorish girl borne away on the crupper of a Christian knight's saddle, and place thee in the caravel of Colon, that we may go in search of Prestor John and the Great Khan, in company?"
"They may think _thee_ capable of this act of madness, dear Luis, but they will hardly suspect _me_."
"No, thou art truly a model of prudence in all matters that require feeling for thy lover."
"Luis!" exclaimed the girl, again; and this time unbidden tears started to her eyes.
"Forgive me, Mercedes--dearest, dearest Mercedes; but this delay and all these coldly cruel precautions make me forget myself. Am I a needy and unknown adventurer, that they treat me thus, instead of being a noble Castilian knight!"
"Thou forgettest, Luis, that noble Castilian maidens are not wont to see even noble Castilian cavaliers alone, and, but for the gracious condescension of Her Highness, and the indulgence of my guardian, who happeneth to be thy aunt, this interview could not take place."
"Alone! And dost thou call this being alone, or any excessive favor, on the part of Her Highness, when thou seest that we are watched by the eye, if not by the ear! I fear to speak above my breath, lest the sounds should disturb that venerable lady's meditations!"
As Luis de Bobadilla uttered this, he glanced his eye at the figure of the dueña of his mistress, whose person was visible through an open door, in an adjoining room, where the good woman sat, intently occupied in reading certain homilies.
"Dost mean my poor Pepita," answered Mercedes, laughing; for the presence of her attendant, to whom she had been accustomed from infancy, was no more restraint on her own innocent thoughts and words, than would have proved a reduplication of herself, had such a thing been possible. "Many have been her protestations against this meeting, which she insists is contrary to all rule among noble ladies, and which, she says, would never have been accorded by my poor, sainted mother, were she still living."
"Ay, she hath a look that is sufficient of itself to set every generous mind a-tilting with her. One can see envy of thy beauty and youth, in every wrinkle of her unamiable face."
"Then little dost thou know my excellent Pepita, who envieth nothing, and who hath but one marked weakness, and that is, too much affection, and too much indulgence, for myself."
"I detest a dueña; ay, as I detest an Infidel!"
"Señor," said Pepita, whose vigilant ears, notwithstanding her book and the homilies, heard all that passed, "this is a common feeling among youthful cavaliers, I fear; but they tell me that the very dueña who is so displeasing to the lover, getteth to be a grateful object, in time, with the husband. As my features and wrinkles, however, are so disagreeable to you, and no doubt cause you pain, by closing this door the sight will be shut out, as, indeed, will be the sound of my unpleasant cough, and of your own protestations of love, Señor Knight."
This was said in much better language than was commonly used by women of the dueña's class, and with a good-nature that seemed indomitable, it being completely undisturbed by Luis' petulant remarks.
"Thou shalt not close the door, Pepita," cried Mercedes, blushing rosy red, and springing forward to interpose her own hand against the act. "What is there that the Conde de Llera can have to say to one like me, that _thou_ mayest not hear?"
"Nay, dear child, the noble cavalier is about to talk of love!"
"And is it thou, with whom the language of affection is so uncommon, that it frighteneth thee! Hath thy discourse been of aught but love, since thou hast known and cared for me?"
"It augureth badly for thy suit, Señor," said Pepita, smiling, while she suspended the movement of the hand that was about to close the door, "if Doña Mercedes thinketh of your love as she thinketh of mine. Surely, child, thou dost not fancy me a gay, gallant young noble, come to pour out his soul at thy feet, and mistakest my simple words of affection for such as will be likely to flow from the honeyed tongue of a Bobadilla, bent on gaining his suit with the fairest maiden of Castile?"
Mercedes shrunk back, for, though innocent as purity itself, her heart taught her the difference between the language of her lover and the language of her nurse, even when each most expressed affection. Her hand released its hold of the wood, and unconsciously was laid, with its pretty fellow, on her crimsoned face. Pepita profited by her advantage, and closed the door. A smile of triumph gleamed on the handsome features of Luis, and, after he had forced his mistress, by a gentle compulsion, to resume the seat from which she had risen to meet him, he threw himself on a stool at her feet, and stretching out his well-turned limbs in an easy attitude, so as to allow himself to gaze into the beautiful face that he had set up, like an idol, before him, he renewed the discourse.
"This is a paragon of dueñas," he cried, "and I might have known that none of the ill-tempered, unreasonable school of such beings, would be tolerated near thy person. This Pepita is a jewel, and she may consider herself established in her office for life, if, by the cunning of this Genoese, mine own resolution, the queen's repentance, and thy gentle favor, I ever prove so lucky as to become thy husband."
"Thou forgettest, Luis," answered Mercedes, trembling even while she laughed at her own conceit, "that if the husband esteemeth the dueña the lover could not endure, that the lover may esteem the dueña that the husband may be unwilling to abide." " _Peste! _ these are crooked matters, and ill-suited to the straight-forward philosophy of Luis de Bobadilla. There is one thing only, which I can, or do, pretend to know, out of any controversy, and that I am ready to maintain in the face of all the doctors of Salamanca, or all the chivalry of Christendom, that of the Infidel included; which is, that thou art the fairest, sweetest, best, most virtuous, and in all things the most winning maiden of Spain, and that no other living knight so loveth and honoreth his mistress as I love and honor thee!"
The language of admiration is ever soothing to female ears, and Mercedes, giving to the words of the youth an impression of sincerity that his manner fully warranted, forgot the dueña and her little interruption, in the delight of listening to declarations that were so grateful to her affections. Still, the coyness of her sex, and the recent date of their mutual confidence, rendered her answer less open than it might otherwise have been.
"I am told,", she said, "that you young cavaliers, who pant for occasions to show your skill and courage with the lance and in the tourney, are ever making some such protestations in favor of this or that noble maiden, in order to provoke others like themselves to make counter assertions, that they may show their prowess as knights, and gain high names for gallantry."
"This cometh of being so much shut up in Doña Beatriz's private rooms, lest some bold Spanish eyes should look profanely on thy beauty, Mercedes. We are not in the age of the errants and the troubadours, when men committed a thousand follies that they might be thought weaker even than nature had made them. In that age, your knights _discoursed_ largely of love, but in our own they _feel_ it. In sooth, I think this savoreth of some of the profound morality of Pepita!"
"Say naught against Pepita, Luis, who hath much befriended thee to-day, else would thy tongue, and thine eyes too, be under the restraint of her presence. But that which thou termest the morality of the good dueña, is, in truth, the morality of the excellent and most noble Doña Beatriz de Cabrera, Marchioness of Moya, who was born a lady of the House of Bobadilla, I believe."
"Well, well, I dare to say there is no great difference between the lessons of a duchess and the lessons of a dueña in the privacy of the closet, when there is one like thee, beautiful, and rich, and virtuous, to guard. They say you young maidens are told that we cavaliers are so many ogres, and that the only way to reach paradise is to think naught of us but evil, and then, when some suitable marriage hath been decided on, the poor young creature is suddenly alarmed by an order to come forth and be wedded to one of these very monsters."
"And, in this mode, hast thou been treated! It would seem that much pains are taken to make the young of the two sexes think ill of each other. But, Luis, this is pure idleness, and we waste in it most precious moments; moments that may never return. How go matters with Colon--and when is he like to quit the court?"
"He hath already departed; for, having obtained all he hath sought of the queen, he quitted Santa Fé, with the royal authority to sustain him in the fullest manner. If thou hearest aught of one Pedro de Muños, or Pero Gutierrez, at the court of Cathay, thou wilt know on whose shoulders to lay his follies."
"I would rather that thou shouldst undertake this voyage in thine own name, Luis, than under a feigned appellation. Concealments of this nature are seldom wise, and surely thou dost not undertake the enterprise"--the tell-tale blood stole to the cheeks of Mercedes as she proceeded--"with a motive that need bring shame." " 'Tis the wish of my aunt; as for myself, I would put thy favor in my casque, thy emblem on my shield, and let it be known, far and near, that Luis of Llera sought the court of Cathay, with the intent to defy its chivalry to produce as fair or as virtuous a maiden as thyself."
"We are not in the age of errants, sir knight, but in one of reason and truth," returned Mercedes, laughing, though every syllable that proved the earnest and entire devotion of the young man went directly to her heart, strengthening his hold on it, and increasing the flame that burnt within, by adding the fuel that was most adapted to that purpose--"we are not in the age of knights-errant, Don Luis de Bobadilla, as thou thyself hast just affirmed; but one in which even the lover is reflecting, and as apt to discover the faults of his lady-love as to dwell upon her perfections. I look for better things from thee, than to hear that thou hast ridden through the highways of Cathay, defying to combat and seeking giants, in order to exalt my beauty, and tempting others to decry it, if it were only out of pure opposition to thy idle boastings. Ah! Luis, thou art now engaged in a most truly noble enterprise, one that will join thy name to those of the applauded of men, and which will form thy pride and exultation in after-life, when the eyes of us both shall be dimmed by age, and we shall look back with longings to discover aught of which to be proud."
It was thrice, pleasant to the youth to hear his mistress, in the innocence of her heart, and in the fulness of her feelings, thus uniting his fate with her own; and when she ceased speaking, all unconscious how much might be indirectly implied from her words, he still listened intently, as if he would fain hear the sounds after they had died on his ear.
"What enterprise can be nobler, more worthy to awaken all my resolution, than to win thy hand!" he exclaimed, after a short pause. "I follow Colon with no other object; share his chances, to remove the objections of Doña Isabella; and will accompany him to the earth's end, rather than that thy choice should be dishonored. _Thou_ art _my_ Great Khan, beloved Mercedes, and thy smiles and affection are the only Cathay I seek."
"Say not so, dear Luis, for thou knowest not the nobility of thine own soul, nor the generosity of thine own intentions. This is a stupendous project of Colon's, and much as I rejoice that he hath had the imagination to conceive it, and the heart to undertake it in his own person, on account of the good it must produce to the heathen, and the manner in which it will necessarily redound to the glory of God, still I fear that I am equally gladdened with the recollection that thy name will be forever associated with the great achievement, and thy detractors put to shame with the resolution and spirit with which so noble an end will have been attained."
"This is nothing but truth, Mercedes, should we reach the Indies; but, should the saints desert us, and our project fail, I fear that even thou wouldst be ashamed to confess an interest in an unfortunate adventurer who hath returned without success, and thereby made himself the subject of sneers and derision, instead of wearing the honorable distinction that thou seemest so confidently to expect."
"Then, Luis de Bobadilla, thou knowest me not," answered Mercedes, hastily, and speaking with a tender earnestness that brought the blood into her cheeks, gradually brightening the brilliancy of her eyes, until they shone with a lustre that seemed almost supernatural--"then, Luis de Bobadilla, thou knowest me not. I wish thee to share in the glory of this enterprise, because calumny and censure have not been altogether idle with thy youth, and because I feel that Her Highness' favor is most easily obtained by it; but, if thou believest that the spirit to engage with Colon was necessary to incline me to think kindly of my guardian's nephew, thou neither understandest the sentiments that draw me toward thee, nor hast a just appreciation of the hours of sorrow I have suffered on thy account."
"Dearest, most generous, noble-hearted girl, I am unworthy of thy truth, of thy pure sincerity, and of all thy devoted feelings! Drive me from thee at once, that I may ne'er again cause thee a moment's grief."
"Nay, Luis, thy remedy, I fear me, would prove worse than the disease that thou wouldst cure," returned the beautiful girl, smiling and blushing as she spoke, and turning her eloquent eyes on the youth in a way to avow volumes of tenderness. "With thee must I be happy, or unhappy, as Providence may will it; or miserable without thee."
The conversation now took that unconnected, and yet comprehensive cast, which is apt to characterize the discourse of those who feel as much as they reason, and it covered more interests, sentiments, and events, than our limits will allow us to record. As usual, Luis was inconsistent, jealous, repentant, full of passion and protestations, fancying a thousand evils at one instant, and figuring in his imagination a terrestrial paradise at the next; while Mercedes was enthusiastic, generous, devoted, and yet high-principled, self-denying, and womanly; meeting her ardent suitor's vows with a tenderness that seemed to lose all other considerations in her love, and repelling with maiden coyness, and with the dignity of her sex, his rhapsodies, whenever they touched upon the exaggerated and indiscreet.
The interview lasted an hour, and it is scarce necessary to say that vows of constancy, and pledges never to marry another, were given, again and again. As the time for separating approached, Mercedes opened a small casket that contained her jewels, and drew forth one which she offered to her lover as a gage of her truth.
"I will not give thee a glove to wear in thy casque at tourneys, Luis," she said, "but I offer this holy symbol, which may remind thee, at the same moment, of the great pursuit thou hast before thee, and of her who will wait its issue with doubts and fears little less active than those of Colon himself. Thou needst no other crucifix to say thy paters before, and these stones are sapphires, which thou knowest are the tokens of fidelity--a feeling that thou mayst encourage as respects thy lasting welfare, and which it would not grieve me to know thou kept'st ever active in thy bosom when thinking of the unworthy giver of the trifle."
This was said half in melancholy, and half in lightness of heart, for Mercedes felt, at parting, both a weight of sorrow that was hard to be borne, and a buoyancy of the very feeling to which she had just alluded, that much disposed her to smile; and it was said with those winning accents with which the youthful and tender avow their emotions, when the heart is subdued by the thoughts of absence and dangers. The gift was a small cross, formed of the stones she had named, and of great intrinsic value, as well as precious from the motives and character of her who offered it.
"Thou hast had a care of my soul, in this, Mercedes," said Luis, smiling, when he had kissed the jewelled cross again and again--"and art resolved if the sovereign of Cathay should refuse to be converted to our faith, that we shall not be converted to his. I fear that my offering will appear tame and valueless in thine eyes, after so precious a boon."
"One lock of thy hair, Luis, is all I desire. Thou knowest that I have no need of jewels."
"If I thought the sight of my bushy head would give thee pleasure, every hair should quit it, and I would sail from Spain with a poll as naked as a priest's, or even an Infidel's; but the Bobadillas have their jewels, and a Bobadilla's bride shall wear them: this necklace was my mother's, Mercedes; it is said to have once been the property of a queen, though none have ever worn it who will so honor it as thou."
"I take it, Luis, for it is thy offering and may not be refused; and yet I take it tremblingly, for I see signs of our different natures in these gifts. Thou hast chosen the gorgeous and the brilliant, which pall in time, and seldom lead to contentment; while my woman's heart hath led me to constancy. I fear some brilliant beauty of the East would better gain thy lasting admiration than a poor Castilian maid who hath little but her faith and love to recommend her!"
Protestations on the part of the young man followed, and Mercedes permitted one fond and long embrace ere they separated. She wept on the bosom of Don Luis, and at the final moment of parting, as ever happens with woman, feeling got the better of form, and her whole soul confessed its weakness. At length Luis tore himself away from her presence, and that night he was on his way to the coast, under an assumed name, and in simple guise; whither Columbus had already preceded.
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"But where is Harold? Shall I then forget To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave? Little reck'd he of all that men regret; No loved one now in feign'd lament could rave; No friend the parting hand extended gave Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes."
Byron.
The reader is not to suppose that the eyes of Europe were on our adventurers. Truth and falsehood, inseparable companions, it would seem, throughout all time, were not then diffused over the land by means of newspapers, with mercenary diligence; and it was only the favored few who got early intelligence of enterprises like that in which Columbus was engaged. Luis de Bobadilla had, therefore, stolen from court unnoticed, and they who came in time to miss his presence, either supposed him to be on a visit to one of his castles, or to have gone forth on another of those wandering tours which were supposed to be blemishes on his chivalry and unworthy of his birth. As for the Genoese himself, his absence was scarcely heeded, though it was understood among the courtiers generally that Isabella had entered into some arrangement with him, which gave the adventurer higher rank and greater advantages than his future services would probably ever justify. The other principal adventurers were too insignificant to attract much attention, and they had severally departed for the coast without the knowledge of their movements extending far beyond the narrow circles of their own acquaintances. Neither was this expedition, so bold in its conception and so momentous in its consequences, destined to sail from one of the more important ports of Spain; but orders to furnish the necessary means had been sent to a haven of altogether inferior rank, and which would seem to have possessed no other recommendations for this particular service, than hardy mariners, and a position without the pass of Gibraltar, which was sometimes rendered hazardous by the rovers of Africa. The order, however, is said to have been issued to the place selected, in consequence of its having incurred some legal penalty, by which it had been condemned to serve the crown for a twelvemonth with two armed caravels. Such punishments, it would seem, were part of the policy of an age in which navies were little more than levies on sea-ports, and when fleets were usually manned by soldiers from the land.
Palos de Moguer, the place ordered to pay this tribute for its transgression, was a town of little importance, even at the close of the fifteenth century, and it has since dwindled to an insignificant fishing village. Like most places that are little favored by nature, its population was hardy and adventurous, as adventure was then limited by ignorance. It possessed no stately caracks, its business and want of opulence confining all its efforts to the lighter caravel and the still more diminutive felucca. All the succor, indeed, that Columbus had been able to procure from the two crowns, by his protracted solicitations, was the order for the equipment of the two caravels mentioned, with the additional officers and men that always accompanied a royal expedition. The reader, however, is not to infer from this fact any niggardliness of spirit, or any want of faith, on the part of Isabella. It was partly owing to the exhausted condition of her treasury, a consequence of the late war with the Moor, and more, perhaps, to the experience and discretion of the great navigator himself, who well understood that, for the purposes of discovery, vessels of this size would be more useful and secure than those that were larger.
On a rocky promontory, at a distance of less than a league from the village of Palos, stood the convent of La Rabida, since rendered so celebrated by its hospitality to Columbus. At the gate of this building, seven years before, the navigator, leading his youthful son by the hand, had presented himself, a solicitor for food in behalf of the wearied boy. The story is too well known to need repetition here, and we will merely add that his long residence in this convent, and the firm friends he had made of the holy Franciscans who occupied it, as well as among others in their vicinity, were also probably motives that influenced him in directing the choice of the crown to this particular place. Columbus had not only circulated his opinions with the monks, but with the more intelligent of the neighborhood, and the first converts he made in Spain were at this place.
Notwithstanding all the circumstances named, the order of the crown to prepare the caravels in question, spread consternation among the mariners of Palos. In that age, it was thought a wonderful achievement to follow the land, along the coast of Africa, and to approach the equator. The vaguest notions existed in the popular mind, concerning those unknown regions, and many even believed that by journeying south it was possible to reach a portion of the earth where animal and vegetable life must cease on account of the intense heat of the sun. The revolution of the planets, the diurnal motion of the earth, and the causes of the changes in the seasons, were then profound mysteries even to the learned; or, if glimmerings of the truth did exist, they existed as the first rays of the dawn dimly and hesitatingly announce the approach of day. It is not surprising, therefore, that the simple-minded and unlettered mariners of Palos viewed the order of the crown as a sentence of destruction on all who might be fated to obey it. The ocean, when certain limits were passed, was thought to be, like the firmament, a sort of chaotic void; and the imaginations of the ignorant had conjured up currents and whirlpools that were believed to lead to fiery climates and frightful scenes of natural destruction. Some even fancied it possible to reach the uttermost boundaries of the earth, and to slide off into vacuum, by means of swift but imperceptible currents.
Such was the state of things, in the middle of the month of July. Columbus was still in the convent of Rabida, in the company of his constant friend and adherent, Fray Juan Perez, when a lay brother came to announce that a stranger had arrived at the gate, asking earnestly for the Señor Christoval Colon.
"Hath he the aspect of a messenger from the court?" demanded the navigator; "for, since the failure of the mission of Juan de Peñalosa, there is need of further orders from their Highnesses to enforce their gracious intentions."
"I think not, Señor," answered the lay brother; "these hard-riding couriers of the queen generally appearing with their steeds in a foam, and with hurried air and blustering voices; whereas this young cavalier behaveth modestly, and rideth a stout Andalusian mule."
"Did he give thee his name, good Sancho?"
"He gave me two, Señor, styling himself Pedro de Muños, or Pedro Gutierrez, without the Don."
"This is well," exclaimed Columbus, turning a little quickly toward the door, but otherwise maintaining a perfect self-command; "I expect the youth, and he is right welcome. Let him come in at once, good Sancho, and that without any useless ceremony."
"An acquaintance of the court, Señor?" observed the prior, in the way one indirectly asks a question.
"A youth that hath the spirit, father, to adventure life and character for the glory of God, through the advancement of his church, by embarking in our enterprise. He cometh of a reputable lineage, and is not without the gifts of fortune. But for the care of guardians, and his own youth, gold would not have been wanting in our need. As it is, he ventureth his own person, if one can be said to risk aught in an expedition that seemeth truly to set even the orders of their Highnesses at defiance."
As Columbus ceased speaking, the door opened and Luis de Bobadilla entered. The young grandee had laid aside all the outward evidences of his high rank, and now appeared in the modest guise of a traveller belonging to a class more likely to furnish a recruit for the voyage, than one of the rank he really was. Saluting Columbus with cordial and sincere respect, and the Franciscan with humble deference, the first at once perceived that this gallant and reckless spirit had truly engaged in the enterprise with a determination to use all the means that would enable him to go through with it.
"Thou art welcome, Pedro," Columbus observed, as soon as Luis had made his salutations; "thou hast reached the coast at a moment when thy presence and support may be exceedingly useful. The first order of Her Highness, by which I should have received the services of the two caravels to which the state is entitled, hath been utterly disregarded; and a second mandate, empowering me to seize upon any vessel that may suit our necessities, hath fared but little better, notwithstanding the Señor de Peñalosa was sent directly from court to enforce its conditions, under a penalty, to the port, of paying a daily tax of two hundred maravedis, until the order should be fulfilled. The idiots have conjured all sorts of ills with which to terrify themselves and their neighbors, and I seem to be as far from the completion of my hopes as I was before I procured the friendship of this holy friar and the royal protection of Doña Isabella. It is a weary thing, my good Pedro, to waste a life in hopes defeated, with such an object in view as the spread of knowledge and the extension of the church!"
"I am the bearer of good tidings, Señor," answered the young noble. "In coming hither from the town of Moguer, I journeyed with one Martin Alonzo Pinzon, a mariner with whom I have formerly voyaged, and we have had much discourse concerning your commission and difficulties. He tells me that he is known to you, Señor Colon, and I should judge from his discourse that he thinketh favorably of the chances."
"He doth--he doth, indeed, good Pedro, and hath often listened to my reasoning like a discreet and skilful navigator, as I make no question he really is. But didst thou say that thou wast _known_ to him?"
"Señor, I did. We have voyaged together as far as Cyprus, on one occasion, and, again, to the island of the English. In such long voyages, men get to some knowledge of each other's temperament and disposition, and, of a sooth, I think well of both, in this Señor Pinzon."
"Thou art young to pass an opinion on a mariner of Martin Alonzo's years and experience, son," put in the friar; "a man of much repute in this vicinity, and of no little wealth. Nevertheless, I am rejoiced to hear that he continueth of the same mind as formerly, in relation to the great voyage; for, of late, I did think even he had begun to waver."
Don Luis had expressed himself of the great man of the vicinity, more like a Bobadilla than became his assumed name of Muños, and a glance from the eye of Columbus told him to forget his rank and to remember the disguise he had assumed.
"This is truly encouraging," observed the navigator, "and openeth a brighter view of Cathay. Thou wast journeying between Moguer and Palos, I think thou saidst, when this discourse was had with our acquaintance, the good Martin Alonzo?"
"I was, Señor, and it was he who sent me hither in quest of the admiral. He gave you the title that the queen's favor hath bestowed, and I consider that no small sign of friendship, as most others with whom I have conversed in this vicinity seem disposed to call you by any other name."
"None need embark in this enterprise," returned the navigator, gravely, as if he would admonish the youth that this was an occasion on which he might withdraw from the adventure, if he saw fit, "who feel disposed to act differently, or who distrust my knowledge."
"By San Pedro, my patron! they tell another tale at Palos, and at Moguer, Señor Amirale," returned Luis, laughing; "at which places, I hear, that no man whose skin hath been a little warmed by the sun of the ocean, dare show himself in the highways, lest he be sent to Cathay by a road that no one ever yet travelled, except in fancy! There is, notwithstanding, one free and willing volunteer, Señor Colon, who is disposed to follow you to the edge of the earth, if it be flat, and to follow you quite around it, should it prove to be a sphere; and that is one Pedro de Muños, who engageth with you from no sordid love of gold, or love of aught else that men usually prize; but from the pure love of adventure, somewhat excited and magnified, perhaps, by love of the purest and fairest maid of Castile."
Fray Juan Perez gazed at the speaker, whose free manner and open speech a good deal surprised him; for Columbus had succeeded in awakening so much respect that few presumed to use any levity in his presence, even before he was dignified by the high rank so recently conferred by the commission of Isabella. Little did the good monk suspect that one of a still higher personal rank, though entirely without official station, stood before him, in the guise of Pedro de Muños; and he could not refrain from again expressing the little relish he felt for such freedom of speech and deportment toward those whom he himself habitually regarded with so much respect.
"It would seem, Señor Pedro de Muños," he said, "if that be thy name--though duke, or marquis, or count, would be a title better becoming thy bearing--that thou treatest His Excellency the Admiral with quite as much freedom of thought, at least, as thou treatest the worthy Martin Alonzo of our own neighborhood; a follower should be more humble, and not pass his jokes on the opinions of his leader, in this loose style of expression."
"I crave your pardon, holy father, and that of the admiral, too, who better understandeth me I trust, if there be any just grounds of offence. All I wish to express is, that I know this Martin Alonzo of your neighborhood, as an old fellow-voyager; that we have ridden some leagues in company this very day, and that, after close discourse, he hath manifested a friendly desire to put his shoulder to the wheel, in order to lift the expedition, if not from a slough of mud, at least from the sands of the river; and that he hath promised to come also to this good convent of La Rabida, for that same purpose and no other. As for myself, I can only add, that here I am, ready to follow wheresoever the honorable Señor Colon may see fit to lead."
"Tis well, good Pedro--'tis well," rejoined the admiral. "I give thee full credit for sincerity and spirit, and that must content thee until an opportunity offereth to convince others. I like these tidings concerning Martin Alonzo, father, since he might truly do us much good service, and his zeal had assuredly begun to flag."
"That might he, and that will he, if he engageth seriously in the affair. Martin is the greatest navigator on all this coast, for, though I did not know that he had ever been even to Cyprus, as would appear by the account of this youth, I was well aware that he had frequently sailed as far north as France, and as far south as the Canaries. Dost think Cathay much more remote than Cyprus, Señor Almirante?"
Columbus smiled at this question, and shook his head in the manner of one who would prepare a friend for some sore disappointment.
"Although Cyprus be not distant from the Holy Land and the seat of the Infidel's power," he answered, "Cathay must lie much more remote. I flatter not myself, nor those who are disposed to follow me, with the hope of reaching the Indies short of a voyage that shall extend to some eight hundred or a thousand leagues." " 'Tis a fearful and a weary distance!" exclaimed the Franciscan; while Luis stood in smiling unconcern, equally indifferent whether he had to traverse one-thousand or ten thousand leagues of ocean, so that the journey led to Mercedes and was productive of adventure. "A fearful and weary distance, and yet I doubt not, Señor Almirante, that you are the very man designed by Providence to overcome it, and to open the way for those who will succeed you, bearing on high the cross of Christ and the promises of his redemption!"
"Let us hope this," returned Columbus, reverently making the usual sign of the sacred emblem to which his friend alluded; "as a proof that we have some worldly foundation for the expectation, here cometh the Señor Pinzon himself, apparently hot with haste to see us."
Martin Alonzo Pinzon, whose name is so familiar to the reader, as one who greatly aided the Genoese in his vast undertaking, now entered the room, seemingly earnest and bent on some fixed purpose, as Columbus' observant eye had instantly detected. Fray Juan Perez was not a little surprised to see that the first salutation of Martin Alonzo, the great man of the neighborhood, was directed to Pedro, the second to the admiral, and the third to himself. There was not time, however, for the worthy Franciscan, who was a little apt to rebuke any dereliction of decency on the spot, to express what he felt on this occasion, ere Martin Alonzo opened his errand with an eagerness that showed he had not come on a mere visit of friendship, or of ceremony.
"I am sorely vexed, Señor Almirante," he commenced, "at learning the obstinacy, and the disobedience to the orders of the queen, that have been shown among our mariners of Palos. Although a dweller of the port itself, and one who hath always viewed your opinions of this western voyage with respect, if not with absolute faith, I did not know the full extent of this insubordination until I met, by accident, an old acquaintance on the highway, in the person of Don Pedro--I ought to say the _Señor_ Pedro de Muños, here, who, coming from a distance as he doth, hath discovered more of our backslidings than I had learned myself, on the spot. But, Señor, you are not now to hear for the first time, of what sort of stuff men are made. They are reasoning beings, we are told; notwithstanding which undeniable truth, as there is not one in a hundred who is at the trouble to do his own thinking, means may be found to change the opinions of a sufficient number for all your wants, without their even suspecting it."
"This is very true, neighbor Martin Alonzo," put in the friar--"so true, that it might go into a homily and do no disservice to religion. Man _is_ a rational animal, and an accountable animal, but it is not meet that he should be a _thinking_ animal. In matters of the church, now, its interests being entrusted to a ministry, what have the unlearned and ignorant to say of its affairs? In matters of navigation, it doth, indeed, seem as if one steersman were better than a hundred! Although man be a reasoning animal, there are quite as many occasions when he is bound to obey without reasoning, and few when he should be permitted to reason without obeying."
"All true, holy friar and most excellent neighbor; so true that you will find no one in Palos to deny that, at least. And now we are on the subject, I may as well add that it is the church that hath thrown more obstacles in the way of the Señor Almirante's success, than any other cause. All the old women of the port declare that the notion of the earth's being round is a heresy, and contrary to the Bible; and, if the truth must be said, there are not a few underlings of this very convent, who uphold them in the opinion. It doth appear unnatural to tell one who hath never quitted the land, and who seeth himself much oftener in a valley than on an eminence, that the globe is round, and, though I have had many occasions to see the ocean, it would not easily find credit with me, were it not for the fact that we see the upper and smaller sails of a ship first, when approaching her, as well as the vanes and crosses of towns, albeit they are the smaller objects about vessels and churches. We mariners have one way to inspirit our followers, and you churchmen have another; and, now that I intend to use my means to put wiser thoughts into the heads of the seamen of Palos, reverend friar, I look to you to set the church's engines at work, so as to silence the women, and to quell the doubts of the most zealous among your own brotherhood."
"Am I to understand by this, Señor Pinzon," demanded Columbus, "that you intend to take a direct and more earnest interest than before in the success of my enterprise?"
"Señor, you may. That is my intention, if we can come to as favorable an understanding about the terms, as your worship would seem to have entered into with our most honored mistress, Doña Isabella de Trastamara. I have had some discourse with Señor Don--I would say with the Señor Pedro de Muños, here--odd's folly, an excess of courtesy is getting to be a vice with me of late--but as he is a youth of prudence, and manifests a desire to embark with you, it hath stirred my fancy so far, that I would gladly be of the party. Señor de Muños and I have voyaged so much together, that I would fain see his worthy countenance once more upon the ocean."
"These are cheerful tidings, Martin Alonzo"--eagerly put in the friar, "and thy soul, and the souls of all who belong to you, will reap the benefits of this manly and pious resolution. It is one thing, Señor Almirante, to have their Highnesses of your side, in a place like Palos, and another to have our worthy neighbor Pinzon, here; for, if they are sovereigns in law, he is an emperor in opinion. I doubt not that the caravels will now be speedily forthcoming."
"Since thou seemest to have truly resolved to enter into our enterprise, Señor Martin Alonzo," added Columbus, with his dignified gravity, "out of doubt, thou hast well bethought thee of the conditions, and art come prepared to let them be known. Do they savor of the terms that have already been in discussion between us?"
"Señor Admiral, they do; though gold is not, just now, as abundant in our purses, as when we last discoursed on this subject. On that head, some obstacles may exist, but on all others, I doubt not, a brief explanation between us will leave the matter free from doubt."
"As to the eighth, for which I stand committed with their Highnesses, Señor Pinzon, there will be less reason, now, to raise that point between us, than when we last met, as other means may offer to redeem that pledge"--as Columbus spoke, his eyes involuntarily turned toward the pretended Pedro, whither those of Martin Alonzo Pinzon significantly followed; "but there will be many difficulties to overcome with these terrified and silly mariners, which may yield to thy influence. If thou wilt come with me into this chamber, we will at once discuss the heads of our treaty, leaving this youth, the while, to the hospitality of our reverend friend."
The prior raising no objection to this proposition, it was immediately put in execution, Columbus and Pinzon withdrawing to a more private apartment, leaving Fray Juan Perez alone with our hero.
"Then thou thinkest seriously, son, of making one in this great enterprise of the admiral's," said the Franciscan, as soon as the door was closed on those who had just left them, eyeing Luis, for the first time, with a more strict scrutiny than hitherto he had leisure to exercise. "Thou carriest thyself much like the young lords of the court, and wilt have occasion to acquire a less towering air in the narrow limits of one of our Palos caravels."
"I am no stranger to Nao, Carraca, Fusta, Pinaza, Carabelon, or Felucca, holy prior, and shall carry myself with the admiral, as I should carry myself before Don Fernando of Aragon, were he my fellow-voyager, or in the presence of Boabdil of Grenada, were that unhappy monarch again seated on the throne from which he hath been so lately hurled, urging his chivalry to charge the knights of Christian Spain."
"These are fine words, son, ay, and uttered with a tilting air, if truth must be said; but they will avail thee nothing with this Genoese, who hath that in him, that would leave him unabashed even in the presence of our gracious lady, Doña Isabella, herself."
"Thou knowest the queen, holy monk?" inquired Luis, forgetting his assumed character, in the freedom of his address.
"I ought to know her inmost heart, son, for often have I listened to her pure and meek spirit, in the secrets of the confessional. Much as she is beloved by us Castilians, no one can know the true, spiritual elevation of that pious princess, and most excellent woman, but they who have had occasion to shrive her."
Don Luis hemmed, played with the handle of his rapier, and then gave utterance to the uppermost thought, as usual.
"Didst thou, by any chance of thy priestly office, father, ever find it necessary to confess a maiden of the court, who is much esteemed by the queen?" he inquired, "and whose spirit, I'll answer for it, is as pure as that of Doña Isabella's itself."
"Son, thy question denoteth greater necessity for repairing to Salamanca, in order to be instructed in the history, and practices, and faith of the church, than to be entering into an enterprise, even as commendable as this of Colon's! Dost thou not know that we churchmen are not permitted to betray the secrets of the confessional, or to draw comparisons between penitents? and, moreover, that we do not take even Doña Isabella, the blessed Maria keep her ever in mind, as the standard of holiness to which all Christians are expected to aim? The maiden of whom thou speakest may be virtuous, according to worldly notions, and yet a grievous sinner in the eyes of mother church."
"I should like, before I quit Spain, to hear a Mendoza, or a Guzman, who hath not a shaven crown, venture to hint as much, most reverend prior!"
"Thou art hot and restive, and talkest idly, son; what would one like thee find to say to a Guzman, or a Mendoza, or a Bobadilla, even, did he affirm what thou wishest? But, who is the maid, in whom thy feelings seem to take so deep, although I question if it be not an unrequited, interest?"
"Nay, I did but speak in idleness. Our stations have made such a chasm between us, that it is little likely we should ever come to speech; nor is my merit such as would be apt to cause her to forget her high advantages."
"Still, she hath a name?"
"She hath, truly, prior, and a right noble one it is. I had the Doña Maria de las Mercedes de Valverde in my thoughts, when the light remark found utterance. Haply, thou may'st know that illustrious heiress?"
Fray Juan Perez, a truly guileless priest, started at the name; then he gazed intently, and with a sort of pity, at the youth; after which he bent his head toward the tiles beneath his feet, smiled, and shook his head like one whose thoughts were very active.
"I do, indeed, know the lady," he said, "and even when last at court, on this errand of Colon's, their own confessor being ill, I shrived her, as well as my royal mistress. That she is worthy of Doña Isabella's esteem is true; but thy admiration for this noble maiden, which must be something like the distant reverence we feel for the clouds that sail above our heads, can scarce be founded on any rational hopes."
"Thou canst not know that, father. If this expedition end as we trust, all who engage in it will be honored and advanced; and why not I, as well as another?"
"In this, thou may'st utter truth, but as for the Doña--" The Franciscan checked himself, for he was about to betray the secret of the confessional. He had, in truth, listened to the contrition of Mercedes, of which her passion for Luis was the principal cause; and it was he who, with a species of pious fraud of which he was himself unconscious, had first pointed out the means by which the truant noble might be made to turn his propensity to rove to the profit of his love; and his mind was full of her beautiful exhibition of purity and natural feeling, nearly even to overflowing. But habit and duty interfered in time, and he did not utter the name that had been trembling on his lips. Still, his thoughts continued in this current, and his tongue gave utterance to that portion of them which he believed to be harmless. "Thou hast been much about the world, it would seem, by Master Alonzo's greeting," he continued, after a short pause; "didst ever meet, son, with a certain cavalier of Castile, named Don Luis de Bobadilla--a grandee, who also bears the title of Conde de Llera?"
"I know little of his hopes, and care less for his titles," returned Luis, calmly, who thought he would manifest a magnanimous indifference to the Franciscan's opinions--"but I have seen the cavalier, and a roving, mad-brained, graceless youth it is, of whom no good can be expected."
"I fear this is but too true," rejoined Fray Juan Perez, shaking his head in a melancholy manner--"and yet they say he is a gallant knight, and the very best lance in all Spain."
"Ay, he may be that," answered Luis, hemming a little louder than was decorous, for his throat began to grow husky--"Ay, he may be that; but of what avail is a good lance without a good character. I hear little commendable of this young Conde de Llera."
"I trust he is not the man he generally passeth for,"--answered the simple-hearted monk, without in the least suspecting his companion's disguise; "and I do know that there are some who think well of him--nay, whose existence, I might say whose very souls, are wrapped up in him!"
"Holy Franciscan! --why wilt thou not mention the names of one or two of these?" demanded Luis, with an impetuosity that caused the prior to start.
"And why should I give this information to thee, young man, more than to another?"
"Why, father--why, for several most excellent and unanswerable reasons. In the first place, I am a youth myself, as thou seest; and example, they say, is better than precept. Then, too, _I_ am somewhat given to roving, and it may profit me to know how others of the same propensity have sped. Moreover, it would gladden my inmost heart to hear that--but two sufficient reasons are better than three, and thou hast the first number already."
Fray Juan Perez, a devout Christian, a learned churchman, and a liberal scholar, was as simple as a child in matters that related to the world and its passions. Nevertheless, he was not so dull as to overlook the strange deportment and stranger language of his companion. A direction had been given to his thoughts by the mention of the name of our heroine; and, as he himself had devised the very course taken by our hero, the truth began to dawn on his imagination.
"Young cavalier," he exclaimed, "thou art Don Luis de Bobadilla!"
"I shall never deny the prophetic knowledge of a churchman, worthy father, after this detection! I _am_ he thou sayest, entered on this expedition to win the love of Mercedes de Valverde." " 'Tis as I thought--and yet, Señor, you might have taken our poor convent less at an advantage. Suffer that I command the lay brothers to place refreshments before you!"
"Thy pardon, excellent prior--Pedro de Muños, or even Pero Gutierrez, hath no need of food; but, now that thou knowest me, there can be less reason for not conversing of the Doña Mercedes?"
"Now that I know thee, Señor Conde, there is greater reason for silence on that head," returned Fray Juan Perez, smiling. "Thine aunt, the most esteemed and virtuous lady of Moya, can give thee all occasion to urge thy suit with this charming maiden, and it would ill become a churchman to temper her prudence by any indiscreet interference."
This explanation was the commencement of a long and confidential dialogue, in which the worthy prior, now that he was on his guard, succeeded in preserving his main secret, though he much encouraged the young man in the leading hope of his existence, as well as in his project to adhere to the fortunes of Columbus. In the mean while, the great navigator himself continued closeted with his new counsellor; and when the two reappeared, it was announced to those without that the latter had engaged in the enterprise with so much zeal, that he actually entertained the intention of embarking on board of one of the caravels in person.
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"Yet he to whom each danger hath become A dark delight, and every wild a home, Still urges onward--undismayed to tread Where life's fond lovers would recoil with dread."
The Abencerrage.
The intelligence that Martin Alonzo Pinzon was to make one of the followers of Colon, spread through the village of Palos like wild-fire. Volunteers were no longer wanting; the example of one known and respected in the vicinity, operating far more efficiently on the minds of the mariners, than the orders of the queen or the philosophy of Columbus. Martin Alonzo they knew; they were accustomed to submit to his influence; they could follow in his footsteps, and had confidence in his judgment; whereas, the naked orders of an unseen sovereign, however much beloved, had more of the character of a severe judgment than of a generous enterprise; and as for Columbus, though most men were awed by his dignified appearance and grave manner, when out of sight he was as much regarded as an adventurer at Palos, as he had been at Santa Fé.
The Pinzons set about their share of the expedition after the manner of those who were more accustomed to execute than to plan. Several of the family entered cordially into the work; and a brother of Martin Alonzo's, whose name was Vincente Yañez, also a mariner by profession, joined the adventurers as commander of one of the vessels, while another took service as a pilot. In short, the month that succeeded the incidents just mentioned, was actively employed, and more was done in that short space of time toward bringing about a solution of the great problem of Columbus, than had been accomplished, in a practical way, during the seventeen long years that the subject had occupied his time and engrossed his thoughts.
Notwithstanding the local influence of the Pinzons, a vigorous opposition to the project still existed in the heart of the little community that had been chosen for the place of equipment of the different vessels required. This family had its enemies as well as its friends, and, as is usual with most human undertakings, two parties sprang up, one of which was quite as busily occupied in thwarting the plans of the navigator, as the other was engaged in promoting them. One vessel had been seized for the service, under the order of the court, and her owners became leaders of the dissatisfied faction. Many seamen, according to the usage of that day, had been impressed for duty on this extraordinary and mysterious voyage; and, as a matter of course, they and their friends were not slow to join the ranks of the disaffected. Much of the necessary work was found to be imperfectly done; and when the mechanics were called on to repair these omissions, they absconded in a body. As the time for sailing approached, the contention grew more and more violent, and even the Pinzons had the mortification of discovering that many of those who had volunteered to follow their fortunes, began to waver, and that some had unequivocally deserted.
Such was the state of things, toward the close of the month of July, when Martin Alonzo Pinzon again repaired to the convent of Santa Maria de Rabida, where Columbus continued to pass most of the time that was not given to a direct personal superintendence of the preparations, and where Luis de Bobadilla, who was altogether useless in the actual condition of affairs, also passed many a weary hour, chafing for active duty, and musing on the loveliness, truth, and virtues of Mercedes de Valverde. Fray Juan Perez was earnest in his endeavors to facilitate the execution of the objects of his friends, and he had actually succeeded, if not in absolutely suppressing the expression of all injurious opinion on the part of the less enlightened of the brotherhood, at least in rendering the promulgation of them more cautious and private.
When Columbus and the prior were told that the Señor Pinzon sought an interview, neither was slow in granting the favor. As the hour of departure drew nigh, the importance of this man's exertions became more and more apparent, and both well knew that the royal protection of Isabella herself, just at that moment and in that place, was of less account than that of this active mariner. The Señor Pinzon, therefore, had not long to wait for his audience, having been ushered into the room that was commonly occupied by the zealous Franciscan, almost as soon as his request was preferred.
"Thou art right welcome, worthy Martin Alonzo!" exclaimed the prior, the moment he caught a glimpse of the features of his old acquaintance--"How get on matters at Palos, and when shall we have this holy undertaking in a fair direction for success?"
"By San Francisco, reverend prior, that is more than it will be safe for any man to answer. I have thought we were in a fair way to make sail, a score of times, when some unforeseen difficulty hath arisen. The Santa Maria, on board which the admiral and the Señor Gutierrez, or de Muños, if he will have it so, will embark, is already fitted. She may be set down as a tight craft, and somewhat exceedeth a hundred tons in burthen, so that I trust his excellency, and all the gallant cavaliers who may accompany him, will be as comfortable as the holy monks of Rabida--more especially as the good caravel hath a deck."
"These are, truly, glad tidings," returned the prior, rubbing his hands with delight--"and the excellent craft hath really a deck! Señor Almirante, thou mayst not be in a vessel that is altogether worthy of thy high aim, but, on the whole, thou wilt be both safe and comfortable, keeping in view, in particular, this convenient and sheltering deck."
"Neither my safety nor my convenience is a consideration to be mentioned, friend Juan Perez, when there is question of so much graver matters. I rejoice that thou hast come to the convent this morning, Señor Martin Alonzo, as, being about to address letters to the court, by means of an especial courier, I desire to know the actual condition of things. Thou thinkest the Santa Maria will be in a state for service by the end of the month?"
"Señor, I do. The ship hath been prepared with due diligence, and will conveniently hold some three score, should the panic that hath seized on so many of the besotted fools of Palos, leave us that number, who may still be disposed to embark. I trust that the saints look upon our many efforts, and will remember our zeal when we shall come to a joint division of the benefits of this undertaking, which hath had no equal in the history of navigation!"
"The benefits, honest Martin Alonzo, will be found in the spread of the church's dominion, and the increased glory of God!" put in the prior, significantly.
"Out of all question, holy Fray Juan Perez--this is the common aim; though I trust it is permitted to a pains-taking mariner to bethink him of his wife and children, in discreet subordination to those greater ends. I have much mistaken the Señor Colon, if he do not look for some little advantage, in the way of gold, from this visit to Cathay."
"Thou hast not mistaken me, honest Martin Alonzo," returned Columbus, gravely. "I do, indeed, expect to see the wealth of the Indies pouring into the coffers of Castile, in consequence of this voyage. In sooth, excellent prior, in my view, the recovery of the holy sepulchre is dependent mainly on the success of our present undertaking, in the way of a substantial worldly success."
"This is well, Señor Admiral," put in Martin Alonzo, a little hastily, "and ought to gain us great favor in the eyes of all good Christians--more especially with the monks of la Rabida. But it is hard enough to persuade the mariners of the port to obey the queen, in this matter, and to fulfil their engagements with ourselves, without preaching a crusade, as the best means of throwing away the few maravedis they may happen to gain by their hardships and courage. The worthy pilots, Francisco Martin Pinzon, mine own brother, Sancho Ruiz, Pedro Alonzo Niño, and Bartolemeo Roldan, are all now firmly tied to us by the ropes of the law; but should they happen to find a crusade at their end, all the saints in the calendar would scarce have influence to make them hesitate about loosening themselves from the agreement."
"I hold no one but myself bound to this object," returned Columbus, calmly. "Each man, friend Martin Alonzo, will be judged by his own deeds, and called on to fulfil his own vows. Of those who pledge naught, naught will be exacted, and naught given at the great final account of the human race. But what are the tidings of the Pinta, thine own vessel? Hath she been finally put into a condition to buffet the Atlantic?"
"As ever happeneth with a vessel pressed into the royal service, Señor, work hath gone on heavily, and things in general have not borne that merry activity which accompanieth the labor of those who toil of a free will, and for their own benefit."
"The silly mariners have toiled in their own behalf, without knowing it," observed Columbus. "It is the duty of the ignorant to submit to be led by the more enlightened, and to be grateful for the advantages they derive from a borrowed knowledge, albeit it is obtained contrary to their own wishes."
"That is it, truly," added the prior; "else would the office of us churchmen be reduced to very narrow limits. Faith--faith in the church--is the Christian's earliest and latest duty."
"This seemeth reasonable, excellent sirs," returned Master Alonzo, "though the ignorant find it difficult to comprehend matters that they do not understand. When a man fancieth himself condemned to an unheard-of death, he is little apt to see the benefit that lieth beyond the grave. Nevertheless, the Pinta is more nearly ready for the voyage, than any other of our craft, and hath her crew engaged to a man, and that under contracts that will not permit much dispute before a notary."
"There remaineth only the Niña, then," added Columbus; "with her prepared, and our religious duties observed, we may hope finally to commence the enterprise!"
"Señor, you may. My brother, Vicente Yañez, hath finally consented to take charge of this little craft; and that which a Pinzon promiseth, a Pinzon performeth. She will be ready to depart with the Santa Maria and the Pinta, and Cathay must be distant, indeed, if we do not reach it with one or the other of our vessels."
"This is right encouraging, neighbor Martin Alonzo," returned the friar, rubbing his hands with delight; "and I make no question all will come round in the end. What say the crones and loose talkers of Moguer, and of the other ports, touching the shape of the earth, and the chances of the admiral's reaching the Indies, now-a-days?"
"They discourse much as they did, Fray Juan Perez, idly and without knowledge. Although there is not a mariner in any of the havens who doth not admit that the upper sails, though so much the smallest, are the first seen on the ocean, yet do they deny that this cometh of the shape of the earth, but, as they affirm, of the movements of the waters."
"Have none of them ever observed the shadows cast by the earth, in the eclipses of the moon?" asked Columbus, in his calm manner, though he smiled, even in putting the question, as one smiles who, having dipped deeply into a natural problem himself, carelessly lays one of its more popular proofs before those who are less disposed to go beneath the surface. "Do they not see that these shadows are round, and do they not know that a shadow which is round can only be cast by a body that is round?"
"This is conclusive, good Martin Alonzo," put in the prior, "and it ought to remove the doubts of the silliest gossip on the coast. Tell them to encircle their dwellings, beginning to the right, and see if, by following the walls, they do not return to the spot from which they started, coming in from the left."
"Ay, reverend prior, if we could bring our distant voyage down to these familiar examples, there is not a crone in Moguer, or a courtier at Seville, that might not be made to comprehend the mystery. But it is one thing to state a problem fairly, and another to find those who can understand it. Now, I did give some such reasoning to the Alguiazil, in Palos here, and the worthy Señor asked me if I expected to return from this voyage by the way of the lately captured town of Granada. I fancy that the easiest method of persuading these good people to believe that Cathay can be reached by the western voyage, will be by going there and returning."
"Which we will shortly do, Master Martin Alonzo," observed Columbus, cheerfully--"But the time of our departure draweth near, and it is meet that none of us neglect the duties of religion. I commend thee to thy confessor, Señor Pinzon, and expect that all who sail with me, in this great enterprise, will receive the holy communion in my company, before we quit the haven. This excellent prior will shrive Pedro de Muños and myself, and let each man seek such other holy counsellor and monitor as hath been his practice."
With this intimation of his intention to pay a due regard to the rites of the church before he departed--rites that were seldom neglected in that day--the conversation turned, for the moment, on the details of the preparations. After this the parties separated, and a few more days passed away in active exertions.
On the morning of Thursday, August the second, 1492, Columbus entered the private apartment of Fray Juan Perez, habited like a penitent, and with an air so devout, and yet so calm, that it was evident his thoughts were altogether bent on his own transgressions and on the goodness of God. The zealous priest was in waiting, and the great navigator knelt at the feet of him, before whom Isabella had often knelt, in the fulfilment of the same solemnity. The religion of this extraordinary man was colored by the habits and opinions of his age, as, indeed, in a greater or less degree, must be the religion of every man; his confession, consequently, had that admixture of deep piety with inconsistent error, that so often meets the moralist in his investigations into the philosophy of the human mind. The truth of this peculiarity will be seen, by adverting to one or two of the admissions of the great navigator, as he laid before his ghostly counsellor the catalogue of his sins.
"Then, I fear, holy father," Columbus continued, after having made most of the usual confessions touching the more familiar weaknesses of the human race, "that my mind hath become too much exalted in this matter of the voyage, and that I may have thought myself more directly set apart by God, for some good end, than it might please his infinite knowledge and wisdom to grant."
"That would be a dangerous error, my son, and I carefully admonish thee against the evils of self-righteousness. That God selecteth his agents, is beyond dispute; but it is a fearful error to mistake the impulses of self-love, for the movements of his Divine Spirit! It is hardly safe for any who have not received the church's ordination, to deem themselves chosen vessels."
"I endeavor so to consider it, holy friar," answered Columbus, meekly; "and, yet, there is that within, which constantly urgeth to this belief, be it a delusion, or come it directly from heaven. I strive, father, to keep the feeling in subjection, and most of all do I endeavor to see that it taketh a direction that may glorify the name of God and serve the interests of his visible church."
"This is well, and yet do I feel it a duty to admonish thee against too much credence in these inward impulses. So long as they tend, solely, to increase thy love for the Supreme Father of all, to magnify his holiness, and glorify his nature, thou may'st be certain it is the offspring of good; but when self-exaltation seemeth to be its aim, beware the impulse, as thou wouldst eschew the dictation of the great father of evil!"
"I so consider it; and now having truly and sincerely disburdened my conscience, father, so far as in me lieth, may I hope for the church's consolation, with its absolution?"
"Canst thou think of naught else, son, that should not lie hid from before the keeper of all consciences?"
"My sins are many, holy prior, and cannot be too often or too keenly rebuked; but I do think that they may be fairly included in the general heads that I have endeavored to recall."
"Hast thou nothing to charge thyself with, in connection with that sex that the devil as often useth as his tempters to evil, as the angels would fain employ them as the ministers of grace?"
"I have erred as a man, father; but do not my confessions already meet those sins?"
"Hast thou bethought thee of Doña Beatriz Enriquez? of thy son Fernando, who tarrieth, at this moment, in our convent of la Rabida?"
Columbus bowed his head in submission, and the heavy sigh, amounting almost to a groan, that broke out of his bosom, betrayed the weight of his momentary contrition.
"Thou say'st true, father; that is an offence which should never be forgotten, though so often shrived since its commission. Heap on me the penance that I feel is due, and thou shalt see how a Christian can bend and kiss the rod that he is conscious of having merited."
"The spirit thus to do is all that the church requireth; and thou art now bent on a service too important to her interests to be drawn aside from thy great intentions, for any minor considerations. Still may not a minister of the altar overlook the offence. Thou wilt say a pater, daily, on account of this great sin, for the next twenty days, all of which will be for the good of thy soul; after which the church releaseth thee from this especial duty, as thou wilt, then, be drawing near to the land of Cathay, and may have occasion for all thy thoughts and efforts to effect thy object."
The worthy prior then proceeded to prescribe several light penances, most of which were confined to moderate increases of the daily duties of religion; after which he shrived the navigator. The turn of Luis came next, and more than once the prior smiled involuntarily, as he listened to this hot-blooded and impetuous youth, whose language irresistibly carried back his thoughts to the more meek, natural, and the more gentle admissions of the pure-minded Mercedes. The penance prescribed to Luis was not entirely free from severity, though, on the whole, the young man, who was not much addicted to the duties of the confessional, fancied himself well quit of the affair, considering the length of the account he was obliged to render, and the weight of the balance against him.
These duties performed in the persons of the two principal adventurers, Martin Alonzo Pinzon and the ruder mariners of the expedition appeared before different priests and gave in the usual reckoning of their sins. After this came a scene that was strictly characteristic of the age, and which would be impressive and proper, in all times and seasons, for men about to embark in an undertaking of a result so questionable.
High mass was said in the chapel of the convent, and Columbus received the consecrated bread from the hands of Fray Juan Perez, in humble reliance on the all-seeing providence of God, and with a devout dependence on his fostering protection. All who were about to embark with the admiral imitated his example, communing in his company; for that was a period when the wire-drawn conclusions of man had not yet begun so far to supplant the faith and practices of the earlier church as to consider its rites as the end of religion, but he was still content to regard them as its means. Many a rude sailor, whose ordinary life might not have been either saintly or even free from severe censure, knelt that day at the altar, in devout dependence on God, with feelings, for the moment, that at least placed him on the highway to grace; and it would be presumptuous to suppose that the omniscient Being to whom his offerings were made, did not regard his ignorance with commiseration, and even look upon his superstition with pity. We scoff at the prayers of those who are in danger, without reflecting that they are a homage to the power of God, and are apt to fancy that these passages in devotion are mere mockery, because the daily mind and the ordinary life are not always elevated to the same standard of godliness and purity. It would be more humble to remember the general infirmities of the race; to recollect, that as none are perfect, the question is reduced to one of degree; and to bear in mind, that the Being who reads the heart, may accept of any devout petitions, even though they come from those who are not disposed habitually to walk in his laws. These passing but pious emotions are the workings of the Spirit, since good can come from no other source; and it is as unreasonable as it is irreverent to imagine that the Deity will disregard, altogether, the effects of his own grace, however humble.
Whatever may have been the general disposition of most of the communicants on this occasion, there is little doubt that there knelt at the altar of la Rabida, that day, one in the person of the great navigator himself, who, as far as the eye could perceive, lived habitually in profound deference to the dogmas of religion, and who paid an undeviating respect to all its rites. Columbus was not strictly a devotee; but a quiet, deeply seated enthusiasm, which had taken the direction of Christianity, pervaded his moral system, and at all times disposed him to look up to the protecting hand of the Deity and to expect its aid. The high aims that he entertained for the future have already been mentioned, and there is little doubt of his having persuaded himself that he had been set apart by Providence as the instrument it designed to employ in making the great discovery on which his mind was so intently engaged, as well as in accomplishing other and ulterior purposes. If, indeed, an overruling Power directs all the events of this world, who will presume to say that this conviction of Columbus was erroneous, now that it has been justified by the result? That he felt this sentiment sustaining his courage and constantly urging him onward, is so much additional evidence in favor of his impression, since, under such circumstances, nothing is more probable than that an earnest belief in his destiny would be one of the means most likely to be employed by a supernatural power in inducing its human agent to accomplish the work for which he had actually been selected.
Let this be as it might, there is no doubt that Colon observed the rites of the church, on the occasion named, with a most devout reliance on the truth of his mission, and with the brightest hopes as to its successful termination. Not so, however, with all of his intended followers. Their minds had wavered, from time to time, as the preparations advanced; and the last month had seen them eager to depart, and dejected with misgivings and doubts. Although there were days of hope and brightness, despondency perhaps prevailed, and this so much the more because the apprehensions of mothers, wives, and of those who felt an equally tender interest in the mariners, though less inclined to avow it openly, were thrown into the scale by the side of their own distrust. Gold, unquestionably, was the great aim of their wishes, and there were moments when visions of inexhaustible mines and of oriental treasures floated before their imaginations; at which times none could be more eager to engage in the mysterious undertaking, or more ready to risk their lives and hopes on its success. But these were fleeting impressions, and, as has just been said, despondency was the prevalent feeling among those who were about to embark. It heightened the devotion of the communicants, and threw a gloom over the chastened sobriety of the altar, that weighed heavily on the hearts of most assembled there.
"Our people seem none of the most cheerful, Señor Almirante," said Luis, as they left the convent-chapel in company; "and, if truth must be spoken, one could wish to set forth on an expedition of this magnitude, better sustained by merry hearts and smiling countenances."
"Dost thou imagine, young count, that he hath the firmest mind who weareth the most smiling visage, or that the heart is weak because the countenance is sobered? These honest mariners bethink them of their sins, and no doubt are desirous that so holy an enterprise be not tainted by the corruption of their own hearts, but rather purified and rendered fitting, by their longings to obey the will of God. I trust, Luis"--intercourse had given Columbus a sort of paternal interest in the welfare of the young grandee, that lessened the distance made by rank between them--"I trust, Luis, thou art not, altogether, without these pious longings in thine own person."
"By San Pedro, my new patron! Señor Almirante, I think more of Mercedes de Valverde, than of aught else, in this great affair. She is my polar star, my religion, my Cathay. Go on, in Heaven's name, and discover what thou wilt, whether it be Cipango or the furthest Indies; beard the great Khan on his throne, and I will follow in thy train, with a poor lance and an indifferent sword, swearing that the maid of Castile hath no equal, and ransacking the east, merely to prove in the face of the universe that she is peerless, let her rivals come from what part of the earth they may."
Although Columbus permitted his grave countenance slightly to relax at this rhapsody, he did not the less deem it prudent to rebuke the spirit in which it was uttered.
"I grieve, my young friend," he said, "to find that thou hast not the feelings proper for one who is engaged, as it might be, in a work of Heaven's own ordering. Canst thou not foresee the long train of mighty and wonderful events that are likely to follow from this voyage--the spread of religion, through the holy church; the conquest of distant empires, with their submission to the sway of Castile; the settling of disputed points in science and philosophy, and the attainment of inexhaustible wealth; with the last and most honorable consequence of all, the recovery of the sepulchre of the Son of God, from the hands of the Infidels!"
"No doubt, Señor Colon--no doubt, I see them all, but I see the Doña Mercedes at their end. What care I for gold, who already possess--or shall so soon possess--more than I need? what is the extension of the sway of Castile to me, who can never be its king? and as for the Holy Sepulchre, give me but Mercedes, and, like my ancestors that are gone, I am ready to break a lance with the stoutest Infidel who ever wore a turban, be it in that, or in any other quarrel. In short, Señor Almirante, lead on; and though we go forth with different objects and different hopes, doubt not that they will lead us to the same goal. I feel that you ought to be supported in this great and noble design, and it matters not what may bring me in your train."
"Thou art a mad-brained youth, Luis, and must be humored, if it were only for the sake of the sweet and pious young maiden who seemeth to engross all thy thoughts."
"You have seen her, Señor, and can say whether she be not worthy to occupy the minds of all the youth of Spain?"
"She is fair, and virtuous, and noble, and a zealous friend of the voyage. These are all rare merits, and thou may'st be pardoned for thy enthusiasm in her behalf. But forget not, that, to win her, thou must first win a sight of Cathay."
"In the reality, you must mean, Señor Almirante; for, with the mind's eye, I see it keenly, constantly, and see little else, with Mercedes standing on its shores, smiling a welcome, and, by St. Paul! sometimes beckoning me on, with that smile that fires the soul with its witchery, even while it subdues the temper with its modesty. The blessed Maria send us a wind, right speedily, that we may quit this irksome river and wearying convent!"
Columbus made no answer; for, while he had all consideration for a lover's impatience, his thoughts turned to subjects too grave, to be long amused even by a lover's follies.
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"Nor Zayda weeps him only, But all that dwell between The great Alhambra's palace walls And springs of Albalein."
Bryant's Translations.
The instant of departure at length arrived. The moment so long desired by the Genoese was at hand, and years of poverty, neglect, and of procrastination, were all forgotten at that blessed hour; or, if they returned in any manner to the constant memory, it was no longer with the bitterness of hope deferred. The navigator, at last, saw himself in the possession of the means of achieving the first great object for which he had lived the last fifteen years, with the hope, in perspective, of making the success of his present adventure the stepping-stone toward effecting the conquest of the Holy Sepulchre. While those around him were looking with astonishment at the limited means with which ends so great were to be attained, or were struck aghast at the apparent temerity of an undertaking that seemed to defy the laws of nature, and to set at naught the rules of Providence, he had grown more tranquil as the time for sailing drew nearer, and his mind was oppressed merely by a feeling of intense, but of sobered, delight. Fray Juan Perez whispered to Luis, that he could best liken the joy of the admiral to the chastened rapture of a Christian who was about to quit a world of woe, to enter on the untasted, but certain, fruition of blessed immortality.
This, however, was far from being the state of mind of all in Palos. The embarkation took place in the course of the afternoon of the 2d of August, it being the intention of the pilots to carry the vessels that day to a point off the town of Huelvas, where the position was more favorable to making sail than when anchored in front of Palos. The distance was trifling, but it was the commencement of the voyage, and, to many, it was like snapping the cords of life, to make even this brief movement. Columbus, himself, was one of the last to embark, having a letter to send to the court, and other important duties to discharge. At length he quitted the convent, and, accompanied by Luis and the prior, he, too, took his way to the beach. The short journey was silent, for each of the party was deeply plunged in meditation. Never before this hour, did the enterprise seem so perilous and uncertain to the excellent Franciscan. Columbus was carefully recalling the details of his preparations, while Luis was thinking of the maid of Castile, as he was wont to term Mercedes, and of the many weary days that must elapse before he could hope to see her again.
The party stopped on the shore, in waiting for a boat to arrive, at a place where they were removed from any houses. There Fray Juan Perez took his leave of the two adventurers. The long silence that all three had maintained, was more impressive than any ordinary discourse could have been; but it was now necessary to break it. The prior was deeply affected, and it was some little time before he could even trust his voice to speak.
"Señor Christoval," he at length commenced, "it is now many years since thou first appeared at the gate of Santa Maria de Rabida--years of friendship and pleasure have they proved to me."
"It is full seven, Fray Juan Perez," returned Columbus--"seven weary years have they proved to me, as a solicitor for employment--years of satisfaction, father, in all that concerneth thee. Think not that I can ever forget the hour, when, leading Diego, houseless, impoverished, wanderers, journeying on foot, I stopped to tax the convent's charity for refreshment! The future is in the hands of God, but the past is imprinted here"--laying his hand on his heart--"and can never be forgotten. Thou hast been my constant friend, holy prior, and that, too, when it was no credit to favor the nameless Genoese. Should my estimation ever change in men's opinions"-- "Nay, Señor Almirante, it hath changed already," eagerly interrupted the prior. "Hast thou not the commission of the queen--the support of Don Fernando--the presence of this young noble, though still as an incognito--the wishes of all the learned? Dost thou not go forth, on this great voyage, carrying with thee more of our hopes than of our fears?"
"So far as thou art concerned, dear Juan Perez, this may be so. I feel that I have all thy best wishes for success; I know that I shall have thy prayers. Few in Spain, notwithstanding, will think of Colon with respect, or hope, while we are wandering on the great desert of the ocean, beyond a very narrow circle. I fear me, that, even at this moment, when the means of learning the truth of our theories is in actual possession--when we stand, as it might be, on the very threshold of the great portal which opens upon the Indies--that few believe in our chances of success."
"Thou hast Doña Isabella of thy side, Señor!"
"And Doña Mercedes!" put in Luis; "not to speak of my decided and true-hearted aunt!"
"I ask but a few brief months, Señores," returned Columbus, his face turned to heaven with uncovered head, his gray hair floating in the wind, and his eye kindling with the light of enthusiasm--"a few short months, that will pass away untold with the happy--that even the miserable may find supportable, but which to us will seem ages, must now dispose of this question. Prior, I have often quitted the shore feeling that I carried my life in my hand, conscious of all the dangers of the ocean, and as much expecting death as a happy return; but at this glorious moment no doubts beset me; as for life, I know it is in the keeping of God's care; as for success, I feel it is in God's wisdom!"
"These are comfortable sentiments, at so serious a moment, Señor, and I devoutly hope the end will justify them. But, yonder is thy boat, and we must now part. Señor, my son, thou knowest that my spirit will be with thee in this mighty undertaking."
"Holy prior, remember me in thy prayers. I am weak, and have need of this support. I trust much to the efficacy of thy intercessions, aided by those of thy pious brotherhood. Thou wilt bestow on us a few masses?"
"Doubt us not, my friend; all that la Rabida can do with the blessed Virgin, or the saints, shall be exercised, without ceasing, in thy behalf. It is not given to man to foresee the events that are controlled by Providence; and, though we deem this enterprise of thine so certain, and so reasonable, it may nevertheless fail."
"It may _not_ fail, father; God hath thus far directed it, and he will not permit it to fail."
"We know not, Señor Colon; our wisdom is but as a grain of mustard seed among the sands of this shore, as compared with his inscrutable designs. I was about to say, as it is possible thou may'st return a disappointed, a defeated man, that thou wilt still find the gate of Santa Maria open to thee; since, in our eyes, it is as meritorious to attempt nobly, as it is often, in the eyes of others, to achieve successfully."
"I understand thee, holy prior; and the cup and the morsel bestowed on the young Diego, were not more grateful than this proof of thy friendship! I would not depart without thy blessing."
"Kneel, then, Señor; for, in this act it will not be Juan Perez de Marchena that will speak, and pronounce, but the minister of God and the church. Even these sands will be no unworthy spot to receive such an advantage."
The eyes of both Columbus and the prior were suffused with tears, for at that moment the heart of each was touched with the emotions natural to a moment so solemn. The first loved the last, because he had proved himself a friend when friends were few and timid; and the worthy monk had some such attachment for the great navigator as men are apt to feel for those they have cherished. Each, also, respected and appreciated the other's motives, and there was a bond of union in their common reverence for the Christian religion. Columbus kneeled on the sands, and received the benediction of his friend, with the meek submission of faith, and with some such feelings of reverence as those with which a pious son would have listened to a blessing pronounced by a natural father.
[Illustration: "Columbus kneeled on the sands, and received the benediction."]
"And thou, young lord," resumed Fray Juan Perez, with a husky voice--"thou, too, wilt be none the worse for the prayers of an aged churchman."
Like most of that age, Luis, in the midst of his impetuous feelings, and youthful propensities, had enshrined in his heart an image of the Son of God, and entertained an habitual respect for holy things. He knelt without hesitation, and listened to the trembling words of the priest with thankfulness and respect.
"Adieu, holy prior," said Columbus, squeezing his friend's hand. "Thou hast befriended me when others held aloof; but I trust in God that the day is not now distant, when those who have ever shown confidence in my predictions will cease to feel uneasiness at the mention of my name. Forget us in all things but thy prayers, for a few short months, and then expect tidings that, of a verity, shall exalt Castile to a point of renown which will render this Conquest of Granada but an incident of passing interest amid the glory of the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella!"
This was not said boastfully, but with the quiet earnestness of one who saw a truth that was concealed from most eyes, and this with an intensity so great, that the effect on his moral vision produced a confidence equalling that which is the fruit of the evidence of the senses in ordinary men. The prior understood him, and the assurance thus given cheered the mind of the worthy Franciscan long after the departure of his friend. They embraced and separated.
By this time the boat of Columbus had reached the shore. As the navigator moved slowly toward it, a youthful female rushed wildly past him and Luis, and, regardless of their presence, she threw her arms around a young mariner who had quitted the boat to meet her, and sobbed for a minute on his bosom, in uncontrollable agony, or as women weep in the first outbreak of their emotions.
"Come, then, Pepe," the young wife at length said, hurriedly, and with low earnestness, as one speaks who would fain persuade herself that denial was impossible--"come, Pepe; thy boy hath wept for thee, and thou hast pushed this matter, already, much too far."
"Nay, Monica," returned the husband, glancing his eye at Columbus, who was already near enough to hear his words--"thou knowest it is by no wish of mine that I am to sail on this unknown voyage. Gladly would I abandon it, but the orders of the queen are too strong for a poor mariner like me, and they must be obeyed."
"This is foolish, Pepe," returned the woman, pulling at her husband's doublet to drag him from the water-side--"I have had enough of this; sufficient to break my heart. Come, then, and look again upon thy boy."
"Thou dost not see that the admiral is near, Monica, and we are showing him disrespect."
The habitual deference that was paid by the low to the high, induced the woman, for a moment, to pause. She looked imploringly at Columbus, her fine dark eyes became eloquent with the feelings of a wife and mother, and then she addressed the great navigator, himself.
"Señor," she said, eagerly, "you can have no further need of Pepe. He hath helped to carry your vessels to Huelva, and now his wife and boy call for him at home."
Columbus was touched with the manner of the woman, which was not entirely without a show of that wavering of reason which is apt to accompany excessive grief, and he answered her less strongly than, at a moment so critical, he might otherwise have been disposed to do to one who was inciting to disobedience.
"Thy husband is honored in being chosen to be my companion in the great voyage," he said. "Instead of bewailing his fate, thou wouldst act more like a brave mariner's wife, in exulting in his good fortune."
"Believe him not, Pepe. He speaketh under the Evil One's advice to tempt thee to destruction. He hath talked blasphemy, and belied the word of God, by saying that the world is round, and that one may sail east by steering west, that he might ruin thee and others, by tempting ye all to follow him!"
"And why should I do this, good woman?" demanded the admiral. "What have I to gain by the destruction of thy husband, or by the destruction of any of his comrades?"
"I know not--I care not--Pepe is all to me, and he shall not go with you on this mad and wicked voyage. No good can come of a journey that is begun by belying the truths of God!"
"And what particular evil dost thou dread, in this, more than in another voyage, that thou thus hang'st upon thy husband, and usest such discourse to one who beareth their Highnesses' authority for that he doeth? Thou knewest he was a mariner when thou wert wedded, and yet thou wouldst fain prevent him from serving the queen, as becometh his station and duty."
"He may go against the Moor, or the Portuguese, or the people of Inghleterra, but I would not that he voyage in the service of the Prince of Darkness. Why tell us that the earth is round, Señor, when our eyes show that it is flat? And if round, how can a vessel that hath descended the side of the earth for days, ever return? The sea doth not flow upward, neither can a caravel mount the waterfall. And when thou hast wandered about for months in the vacant ocean, in what manner wilt thou, and those with thee, ever discover the direction that must be taken to return whence ye all sailed? Oh! Señor, Palos is but a little town, and once lost sight of in such a confusion of ideas, it will never be regained."
"Idle and childish as this may seem," observed Columbus, turning quietly to Luis, "it is as reasonable as much that I have been doomed to hear from the learned, during the last sixteen years. When the night of ignorance obscures the mind, the thoughts conjure arguments a thousand times more vain and frivolous than the phenomena of nature that it fancies so unreasonable. I will try the effect of religion on this woman, converting her present feelings on that head, from an enemy into an ally. Monica," calling her kindly and familiarly by name, "art thou a Christian?"
"Blessed Maria! Señor Almirante, what else should I be? Dost think Pepe would have married a Moorish girl?"
"Listen, then, to me, and learn how unlike a believer thou conductest. The Moor is not the only infidel, but this earth groaneth with the burden of their numbers, and of their sins. The sands on this shore are not as numerous as the unbelievers in the single kingdom of Cathay; for, as yet, God hath allotted but a small portion of the earth to those who have faith in the mediation of his Son. Even the sepulchre of Christ is yet retained by infidel hands."
"This have I heard, Señor; and 'tis a thousand pities the faith is so weak in those who have vowed to obey the law, that so crying an evil hath never been cured!"
"Hast thou not been told that such is to be the fate of the world, for a time, but that light will dawn when the word shall pass, like the sound of trumpets, into the ears of infidels, and when the earth, itself, shall be but one vast temple, filled with the praises of God, the love of his name, and obedience to his will?"
"Señor, the good fathers of la Rabida, and our own parish priests, often comfort us with these hopes."
"And hast thou seen naught of late to encourage that hope--to cause thee to think that God is mindful of his people, and that new light is beginning to burst on the darkness of Spain?"
"Pepe, his excellency must mean the late miracle at the convent, where they say that real tears were seen to fall from the eyes of the image of the holy Maria, as she gazed at the child that lay on her bosom."
"I mean not that," interrupted Columbus, a little sternly, though he crossed himself, even while he betrayed dissatisfaction at the allusion to a miracle that was much too vulgar for his manly understanding--"I mean no such questionable wonder, which it is permitted us to believe, or not, as it may be supported by the church's authority. Can thy faith and zeal point to no success of the two sovereigns, in which the power of God, as exercised to the advancement of the faith, hath been made signally apparent to believers?"
"He meaneth the expulsion of the Moor, Pepe!" the woman exclaimed, glancing quickly toward her husband, with a look of pleasure, "that hath happened of late, they say, by conquering the city of Granada; into which place, they tell me, Doña Isabella hath marched in triumph."
"In that conquest, thou seest the commencement of the great acts of our time. Granada hath now its churches; and the distant land of Cathay will shortly follow her example. These are the doings of the Lord, foolish woman; and in holding back thy husband from this great undertaking, thou hinderest him from purchasing a signal reward in heaven, and may unwittingly be the instrument of casting a curse, instead of a blessing, on that very boy, whose image now filleth thy thoughts more than that of his Maker and Redeemer."
The woman appeared bewildered, first looking at the admiral, and then at her husband, after which she bowed her head low, and devoutly crossed herself. Recovering from this self-abasement, she again turned toward Columbus, demanding earnestly-- "And you, Señor--do you sail with the wish and hope of serving God?"
"Such is my principal aim, good woman. I call on Heaven itself, to witness the truth of what I say. May my voyage prosper, only, as I tell thee naught but truth!"
"And you, too, Señor?" turning quickly to Luis de Bobadilla; "is it to serve God that you also go on this unusual voyage?"
"If not at the orders of God, himself, my good woman, it is, at least, at the bidding of an angel!"
"Dost thou think it is so, Pepe? Have we been thus deceived, and has so much evil been said of the admiral and his motives, wrongfully?"
"What hath been said?" quietly demanded Columbus. "Speak freely; thou hast naught to dread from my displeasure."
"Señor, you have your enemies, as well as another, and the wives, and mothers, and the betrothed of Palos, have not been slow to give vent to their feelings. In the first place, they say that you are poor."
"That is so true and manifest, good woman, it would be idle to deny it. Is poverty a crime at Palos?"
"The poor are little respected, Señor, in all this region. I know not why, for to me we seem to be as the rest, but few respect us. Then they say, Señor, that you are not a Castilian, but a Genoese."
"This is also true; is that, too, a crime among the mariners of Moguer, who ought to prize a people as much renowned for their deeds on the sea, as those of the superb republic?"
"I know not, Señor; but many hold it to be a disadvantage not to belong to Spain, and particularly to Castile, which is the country of Doña Isabella, herself; and how can it be as honorable to be a Genoese as to be a Spaniard? I should like it better were Pepe to sail with one who is a Spaniard, and that, too, of Palos or Moguer."
"Thy argument is ingenious, if not conclusive," returned Columbus, smiling, the only outward exhibition of feeling he betrayed--"but cannot one who is both poor and a Genoese serve God?"
"No doubt, Señor; and I think better of this voyage since I know your motive, and since I have seen you and spoken with you. Still, it is a great sacrifice for a young wife to let her husband sail on an expedition so distrusted, and he the father of her only boy!"
"Here is a young noble, an only son, a lover, and that, too, of impetuous feelings, an only child withal, rich, honored, and able to go whither he will, who not only embarketh with me, but embarketh by the consent--nay, I had better say, by the orders of his mistress!"
"Is this so, Señor?" the wife asked, eagerly.
"So true, my good woman, that my greatest hopes depend on this voyage. Did I not tell thee that I went at the bidding of an angel?"
"Ah! these young lords have seductive tongues! But, Señor Almirante, since such is your quality, they say, moreover, that to you this voyage can only bring honors and good, while it may bring misery and death on your followers. Poor and unknown, it maketh you a high officer of the queen; and some think that the Venetian galleys will be none the more heavily freighted, should you need them on the high seas."
"And in what can all this harm thy husband? I go whithersoever he goeth, share his dangers, and expose life for life with him. If there is gold gained by the adventure, he will not be forgotten; and if heaven is made any nearer to us, by our dangers and hardships, Pepe will not be a loser. At the last great reckoning, woman, we shall not be asked who is poor, or who is a Genoese."
"This is true, Señor; and yet it is hard for a young wife to part from her husband. Dost thou wish, in truth, to sail with the admiral, Pepe?"
"It matters little with me, Monica; I am commanded to serve the queen, and we mariners have no right to question her authority. Now I have heard his excellency's discourse, I think less of the affair than before."
"If God is really to be served in this voyage," continued the woman, with dignity, "thou shouldst not be backward, more than another, my husband. Señor, will you suffer Pepe to pass the night with his family, on condition that he goeth on board the Santa Maria in the morning?"
"What certainty have I that this condition will be respected?"
"Señor, we are both Christians, and serve the same God--have been redeemed by the same Saviour."
"This is true, and I will confide in it. Pepe, thou canst remain until the morning, when I shall expect thee at thy station. There will be oarsmen enough, without thee."
The woman looked her thanks, and Columbus thought he read an assurance of good faith in her noble Spanish manner, and lofty look. As some trifling preparations were to be made before the boat could quit the shore, the admiral and Luis paced the sands the while, engaged in deep discourse.
"This hath been a specimen of what I have had to overcome and endure, in order to obtain even yonder humble means for effecting the good designs of Providence," observed Columbus, mournfully, though he spoke without acrimony. "It is a crime to be poor--to be a Genoese--to be aught else than the very thing that one's judges and masters fancy themselves to be! The day will come, Conde de Llera, when Genoa shall think herself in no manner disgraced, in having given birth to Christofero Colombo, and when your proud Castile will be willing to share with her in the dishonor! Thou little know'st, young lord, how far thou art on the road to renown, and toward high deeds, in having been born noble, and the master of large possessions. Thou seest me, here, a man already stricken in years, with a head whitened by time and sufferings, and yet am I only on the threshold of the undertaking that is to give my name a place among those of the men who have served God, and advanced the welfare of their fellow-creatures."
"Is not this the course of things, Señor, throughout the earth? Do not those who find themselves placed beneath the level of their merits, struggle to rise to the condition to which nature intended them to belong, while those whom fortune hath favored through their ancestors, are too often content to live on honors that they have not themselves won? I see naught in this but the nature of man, and the course of the world."
"Thou art right, Luis, but philosophy and fact are different matters. We may reason calmly on principles, when their application in practice causeth much pain. Thou hast a frank and manly nature, young man; one that dreadeth neither the gibe of the Christian, nor the lance of the Moor, and wilt answer to any, in fearlessness and truth. A Castilian thyself, dost _thou_, too, really think one of thy kingdom better than one of Genoa?"
"Not when he of Genoa is Christoval Colon, Señor, and he of Castile is only Luis de Bobadilla," answered the young man, laughing.
"Nay, I will not be denied--hast thou any such notion as this, which the wife of Pepe hath so plainly avowed?"
"What will you, Señor Christoval? Man is the same in Spain, that he is among the Italians, or the English. Is it not his besetting sin to think good of himself, and evil of his neighbor?"
"A plain question that is loyally put, may not be answered with a truism, Luis."
"Nor a civil, honest reply confounded with one that is evasive. We of Castile are humble and most devout Christians, by the same reason that we think ourselves faultless, and the rest of mankind notable sinners. By San Iago, of blessed faith and holy memory! it is enough to make a people vain, to have produced such a queen as Doña Isabella, and such a maiden as Mercedes de Valverde!"
"This is double loyalty, for it is being true to the queen and to thy mistress. With this must I satisfy myself, even though it be no answer. But, Castilian though I am not, even the Guzmans have not ventured on the voyage to Cathay, and the House of Trastamara may yet be glad to acknowledge its indebtedness to a Genoese. God hath no respect to worldly condition, or worldly boundaries, in choosing his agents, for most of the saints were despised Hebrews, while Jesus, himself, came of Nazareth. We shall see, we shall see, young lord, what three months will reveal to the admiration of mankind."
"Señor Almirante, I hope and pray it may be the island of Cipango and the realms of the great Khan; should it not be so, we are men who can not only bear our toils, but who can bear our disappointments."
"Of disappointments in this matter, Don Luis, I look for none--now that I have the royal faith of Isabella, and these good caravels to back me; the drudge who saileth from Madeira to Lisbon, is not more certain of gaining his port than I am certain of gaining Cathay."
"No doubt, Señor Colon, that what any navigator can do, you can do and will perform; nevertheless, disappointment would seem to be the lot of man, and it might be well for all of us to be prepared to meet it."
"The sun that is just sinking beyond yon hill, Luis, is not plainer before my eyes than this route to the Indies. I have seen it, these seventeen years, distinct as the vessels in the river, bright as the polar star, and, I make little doubt, as faithfully. It is well to talk of disappointments, since they are the lot of man; and who can know this better than one that hath been led on by false hopes during all the better years of his life; now encouraged by princes, statesmen, and churchmen; and now derided and scoffed at as a vain projector, that hath neither reason nor fact to sustain him!"
"By my new patron, San Pedro! Señor Almirante, but you have led a most grievous life, for this last age, or so. The next three months will, indeed, be months of moment to you."
"Thou little know'st the calmness of conviction and confidence, Luis," returned Columbus, "if thou fanciest any doubts beset me as the hour of trial approacheth. This day is the happiest I have known, for many a weary year; for, though the preparations are not great, and our barks are but slight and of trifling bulk, yonder lie the means through which a light, that hath long been hid, is about to break upon the world, and to raise Castile to an elevation surpassing that of any other Christian nation."
"Thou must regret, Señor Colon, that it hath not been Genoa, thy native land, that is now about to receive this great boon, after having merited it by generous and free gifts, in behalf of this great voyage."
"This hath not been the least of my sorrows, Luis. It is hard to desert one's own country, and to seek new connections, as life draweth to a close, though we mariners, perhaps, feel the tie less than those who never quit the land. But Genoa would have none of me; and if the child is bound to love and honor the parent, so is the parent equally bound to protect and foster the child. When the last forgets its duty, the first is not to be blamed if it seek support wherever it may be found. There are limits to every human duty; those we owe to God alone, never ceasing to require their fulfilment, and our unceasing attention. Genoa hath proved but a stern mother to me; and though naught could induce me to raise a hand against her, she hath no longer any claims on my service. Besides, when the object in view is the service of God, it mattereth little with which of his creatures we league as instruments. One cannot easily hate the land of his birth, but injustice may lead him to cease to love it. The tie is mutual, and when the country ceaseth to protect person, character, property, or rights, the subject is liberated from all his duties. If allegiance goeth with protection, so should protection go with allegiance. Doña Isabella is now my mistress, and, next to God, her will I serve, and serve only. Castile is henceforth my country."
At this moment it was announced that the pinnace waited, and the two adventurers immediately embarked.
It must have required all the deep and fixed convictions of an ardent temperament, to induce Columbus to rejoice that he had, at length, obtained the means of satisfying his longings for discovery, when he came coolly to consider what those means were. The names of his vessels, the Santa Maria, the Pinta, and the Niña, have already been mentioned, and some allusions have been made to their size and construction. Still, it may aid the reader in forming his opinions of the character of this great enterprise, if we give a short sketch of the vessels, more especially that in which Columbus and Luis de Bobadilla were now received. She was, of course, the Santa Maria, a ship of nearly twice the burden of the craft next her in size. This vessel had been prepared with more care than the others, and some attention had been paid to the dignity and comfort of the Admiral she was destined to carry. Not only was she decked in, but a poop, or round-house, was constructed on her quarter-deck, in which he had his berth. No proper notion can be obtained of the appearance of the Santa Maria, from the taunt-rigged, symmetrical, and low-sterned ships of the present time; for, though the Santa Maria had both a poop and top-gallant-forecastle, as they would be termed to-day, neither was constructed in the snug and unobtrusive manner that is now used. The poop, or round-house, was called a castle, to which it had some fancied resemblance, while the top-gallant-forecastle, in which most of the people lived, was out of proportion large, rose like a separate structure on the bows of the vessel, and occupied about a third of the deck, from forward aft. To those who never saw the shipping that was used throughout Europe, a century since, it will not be very obvious how vessels so small could rise so far above the water, in safety; but this difficulty may be explained; many very old ships, that had some of the peculiarities of this construction, existing within the memory of man, and a few having fallen under our own immediate inspection. The bearings of these vessels were at the loaded water-lines, or very little above them, and they tumbled home, in a way to reduce their beams on their poop decks nearly, if not quite, a fourth. By these precautions, their great height out of the water was less dangerous than might otherwise have been the case; and as they were uniformly short ships, possessing the advantages of lifting easily forward, and were, moreover, low-waisted, they might be considered safe in a sea, rather than the reverse. Being so short, too, they had great beam for their tonnage, which, if not an element of speed, was at least one of security. Although termed ships, these vessels were not rigged in the manner of the ships of the present day, their standing spars being relatively longer than those now in use, while their upper, or shifting spars, were much less numerous, and much less important than those which now point upward, like needles, toward the clouds. Neither had a ship necessarily the same number of spars, in the fifteenth century, as belong to a ship in the nineteenth. The term itself, as it was used in all the southern countries of Europe, being directly derived from the Latin word _navis_, was applied rather as a generic than as a distinctive term, and by no means inferred any particular construction, or particular rig. The caravel was a ship, in this sense, though not strictly so, perhaps, when we descend to the more minute classification of seamen.
Much stress has been justly laid on the fact, that two of the vessels in this extraordinary enterprise were undecked. In that day, when most sea voyages were made in a direction parallel to the main coasts, and when even those that extended to the islands occupied but a very few days, vessels were seldom far from the land; and it was the custom of the mariners, a practice that has extended to our own times, in the southern seas of Europe, to seek a port at the approach of bad weather. Under such circumstances, decks were by no means as essential, either for the security of the craft, the protection of the cargo, or the comfort of the people, as in those cases in which the full fury of the elements must be encountered. Nevertheless, the reader is not to suppose a vessel entirely without any upper covering, because she was not classed among those that were decked; even such caravels, when used on the high seas, usually possessing quarter-decks and forecastles, with connecting gangways; depending on tarpaulings, and other similar preventives, to exclude the wash of the sea from injuring their cargoes.
After all these explanations, however, it must be conceded, that the preparations for the great undertaking of Columbus, while the imaginations of landsmen probably aggravate their incompleteness, strike the experienced seaman as altogether inadequate to its magnitude and risks. That the mariners of the day deemed them positively insufficient is improbable, for men as accustomed to the ocean as the Pinzons, would not have volunteered to risk their vessel, their money, and their persons, in an expedition that did not possess the ordinary means of security.
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"O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, Survey our empire, and behold our home."
Byron.
As Columbus sought his apartment, soon after he reached the deck of the Holy Maria, Luis had no farther opportunity to converse with him that night. He occupied a part of the same room, it is true, under the assumed appellation of the admiral's secretary; but the great navigator was so much engaged with duties necessary to be discharged previously to sailing, that he could not be interrupted, and the young man paced the narrow limits of the deck until near midnight, thinking, as usual, of Mercedes, and of his return, when, seeking his mattress, he found Columbus already buried in a deep sleep.
The following day was Friday; and it is worthy of remark, that the greatest and most successful voyage that has ever occurred on this globe, was commenced on a day of the week that seamen have long deemed to be so inauspicious to nautical enterprises, that they have often deferred sailing, in order to avoid the unknown, but dreaded consequences. Luis was among the first who appeared again on deck, and casting his eyes upward, he perceived that the admiral was already afoot, and in possession of the summit of the high poop, or castle, whose narrow limits, indeed, were deemed sacred to the uses of the privileged, answering, in this particular, to the more extended promenade of the modern quarter-deck. Here it was that he who directed the movements of a squadron, overlooked its evolutions, threw out his signals, made his astronomical observations, and sought his recreation in the open air. The whole space on board the Santa Maria might have been some fifteen feet in one direction, and not quite as much in the other, making a convenient look-out, more from its exclusion and retirement, than from its dimensions.
As soon as the admiral--or Don Christoval, as he was now termed by the Spaniards, since his appointment to his present high rank, which gave him the rights and condition of a noble--as soon as Don Christoval caught a glance of Luis' eye, he made a sign for the young man to ascend and take a position at his side. Although the expedition was so insignificant in numbers and force, not equalling, in the latter particular, the power of a single modern sloop of war, the authority of the queen, the gravity and mien of Columbus himself, and, most of all, its own mysterious and unwonted object, had, from the first, thrown around it a dignity that was disproportioned to its visible means. Accustomed to control the passions of turbulent men, and aware of the great importance of impressing his followers with a sense of his high station and influence with the court, Columbus had kept much aloof from familiar intercourse with his subordinates, acting principally through the Pinzons and the other commanders, lest he might lose some portion of that respect which he foresaw would be necessary to his objects. It needed not his long experience to warn him that men, crowded together in so small a space, could only be kept in their social and professional stations, by the most rigid observance of forms and decorum, and he had observed a due attention to these great requisites, in prescribing the manner in which his own personal service should be attended to, and his personal dignity supported. This is one of the great secrets of the discipline of a ship, for they who are incapable of reasoning, can be made to feel, and no man is apt to despise him who is well entrenched behind the usages of deference and reserve. We see, daily, the influence of an appellation, or a commission, even the turbulent submitting to its authority, when they might resist the same lawful commands issuing from an apparently less elevated source.
"Thou wilt keep much near my person, Señor Gutierrez," said the admiral, using the feigned name which Luis affected to conceal under that of Pedro de Muños, as he knew a ship was never safe from eaves-droppers, and was willing that the young noble should pass as the gentleman of the king's bedchamber, "this is our station, and here we must remain much of our time, until God, in his holy and wise providence, shall have opened the way for us to Cathay, and brought us near the throne of the Great Khan. Here is our course, and along this track of pathless ocean it is my intention to steer."
As Columbus spoke, he pointed to a chart that lay spread before him on an arm-chest, passing a finger calmly along the line he intended to pursue. The coast of Europe, in its general outlines, was laid down on this chart, with as much accuracy as the geographical knowledge of the day would furnish, and a range of land extended southward as far as Guinea, all beyond which region was _terra incognita_ to the learned world at that time. The Canaries and the Azores, which had been discovered some generations earlier, occupied their proper places, while the western side of the Atlantic was bounded by a fancied delineation of the eastern coast of India, or of Cathay, buttressed by the island of Cipango, or Japan, and an Archipelago, that had been represented principally after the accounts of Marco Polo and his relatives. By a fortunate misconception, Cipango had been placed in a longitude that corresponded very nearly with that of Washington, or some two thousand leagues east of the position in which it is actually to be found. This error of Columbus, in relation to the extent of the circumference of the globe, in the end, most probably saved his hardy enterprise from becoming a failure.
Luis, for the first time since he had been engaged in the expedition, cast his eyes over this chart, with some curiosity, and he felt a noble desire to solve the great problem rising within him, as he thus saw, at a glance, all the vast results, as well as the interesting natural phenomena, that were dependent on the issue.
"By San Gennaro of Napoli!" he exclaimed--The only affectation the young noble had, was a habit of invoking the saints of the different countries he had visited, and of using the little oaths and exclamations of distant lands, a summary mode of both letting the world know how far he had journeyed, as well as a portion of the improvement he had derived from his travels--"By San Gennaro, Señor Don Christoval, but this voyage will be one of exceeding merit, if we ever find our way across this great belt of water; and greater still, should we ever manage to return!"
"The last difficulty is the one, at this moment, uppermost in the minds of most in this vessel," answered Columbus. "Dost thou not perceive, Don Luis, the grave and dejected countenances of the mariners, and hearest thou the wailings that are rising from the shore?"
This remark caused the young man to raise his eyes from the chart, and to take a survey of the scene around him. The Niña, a light felucca, in fact, was already under way, and brushing past them under a latine foresail, her sides thronged with boats filled with people, no small portion of whom were females and children, and most of whom were wringing their hands and raising piteous cries of despair. The Pinta was in the act of being cast; and, although the authority of Martin Alonzo Pinzon had the effect to render their grief less clamorous, her sides were surrounded by a similar crowd, while numberless boats plied around the Santa Maria herself; the authority and dignity of the admiral alone keeping them at a distance. It was evident that most of those who remained, fancied that they now saw their departing relations for the last time, while no small portion of those who were on the eve of sailing, believed they were on the point of quitting Spain forever.
"Hast looked for Pepe, this morning, among our people?" demanded Columbus, the incident of the young sailor recurring to his thoughts, for the first time that morning; "if he prove false to his word, we may regard it as an evil omen, and have an eye on all our followers, while there is a chance of escape."
"If his absence would be an omen of evil, Señor Almirante, his presence ought to be received as an omen of good. The noble fellow is on this yard, above our heads, loosening the sail."
Columbus turned his eyes upward, and there, indeed, was the young mariner in question, poised on the extreme and attenuated end of the latine yard, that ships even then carried on their after-masts, swinging in the wind while he loosened the gasket that kept the canvas in its folds. Occasionally he looked beneath him, anxious to discover if his return had been noted; and, once or twice, his hands, usually so nimble, lingered in their employment, as he cast glances over the stern of the vessel, as if one also drew his attention in that quarter. Columbus made a sign of recognition to the gratified young mariner, who instantly permitted the canvas to fall; and then he walked to the taffrail, accompanied by Luis, in order to ascertain if any boat was near the ship. There, indeed, close to the vessel, lay a skiff, rowed by Monica alone, and which had been permitted to approach so near on account of the sex of its occupant. The moment the wife of Pepe observed the form of the admiral, she arose from her seat, and clasped her hands toward him, desirous, but afraid, to speak. Perceiving that the woman was awed by the bustle, the crowd of persons, and the appearance of the ship, which she was almost near enough to touch with her hand, Columbus addressed her. He spoke mildly, and his looks, usually so grave, and sometimes even stern, were softened to an expression of gentleness that Luis had never before witnessed.
"I see that thy husband hath been true to his promise, good woman," he said; "and I doubt not that thou hast told him it is wiser and better manfully to serve the queen, than to live under the disgrace of a runaway."
"Señor, I have. I give Doña Isabella my husband, without a murmur, if not cheerfully, now I know that you go forth to serve God. I see the wickedness of my repinings, and shall pray that he may be foremost, on all occasions, until the ears of the Infidel shall be opened to the words of the true faith."
"This is said like a Spanish wife, and a Christian woman! Our lives are in the care of Providence, and doubt not of seeing Pepe, in health and safety, after he hath visited Cathay, and done his share in its discovery."
"Ah! Señor--when?" exclaimed the wife, unable, in spite of her assumed fortitude, and the strong feelings of religious duty, to suppress the impulses of a woman.
"In God's time, my good--how art thou named?"
"Monica, Señor Almirante, and my husband is called Pepe; and the boy, the poor, fatherless child, hath been christened Juan. We have no Moorish blood, but are pure Spaniards, and I pray your Excellency to remember it, on such occasions as may call for more dangerous duty than common."
"Thou may'st depend on my care of the father of Juan," returned the admiral, smiling, though a tear glistened in his eye. "I, too, leave behind those that are dear to me as my own soul, and among others a motherless son. Should aught serious befall our vessel, Diego would be an orphan; whereas thy Juan would at least enjoy the care and affection of her who brought him into the world."
"Señor, a thousand pardons!" said the woman, much touched by the feeling that was betrayed by the admiral in his voice. "We are selfish, and forget that others have sorrows, when we feel our own too keenly. Go forth, in God's name, and do his holy will--take my husband with you; I only wish that little Juan was old enough to be his companion."
Monica could utter no more, but dashing the tears from her eyes, she resumed the oars, and pulled the little skiff slowly, as if the inanimate machine felt the reluctance of the hands that propelled it, toward the land. The short dialogue just related, had been carried on in voices so loud as to be heard by all near the speakers; and when Columbus turned from the boat, he saw that many of his crew had been hanging suspended in the rigging, or on the yards, eagerly listening to what had been said. At this precise instant the anchor of the Santa Maria was raised from the bottom, and the ship's head began to incline from the direction of the wind. At the next moment, the flap of the large square foresail that crafts of her rig then carried, was heard, and in the course of the next five minutes, the three vessels were standing slowly but steadily down the current of the Odiel, in one of the arms of which river they had been anchored, holding their course toward a bar near its mouth. The sun had not yet risen, or rather it rose over the hills of Spain, a fiery ball, just as the sails were set, gilding with a melancholy glory, a coast that not a few in the different vessels apprehended they were looking upon for the last time. Many of the boats clung to the two smaller craft until they reached the bar of Saltes, an hour or two later, and some still persevered until they began to toss in the long waves of the breathing ocean, when, the wind being fresh at the west, they reluctantly cast off, one by one, amid sighs and groans. The liberated ships, in the meanwhile, moved steadily into the blue waters of the shoreless Atlantic, like human beings silently impelled by their destinies toward fates that they can neither foresee, control, nor avoid.
The day was fine, and the wind both brisk and fair. Thus far the omens were propitious; but the unknown future threw a cloud over the feelings of a large portion of those who were thus quitting, in gloomy uncertainty, all that was most dear to them. It was known that the admiral intended making the best of his way toward the Canaries, thence to enter on the unknown and hitherto untrodden paths of the desert ocean that lay beyond. Those who doubted, therefore, fixed upon those islands as the points where their real dangers were to commence, and already looked forward to their appearance in the horizon, with feelings akin to those with which the guilty regard the day of trial, the condemned the morning of execution, or the sinner the bed of death. Many, however, were superior to this weakness, having steeled their nerves and prepared their minds for any hazards, though the feelings of nearly all fluctuated; there being hours when hope, and anticipations of success, seemed to cheer the entire crews; and then, moments would occur, in which the disposition was to common doubts, and a despondency that was nearly general.
A voyage to the Canaries or the Azores, in that age, was most probably to be classed among the hardiest exploits of seamen. The distance was not as great, certainly, as many of their more ordinary excursions, for vessels frequently went, even in the same direction, as far as the Cape de Verdes; but all the other European passages lay along the land, and in the Mediterranean the seaman felt that he was navigating within known limits, and was apt to consider himself as embayed within the boundaries of human knowledge. On the contrary, while sailing on the broad Atlantic, he was, in some respects, placed in a situation resembling that of the æronaut, who, while floating in the higher currents of the atmosphere, sees beneath him the earth as his only alighting place, the blue void of untravelled space stretching in all other directions about him.
The Canary Isles were known to the ancients. Juba, the king of Mauritania, who was a contemporary of Cæsar, is said to have described them with tolerable accuracy, under the general name of the Fortunate Isles. The work itself has been lost, but the fact is known through the evidence of other writers; and by the same means it is known that they possessed, even in that remote age, a population that had made some respectable advances toward civilization. But in the process of time, and during the dark period that succeeded the brightness of the Roman sway, even the position of these islands was lost to the Europeans; nor was it again ascertained until the first half of the fourteenth century, when they were discovered by certain fugitive Spaniards who were hard pressed by the Moors. After this, the Portuguese, then the most hardy navigators of the known world, got possession of one or two of them, and made them the starting points for their voyages of discovery along the coast of Guinea. As the Spaniards reduced the power of the Mussulmans, and regained their ancient sway in the peninsula, they once more turned their attention in this direction, conquering the natives of several of the other islands, the group belonging equally to those two Christian nations, at the time of our narrative.
Luis de Bobadilla, who had navigated extensively in the more northern seas, and who had passed and repassed the Mediterranean in various directions, knew nothing of these islands except by report; and as they stood on the poop, Columbus pointed out to him their position, and explained their different characters; relating his intentions in connection with them, dwelling on the supplies they afforded, and on their facilities as a point of departure.
"The Portuguese have profited much by their use of these islands," said Columbus, "as a place for victualling, and wooding, and watering, and I see no reason why Castile may not, now, imitate their example, and receive her share of the benefits. Thou seest how far south our neighbors have penetrated, and what a trade and how much riches are flowing into Lisbon through these noble enterprises, which, notwithstanding, are but as a bucket of water in the ocean, when compared with the wealth of Cathay and all the mighty consequences that are to follow from this western voyage of ours."
"Dost thou expect to reach the territories of the Great Khan, Don Christoval," demanded Luis, "within a distance as small as that to which the Portuguese hath gone southwardly?"
The navigator looked warily around, to ascertain who might hear his words, and finding that no one was within reach of the sound of his voice while he used a proper caution, he lowered its tones, and answered in a manner which greatly flattered his young companion, as it proved that the admiral was disposed to treat him with the frankness and confidence of a friend.
"Thou know'st, Don Luis," the navigator resumed, "the nature of the spirits with whom we have to deal. I shall not even be certain of their services, so long as we continue near the coast of Europe; for naught is easier than for one of yonder craft to abandon me in the night, and to seek a haven on some known coast, seeking his justification in some fancied necessity."
"Martin Alonzo is not a man to do that ignoble and unworthy act!" interrupted Luis.
"He is not, my young friend, for a motive as base as fear," returned Columbus, with a sort of thoughtful smile, which showed how truly and early he had dived into the real characters of those with whom he was associated. "Martin Alonzo is a bold and intelligent navigator, and we may look for good service at his hands, in all that toucheth resolution and perseverance. But the eyes of the Pinzons cannot be always open, and the knowledge of all the philosophers of the earth could make no resistance against the headlong impetuosity of a crew of alarmed mutineers. I do not feel certain of our own people while there is a hope of easy return; much less of men who are not directly under my own eye and command. The question thou hast asked, Luis, may not, therefore, be publicly answered, since the distance we are about to sail over would frighten our easily alarmed mariners. Thou art a cavalier; a knight of known courage, and may be depended on; and I may tell thee, without fear of arousing any unworthy feeling, that the voyage on which we are now fairly embarked, hath never had a precedent on this earth, for its length, or for the loneliness of its way."
"And yet, Señor, thou enterest on it with the confidence of a man certain of reaching his haven?"
"Luis, thou hast well judged my feelings. As to all those common dreads of descents, and ascents, of the difficulties of a return, and of reaching the margin of the world, whence we may glide off into space, neither thou, nor I, shall be much subjected."
"By San Iago! Señor Don Christoval, I have no very settled notions about these things. I have never known of any one who hath slidden off the earth into the air, it is true, nor do I much think that such a slide is likely to befall us and our good ships; but, on the other hand, we have as yet only doctrine to prove that the earth is round, and that it is possible to journey east, by sailing west. On these subjects, then, I hold myself neuter; while, at the same time, thou may'st steer direct for the moon, and Luis de Bobadilla will be found at thy side."
"Thou makest thyself less expert in science, mad-brained young noble, than is either true or necessary; but we will say no more of this, at present. There will be sufficient leisure to make thee familiar with all my intricate reasons and familiar motives. And is not this, Don Luis, a most heavenly sight? Here am I in the open ocean, honored by the two sovereigns with the dignity of their viceroy and admiral; with a fleet that is commissioned by their Highnesses to carry the knowledge of their power and authority to the uttermost parts of the earth; and, most of all, to raise the cross of our blessed Redeemer before the eyes of Infidels, who have never yet even heard his name, or, if they have, reverence it as little as a Christian would reverence the idols of the heathens!"
This was said with the calm but deep enthusiasm that colored the entire character of the great navigator, rendering him, at times, equally the subject of distrust and of profound respect. On Luis, as, indeed, on most others who lived in sufficient familiarity with the man to enable them to appreciate his motives, and to judge correctly of the uprightness of his views, the effect, however, was always favorable, and probably would have been so had Mercedes never existed. The young man, himself, was not entirely without a tinge of enthusiasm, and, as is ever the case with the single-minded and generous, he best knew how to regard the impulses of those who were influenced by similar qualities. This answer was consequently in accordance with the feelings of the admiral, and they remained on the poop several hours, discoursing of the future, with the ardor of those who hoped for every thing, but in a manner too discursive and general to render a record of the dialogue easy or necessary.
It was eight o'clock in the morning when the vessels passed the bar of Saltes, and the day had far advanced before the navigators had lost sight of the familiar eminences that lay around Palos, and the other well-known land-marks of the coast. The course was due south, and, as the vessels of that day were lightly sparred, and spread comparatively very little canvas, when considered in connection with the more dashing navigation of our own times, the rate of sailing was slow, and far from promising a speedy termination to a voyage that all knew must be long without a precedent, and which so many feared could never have an end. Two marine leagues, of three English miles, an hour, was good progress for a vessel at that day, even with a fresh and favorable wind; though there are a few memorable days' works set down by Columbus himself, which approach to a hundred and sixty miles in the twenty-four hours, and which are evidently noted as a speed of which a mariner might well be proud. In these days of locomotion and travelling, it is scarcely necessary to tell the intelligent reader this is but a little more than half the distance that is sailed over by a fast ship, under similar circumstances, and in our own time.
Thus the sun set upon the adventurers, in this celebrated voyage, when they had sailed with a strong breeze, to use the words of Columbus' own record, some eleven hours, after quitting the bar. By this time, they had made good less than fifty miles, in a due south course from the place of their departure. The land in the neighborhood of Palos had entirely sunk behind the watery margin of the ocean, in that direction, and the coast trending eastward, it was only here and there that the misty summits of a few of the mountains of Seville could just be discovered by the experienced eyes of the older mariners, as the glowing ball of the sun sunk into the watery bed of the western horizon, and disappeared from view. At this precise moment, Columbus and Luis were again on the poop, watching, with melancholy interest, the last shadows cast by Spanish land, while two seamen were at work near them, splicing a rope that had been chafed asunder. The latter were seated on the deck, and as, out of respect to the admiral, they had taken their places a little on one side, their presence was not at first noted.
"There setteth the sun beneath the waves of the wide Atlantic, Señor Gutierrez," observed the admiral, who was ever cautious to use one or the other of Luis' feigned appellations, whenever any person was near. "There the sun quitteth us, Pero, and in his daily course I see a proof of the globular form of the earth; and of the truth of a theory which teacheth us that Cathay may be reached by the western voyage."
"I am ever ready to admit the wisdom of all your plans, expectations, and thoughts, Señor Don Christoval," returned the young man, punctiliously observant of respect, both in speech and manner; "but I confess I cannot see what the daily course of the sun has to do with the position of Cathay, or with the road that leads to it. We know that the great luminary travelleth the heavens without ceasing, that it cometh up out of the sea in the morning, and goeth down to its watery bed at night; but this it doth on the coast of Castile, as well as on that of Cathay; and, therefore, to me it doth appear, that no particular inference, for or against our success, is to be drawn from the circumstance."
As this was said, the two sailors ceased working, looking curiously up into the face of the admiral, anxious to hear his reply. By this movement Luis perceived that one was Pepe, to whom he gave a nod of recognition, while the other was a stranger. The last had every appearance of a thorough-bred seaman of that period, or of being, what would have been termed in English, and the more northern languages of Europe, a regular "sea-dog;" a term that expresses the idea of a man so completely identified with the ocean by habit, as to have had his exterior, his thoughts, his language, and even his morality, colored by the association. This sailor was approaching fifty, was short, square, athletic, and still active, but there was a mixture of the animal with the intellectual creature about his coarse, heavy features, that is very usual in the countenances of men of native humor and strong sense, whose habits have been coarse and sensual. That he was a prime seaman, Columbus knew at a glance, not only from his general appearance, but from his occupation, which was such as only fell to the lot of the most skilful men of every crew.
"I reason after this fashion, Señor," answered the admiral, as soon as his eye turned from the glance that he, too, had thrown upon the men; "the sun is not made to journey thus around the earth without a sufficient motive, the providence of God being ruled by infinite wisdom. It is not probable that a luminary so generous and useful should be intended to waste any of its benefits; and we are certain already that day and night journey westward over this earth as far as it is known to us, whence I infer that the system is harmonious, and the benefits of the great orb are unceasingly bestowed on man, reaching one spot on the earth as it quits another. The sun that hath just left us is still visible in the Azores, and will be seen again at Smyrna, and among the Grecian Islands, an hour, or more, before it again meets our eyes. Nature hath designed naught for uselessness; and I believe that Cathay will be enlightened by that ball which hath just left us, while we shall be in the deepest hour of the night, to return by its eastern path, across the great continent of Asia, and to greet us again in the morning. In a word, friend Pedro, that which Sol is now doing with such nimble speed in the heavens, we are more humbly imitating in our own caravels; give us sufficient time, and we, too, might traverse the earth, coming in from our journey by the land of the Tartars and the Persians."
"From all of which you infer that the world is round, wherein we are to find the certainty of our success?"
"This is so true, Señor de Muños, that I should be sorry to think any man who now saileth under my command did not admit it. Here are two seamen who have been listening to our discourse, and we will question them, that we may know the opinions of men accustomed to the ocean. Thou art the husband with whom I held discourse on the sands, the past evening, and thy name is Pepe?"
"Señor Almirante, your Excellency's memory doth me too much honor, in not forgetting a face that is altogether unworthy of being noticed and remembered."
"It is an honest face, friend, and no doubt speaketh for a true heart. I shall count on thee as a sure support, let things go as they may."
"His Excellency hath not only a right to command me, as her Highness' admiral, but he hath now the good-will of Monica, and that is much the same as having gained her husband."
"I thank thee, honest Pepe, and shall count on thee, with certainty, in future," answered Columbus, turning toward the other seaman--"And thou, shipmate--thou hast the air of one that the sight of troubled water will not alarm--thou hast a name?"
"That I have, noble admiral," returned the fellow, looking up with a freedom that denoted one used to have his say; "though it hath neither a Don, nor a Señor, to take it in tow. My intimates commonly call out Sancho, when pressed for time, and when civility gets the better of haste, they add Mundo, making Sancho Mundo for the whole name of a very poor man."
"Mundo is a large name for so small a person," said the admiral, smiling, for he foresaw the expediency of having friends among his crew, and knew men sufficiently to understand that, while undue familiarity undermined respect, a little unbending had a tendency to win hearts. "I wonder that thou shouldst venture to wear a sound so lofty!"
"I tell my fellows, your Excellency, that Mundo is my title, and not my name; but that I am greater than kings, even, who are content to take their titles from a part of that, of which I bear all."
"And were thy father and thy mother called Mundo, also? Or, is this name taken in order to give thee an occasion to show thy smartness, when questioned by thy officers?"
"As for the good people you deign to mention, Señor Don Almirante, I shall leave them to answer for themselves, and that for the simple reason that I do not know how they were called, or whether they had any names at all. They tell me I was found, when a few hours old, under a worn-out basket at the ship-yard gate of old"-- "Never mind the precise spot, friend Sancho--thou wert found with a basket for a cradle, and that maketh a volume in thy history, at once."
"Nay, Excellency, I would not leave the spot a place of dispute hereafter--but it shall be as you please. They say no one here knoweth exactly where we are going, and it will be more suitable that the like ignorance should rest over the places whence we came. But having the world before me, they that christened me gave me as much of it as was to be got by a name."
"Thou hast been long a mariner, Sancho Mundo--if Mundo thou wilt be."
"So long, Señor, that it sickeneth me, and taketh away the appetite to walk on solid ground. Being so near the gate, it was no great matter to put me into the ship-yard, and I was launched one day in a caravel, and got to sea in her, no one knows how. From that time I have submitted to fate, and go out again, as soon as possible, after I come into port."
"And by what lucky chance have I obtained thy services, good Sancho, in this great expedition?"
"The authorities of Moguer took me under the queen's order, your Excellency, thinking that this Voyage would be more to my mind than another, as it was likely never to have an end."
"Art thou a compelled adventurer, on this service?"
"Not I, Señor Don Almirante, although they who sent me here fancy as much. It is natural for a man to wish to see his estates, once in his life, and I am told that we are bound on a voyage to the other side of the world. God forbid that I should hold aloof, on such an occasion."
"Thou art a Christian, Sancho, and hast a desire to aid in carrying the cross among the heathen?"
"Señor, your Excellency, Don Almirante, it matters little to Sancho with what the barque is laden, so that she do not need much pumping, and that the garlic is good. If I am not a very devout Christian, it is the fault of them that found me near the ship-yard gate, since the church and the font are both within call from that very spot. I know that Pepe, here, is a Christian, Señor, for I saw him in the arms of the priest, and I doubt not that there are old men at Moguer who can testify to as much in my behalf. At all hazards, noble Admiral, I will take on myself to say that I am neither Jew, nor Mussulman."
"Sancho, thou hast that about thee, that bespeakest a skilful and bold mariner."
"For both of these qualities, Señor Don Colon, let others speak. When the gale cometh, your own eyes may judge of the first; and when the caravel shall reach the edge of the earth, whither some think it is bound, there will be a good occasion to see who can, and who cannot, look off without trembling."
"It is enough: I count both thee and Pepe as among my truest followers." As Columbus said this, he walked away, resuming the dignified gravity that usually was seated in his countenance, and which so much aided his authority, by impressing the minds of others with respect. In a few minutes he and Luis descended to their cabin.
"I marvel, Sancho," said Pepe, as soon as he and his messmate were left alone on the poop, "that thou wilt venture to use thy tongue so freely, even in the presence of one that beareth about with him the queen's authority! Dost thou not fear to offend the admiral?"
"So much for having a wife and a child! Canst thou not make any difference between them that have had ancestors and who have descendants, and one that hath no other tie in the world than his name? The Señor Don Almirante is either an exceeding great man, and chosen by Providence to open the way into the unknown seas of which he speaketh; or he is but a hungry Genoese, that is leading us he knoweth not whither, that he may eat, and drink, and sleep, in honor, while we are toiling at his heels, like patient mules dragging the load that the horse despiseth. In the one case, he is too great and exalted to heed idle words; and in the other, what is there too bad for a Castilian to tell him?"
"Ay, thou art fond of calling thyself a Castilian, in spite of the ship-yard and the basket, and notwithstanding Moguer is in Seville."
"Harkee, Pepe; is not the queen of Castile our mistress? And are not subjects--true and lawful subjects, I mean, like thee and me--are not such subjects worthy of being the queen's countrymen? Never disparage thyself, good Pepe, for thou wilt ever find the world ready enough to do that favor for thee. As to this Genoese, he shall be either friend or enemy to Sancho; if the first, I expect much consolation from it; if the last, let him hunt for his Cathay till doomsday, he shall be never the wiser."
"Well, Sancho, if words can mar a voyage, or make a voyage, thou art a ready mariner; none know how to discourse better than thou."
Here the men both rose, having completed their work, and they left the poop, descending among the rest of the crew. Columbus had not miscalculated his aim, his words and condescension having produced a most favorable effect on the mind of Sancho Mundo, for so the man was actually called; and in gaining one of as ready a wit and loose a tongue for a friend, he obtained an ally who was not to be despised. Of such materials, and with the support of such instruments as this, is success too often composed; it being possible for the discovery of a world, even, to depend on the good word of one less qualified to influence opinions than Sancho Mundo.
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"While you here do snoring lie, Open-ey'd conspiracy His time doth take: If of life you keep a care, Shake off slumber, and beware; Awake! Awake!"
Ariel.
The wind continuing fair, the three vessels made good progress in the direction of the Canaries; Sunday, in particular, proving a propitious day, the expedition making more than one hundred and twenty miles in the course of the twenty-four hours. The wind still continued favorable, and on the morning of Monday, the 6th of August, Columbus was cheerfully conversing with Luis, and one or two other companions who were standing near him on the poop, when the Pinta was seen suddenly to take in her forward sails, and to come up briskly, not to say awkwardly, to the wind. This manoeuvre denoted some accident, and the Santa Maria fortunately having the advantage of the wind, immediately edged away to speak her consort.
"How now, Señor Martin Alonzo," hailed the admiral, as the two caravels came near enough together to speak each other. "For what reason hast thou so suddenly paused in thy course?"
"Fortune would have it so, Señor Don Christoval, seeing that the rudder of the good caravel hath broken loose, and we must fain secure it ere we may again trust ourselves to the breeze."
A severe frown came over the grave countenance of the great navigator, and after bidding Martin Alonzo do his best to repair the damage, he paced the deck, greatly disturbed, for several minutes. Observing how much the admiral took this accident to heart, the rest descended to the deck below, leaving Columbus alone with the pretended groom of the king's chamber.
"I trust, Señor, this is no serious injury, or one in any way likely to retard our advance," said Luis, after manifesting that respect which all near him felt for the admiral, by a pause. "I know honest Martin Alonzo to be a ready seaman, and should think his expedients might easily serve to get us as far as the Canaries, where greater damages can meet with their remedies."
"Thou say'st true, Luis, and we will hope for the best. I feel regret the sea is so high that we can offer no assistance to the Pinta, but Martin Alonzo is, indeed, an expert mariner, and on his ingenuity we must rely. My concern, however, hath another and a deeper source than the unloosing of this rudder, serious as such an injury ever is to a vessel at sea. Thou know'st that the Pinta hath been furnished to the service of the queen, under the order claiming the forfeited duty from the delinquents of Palos, and sorely against the will of the caravel's owners hath the vessel been taken. Now these persons, Gomez Rascon and Christoval Quintero, are on board her, and, I question not, have designed this accident. Their artifices were practised long, to our delay, before quitting the haven, and, it would seem, are to be continued to our prejudice here on the open ocean."
"By the allegiance I owe the Doña Isabella! Señor Don Christoval, but I would find a speedy cure for such a treason, if the office of punishment rested with me. Let me jump into the skiff and repair to the Pinta, where I will tell these Masters Rascon and Quintero, that should their rudder ever dare to break loose again, or should any other similar and untoward accident chance to arrive, the first shall be hanged at the yard of his own caravel, and the last be cast into the sea to examine into the state of her bottom, the rudder included."
"We may not practice such high authority without great occasion and perfect certainty of guilt. I hold it to be wiser to seek another caravel at the Canaries, for, by this accident, I well see we shall not be rid of the artifices of the two owners, until we are rid of their vessel. It will be hazardous to launch the skiff in this sea, or I would proceed to the Pinta myself; but as it is, let us have confidence in Martin Alonzo and his skill."
Columbus thus encouraged the people of the Pinta to exert themselves, and in about an hour or two, the three vessels were again making the best of their way toward the Canaries. Notwithstanding the delay, nearly ninety miles were made good in the course of the day and night. But the following morning the rudder again broke loose, and, as the damage was more serious than in the former instance, it was still more difficult to repair. These repeated accidents gave the admiral great concern, for he took them to be so many indications of the disaffection of his followers. He fully determined, in consequence, to get rid of the Pinta, if it were possible to find another suitable vessel among the islands. As the progress of the vessels was much retarded by the accident, although the wind continued favorable, the expedition only got some sixty miles, this day, nearer to its place of destination.
On the following morning, the three vessels came within hail of each other; and a comparison of the nautical skill of the different navigators, or pilots, as it was then the custom to style them, took place, each offering his opinion as to the position of the vessels.
It was not the least of the merits of Columbus, that he succeeded in his great experiment with the imperfect aid of the instruments then in use. The mariner's compass, it is true, had been in common service quite a century, if not longer, though its variations--a knowledge of which is scarcely less important in long voyages than a knowledge of the instrument itself--were then unknown to seamen, who seldom ventured far enough from the land to note these mysteries of nature, and who, as a class, still relied almost as much on the ordinary position of the heavenly bodies to ascertain their routes, as on the nicer results of calculation. Columbus, however, was a striking exception to this little-instructed class, having made himself thoroughly acquainted with all the learning of the period that could be applied in his profession, or which might aid him in effecting the great purpose for which alone he now seemed to live.
As might be expected, the comparison resulted altogether in the admiral's favor, the pilots in general being soon convinced that he alone knew the true position of the vessels, a fact that was soon unanswerably determined by the appearance of the summits of the Canaries, which hove up out of the ocean, in a south-easterly direction, resembling well-defined dark clouds clustering in the horizon. As objects like these are seen at a great distance at sea, more especially in a transparent atmosphere, and the wind became light and variable, the vessels, notwithstanding, were unable to reach Grand Canary until Thursday, the 8th of August, or nearly a week after they had left Palos. There they all ran in, and anchored in the usual haven. Columbus immediately set about making an inquiry for another caravel, but, proving unsuccessful, he sailed for Gomera, where he believed it might be easier to obtain the craft he wanted. While the admiral was thus employed with the Santa Maria and the Niña, Martin Alonzo remained in port, being unable to keep company in the crippled condition of the Pinta. But no suitable vessel being found, Columbus reluctantly returned to Grand Canary, and, after repairing the Pinta, which vessel was badly caulked, among the other devices that had been adopted to get her freed from the service, he sailed again for Gomera, from which island he was to take his final departure.
During these several changes, a brooding discontent began to increase among most of the common mariners, while some even of a higher class, were not altogether free from the most melancholy apprehensions for the future. While passing from Grand Canary to Gomera, with all his vessels, Columbus was again at his post, with Luis and his usual companions near him, when the admiral's attention was drawn to a conversation that took place between a group of the men, who had collected near the main-mast. It was night, and there being little wind, the voices of the excited disputants reached further than they themselves were aware.
"I tell thee, Pepe," said the most vociferous and most earnest of the speakers, "that the night is not darker than the future of this crew. Look to the west, and what dost see there? Who hath ever heard of land, after he hath quitted the Azores; and who is so ignorant as not to know that Providence hath placed water around all the continents, with a few islands as stopping-places for mariners, and spread the broad ocean beyond, with an intention to rebuke an over-eager curiosity to pry into matters that savor more of miracles than of common worldly things?"
"This is well, Pero," answered Pepe; "but I know that Monica thinks the admiral is sent of God, and that we may look forward to great discoveries, through his means; and most especially to the spreading of religion among the heathens."
"Ay, thy Monica should have been in Doña Isabella's seat, so learned and positive is she in all matters, whether touching her own woman's duties, or thine own. She is _thy_ queen, Pepe, as all in Moguer will swear; and there are some who say she would gladly govern the port, as she governeth thee."
"Say naught against the mother of my child, Pero," interrupted Pepe, angrily. "I can bear thy idle words against myself, but he that speaketh ill of Monica will have a dangerous enemy."
"Thou art bold of speech, Pero, when away a hundred leagues from thine own better nine-tenths," put in a voice that Columbus and Luis both knew, on the instant, to belong to Sancho Mundo, "and art bold enough to jeer Pepe touching Monica, when we all well know who commandeth in a certain cabin, where thou art as meek as a hooked dolphin, whatever thou may'st be here. But, enough of thy folly about women; let us reason upon our knowledge as mariners, if thou wilt; instead of asking questions of one like Pepe, who is too young to have had much experience, I offer myself as thy catechist."
"What hast _thou_, then, to say about this unknown land that lieth beyond the great ocean, where man hath never been, or is at all likely to go, with followers such as these?"
"I have this to say, silly and idle-tongued Pero--that the time was when even the Canaries were unknown; when mariners did not dare to pass the straits, and when the Portuguese knew nothing of their mines and Guinea, lands that I myself have visited, and where the noble Don Christoval hath also been, as I know on the testimony of mine own eyes."
"And what hath Guinea, or what have the mines of the Portuguese to do with this western voyage? All know that there is a country called Africa; and what is there surprising that mariners should reach a land that is known to exist; but who knoweth that the ocean hath other continents, any more than that the heavens have other earths?"
"This is well, Pero," observed an attentive by-stander; "and Sancho will have to drain his wits to answer it."
"It is well for those who wag their tongues, like women, without thought of what they say," coolly returned Sancho, "but will have little weight with Doña Isabella, or Don Almirante. Harkee, Pero, thou art like one that hath trodden the path between Palos and Moguer so often, that thou fanciest there is no road to Seville or Granada. There must be a beginning to all things; and this voyage is, out of doubt, the beginning of voyages to Cathay. We go west, instead of east, because it is the shorter way; and because, moreover, it is the _only_ way for a caravel. Now, answer me, messmate; is it possible for a craft, let her size or rig be what it may, to pass over the hills and valleys of a continent--I mean under her canvas, and by fair sailing?"
Sancho waited for a reply, and received a common and complete admission of the impossibility of the thing.
"Then cast your eyes at the admiral's chart, in the morning, as he keepeth it spread before him on the poop, yonder, and you will see that there is land from one pole to the other, on each side of the Atlantic, thereby rendering navigation impossible, in any other direction than this we are now taking. The notion of Pero, therefore, runs in the teeth of nature."
"This is so true, Pero," exclaimed another, the rest assenting, "that thy mouth ought to be shut."
But Pero had a mouth that was not very easily closed; and it is probable that his answer would have been to the full as acute and irrefutable as that of Sancho, had not a common exclamation of alarm and horror burst from all around him. The night was sufficiently clear to permit the gloomy outlines of the Peak of Teneriffe to be distinctly visible, even at some distance; and, just at that moment, flashes of flame shot upward from its pointed summit, illuminating, at instants, the huge pile, and then leaving it in shadowy darkness, an object of mystery and terror. Many of the seamen dropped on their knees and began to tell their beads, while all, as it might be instinctively, crossed themselves. Next arose a general murmur; and in a few minutes, the men who slept were awoke, and appeared among their fellows, awe-struck and astounded spectators of the phenomenon. It was soon settled that the attention of the admiral should be drawn to this strange event, and Pero was selected for the spokesman.
All this time, Columbus and his companions remained on the poop, and, as might have been expected, this unlooked-for change in the appearance of the Peak had not escaped their attention. Too enlightened to be alarmed by it, they were watching the workings of the mountain, when Pero, accompanied by nearly every sailor in the vessel, appeared on the quarter-deck. Silence having been obtained, Pero opened the subject of his mission with a zeal that was not a little stimulated by his fears.
"Señor Almirante," he commenced, "we have come to pray your Excellency to look at the summit of the Island of Teneriffe, where we all think we see a solemn warning against persevering in sailing into the unknown Atlantic. It is truly time for men to remember their weakness, and how much they owe to the goodness of God, when even the mountains vomit flames and smoke!"
"Have any here ever navigated the Mediterranean, or visited the island of which Don Ferdinand, the honored consort of our lady the queen, is master?" demanded Columbus, calmly.
"Señor Don Almirante," hastily answered Sancho, "I have done so, unworthy as I may seem to have enjoyed that advantage. And I have seen Cyprus, and Alexandria, and even Stamboul, the residence of the Great Turk."
"Well, then, thou may'st have also seen Ætna, another mountain which continueth to throw up those flames, in the midst of a nature and a scene on which Providence would seem to have smiled with unusual benignity, instead of angrily frowning, as ye seem to imagine."
Columbus then proceeded to give his people an explanation of the causes of volcanoes, referring to the gentlemen around him to corroborate the fidelity of his statements. He told them that he looked upon this little eruption as merely a natural occurrence; or, if he saw any omen at all in the event, it was propitious rather than otherwise; Providence seeming disposed to light them on their way. Luis and the rest next descended among the crew, where they used their reasoning powers in quieting an alarm that, at first, had threatened to be serious. For the moment they were successful, or perhaps it would be better to say that they succeeded completely, so far as the phenomenon of the volcano was concerned, and this less by the arguments of the more intelligent of the officers, than by means of the testimony of Sancho, and one or two others of the common men, who had seen similar scenes elsewhere. With difficulties like these had the great navigator to contend, even after he had passed years in solicitations to obtain the limited means which had been finally granted, in order to effect one of the sublimest achievements that had yet crowned the enterprise of man!
The vessels reached Gomera on the 2d of September, where they remained several days, in order to complete their repairs, and to finish taking in their supplies, ere they finally left the civilized abodes of man, and what might then be deemed the limits of the known earth. The arrival of such an expedition, in an age when the means of communication were so few that events were generally their own announcers, had produced a strong sensation among the inhabitants of the different islands visited by the adventurers. Columbus was held in high honor among them, not only on account of the commission he had received from the two sovereigns, but on account of the magnitude and the romantic character of his undertaking.
There existed a common belief among all the adjacent islands, including Madeira, the Azores, and the Canaries, that land lay to the westward; their inhabitants living under a singular delusion in this particular, which the admiral had an occasion to detect, during his second visit to Gomera. Among the most distinguished persons who were then on the island, was Doña Inez Peraza, the mother of the Count of Gomera. She was attended by a crowd of persons, not only belonging to her own, but who had come from other islands to do her honor. She entertained the admiral in a manner suited to his high rank, admitting to her society such of the adventurers as Columbus saw fit to point out as worthy of the honor. Of course the pretended Pedro de Muños, or Pero Gutierrez, as he was now indifferently termed, was of the number; as, indeed, were most of those who might be deemed any way suited to so high and polished a society.
"I rejoice, Don Christopher," said Doña Inez Peraza, on this occasion, "that their Highnesses have at length yielded to your desire to solve this great problem, not only on account of our Holy Church, which, as you say, hath so deep an interest in your success, and the honor of the two sovereigns, and the welfare of Spain, and all the other great considerations that we have so freely touched upon in our discourse already, but on account of the worthy inhabitants of the Fortunate Islands, who have not only many traditions touching land in the west, but most of whom believe that they have more than once seen it, in that quarter, in the course of their lives."
"I have heard of this, noble lady, and would be grateful to have the account from the mouths of eye-witnesses, now we are here, together, conversing freely concerning that which is of so much interest to us all."
"Then, Señor, I will entreat this worthy cavalier, who is every way capable of doing the subject justice, to be spokesman for us, and to let you know what we all believe in these islands, and what so many of us fancy we have seen. Acquaint the admiral, Señor Dama, I pray thee, of the singular yearly view that we get of unknown land lying afar off, in the Atlantic."
"Most readily, Doña Inez, and all the more so at your gracious bidding," returned the person addressed, who disposed himself to tell the story, with a readiness that the lovers of the wonderful are apt to betray when a fitting opportunity offers to indulge a favorite propensity. "The illustrious admiral hath probably heard of the island of St. Brandan, that lieth some eighty or a hundred leagues to the westward of Ferro, and which hath been so often seen, but which no navigator hath yet been able to reach, in our days at least?"
"I have often heard of this fabled spot, Señor," the admiral gravely replied; "but pardon me if I say that the land never yet existed, which a mariner hath seen and yet a mariner hath not reached."
"Nay, noble admiral," interrupted a dozen eager voices, among which that of the lady, herself, was very distinctly audible, "that it hath been seen most here know; and that it hath never been reached, is a fact to which more than one disappointed pilot can testify."
"That which we have seen, we know; and that which we know, we can describe," returned Columbus, steadily. "Let any man tell me in what meridian, or on what parallel this St. Brandan, or St. Barandon, lieth, and a week shall make _me_ also certain of its existence."
"I know little of meridians or parallels, Don Christopher," said the Señor Dama, "but I have some ideas of visible things. This island have I often seen, more or less plainly at different times; and that, too, under the serenest skies, and at occasions when it was not possible greatly to mistake either its form or its dimensions. Once I remember to have seen the sun set behind one of its heights."
"This is plain evidence, and such as a navigator should respect; and yet do I take what you imagine yourself to have seen, Señor, to be some illusion of the atmosphere."
"Impossible! --impossible!" was said, or echoed, by a dozen voices. "Hundreds yearly witness the appearance of St. Brandan, and its equally sudden and mysterious disappearance."
"Therein, noble lady and generous cavalier, lieth the error into which ye have fallen. Ye see the Peak the year round; and he who will cruise a hundred miles, north or south, east or west, of it, will continue to see it, the year round, except on such days as the state of the atmosphere may forbid. The land which God hath created stationary, will be certain to remain stationary, until disturbed by some great convulsion that cometh equally of his providence and his laws."
"All this may be true, Señor; doubtless it _is_ true; but every rule hath its exceptions. You will not deny that God ruleth the world mysteriously, and that his ends are not always visible to human eyes. Else, why hath the Moor so long been permitted to rule in Spain? why hath the Infidel, at this moment, possession of the Holy Sepulchre? why have the sovereigns been so long deaf to your own well-grounded wishes and entreaties to be permitted to carry their banners, in company with the cross, to Cathay, whither you are now bound? Who knoweth that these appearances of St. Brandan may not be given as signs to encourage one like yourself, bent on still greater ends than even reaching its shores?"
Columbus was an enthusiast; but his was an enthusiasm that was seated in his reverence for the acknowledged mysteries of religion, which sought no other support from things incomprehensible, than might reasonably be thought to belong to the exercise of infallible wisdom, and which manifested a proper reverence for a Divine Power. Like most of that period, he believed in modern miracles; and his dependence on the direct worldly efficacy of votive offerings, penances, and prayers, was such as marked the age in general, and his calling in particular. Still, his masculine understanding rejected the belief of vulgar prodigies; and while he implicitly thought himself set apart and selected for the great work before him, he was not disposed to credit that an airy exhibition of an island was placed in the west to tempt mariners to follow its shadowy outline to the more distant regions of Cathay.
"That I feel the assurance of the Providence of God having selected me as the humble instrument of connecting Europe with Asia, by means of a direct voyage by sea, is certain," returned the navigator, gravely, though his eye lighted with its latent enthusiasm; "but I am far from indulging in the weakness of thinking that direct miraculous agencies are to be used to guide me on my way. It is more in conformity to the practice of divine wisdom, and certainly more grateful to my own self-love, that the means employed are such as a discreet pilot, and the most experienced philosophers, might feel proud in finding themselves selected to display. My thoughts have first been turned to the contemplation of this subject; then hath my reason been enlightened by a due course of study and reflection, and science hath aided in producing the conviction necessary to impel myself to proceed, and to enable me to induce others to join in this enterprise."
"And do all your followers, noble admiral, act under the same guidance?" demanded the Doña Inez, glancing at Luis, whose manly graces, and martial aspect, had found favor in the eyes of most of the ladies of the island. "Is the Señor Gutierrez equally enlightened in this manner? and hath he, too, devoted his nights to study, in order that the cross may be carried to the heathen, and Castile and Cathay may be more closely united?"
"The Señor Gutierrez is a willing adventurer, Señora, but he must be the expounder of his own motives."
"Then we will call on the cavalier, himself, for an answer. These ladies feel a desire to know what may have impelled one who would be certain to succeed at the court of Doña Isabella, and in the Moorish wars, to join in such an expedition."
"The Moorish wars are ended, Señora," replied Luis, smiling; "and Doña Isabella, and all the ladies of her court, most favor the youths who show a manly disposition to serve the interests, and to advance the honor of Castile. I know very little of philosophy, and have still smaller pretensions to the learning of churchmen; but I think I see Cathay before me, shining like a brilliant star in the heavens, and am willing to adventure body and soul in its search."
Many pretty exclamations of admiration broke from the circle of fair listeners; it being most easy for spirit to gain applause, when it is recommended by high personal advantages, and comes from the young and favored. That Columbus, a weather-worn veteran of the ocean, should see fit to risk a life that was already drawing near its close, in a rash attempt to pry into the mysteries of the Atlantic, seemed neither so commendable, nor so daring, but many discovered high qualities in the character of one who was just entering on his career, and that under auspices apparently so flattering, and who threw all his hopes on the uncertain chances of success in a scheme so unusual. Luis was human, and he was in the full enjoyment of the admiration his enterprise had evidently awakened among so many sensitive young creatures, when Doña Inez most inopportunely interposed to interrupt his happiness, and to wound his self-esteem.
"This is having more honorable views than my letters from Seville attribute to one youth, who belongeth to the proudest of our Castilian houses, and whose titles alone should invite him to add new lustre to a name that hath so long been the Spanish boast," resumed the Señora Peraza. "The reports speak of his desire to rove, but in a manner unworthy of his rank; and that, too, in a way to serve neither the sovereigns, his country, nor himself."
"And who may this misguided youth be, Señora?" eagerly inquired Luis, too much elated by the admiration he had just excited to anticipate the answer. "A cavalier thus spoken of, needeth to be warned of his reputation, that he may be stimulated to attempt better things."
"His name is no secret, since the court speaketh openly of his singular and ill-judged career; and it is said that even his love hath been thwarted in consequence. I mean a cavalier of no less lineage and name than Don Luis de Bobadilla, the Count of Llera."
It is said that listeners seldom hear good of themselves, and Luis was now fated to verify the truth of the axiom. He felt the blood rushing to his face, and it required a strong effort at self-command to prevent him from breaking out in exclamations, that would probably have contained invocations of half the patron saints he had ever heard of, had he not happily succeeded in controlling the sudden impulse. Gulping the words he had been on the point of uttering, he looked round, with an air of defiance, as if seeking the countenance of some man who might dare even to smile at what had been said. Luckily, at that moment, Columbus had drawn all of the males present around himself, in warm discussion of the probable existence of the island of St. Brandan; and Luis nowhere met a smile, with which he could conveniently quarrel, that had a setting of beard to render it hostile. Fortunately, the gentle impulses that are apt to influence a youthful female, induced one of Doña Inez's fair companions to speak, and that in a way greatly to relieve the feelings of our hero.
"True, Señora," rejoined the pretty young advocate, the first tones of whose voice had an effect to calm the tempest that was rising in the bosom of the young man; "true Señora, it is said that Don Luis is a wanderer, and one of unsettled tastes and habits, but it is also said he hath a most excellent heart, is generous as the dews of heaven themselves, and carrieth the very best lance of Castile, as he is also like to carry off the fairest maiden."
"It is vain, Señor de Muños, for churchmen to preach, and parents to frown," said Doña Inez, smiling, "while the beautiful and young will prize courage, and deeds in arms, and an open hand, before the more homely virtues commended by our holy religion, and so zealously inculcated by its servants. The unhorsing of a knight or two in the tourneys, and the rallying a broken squadron under a charge of the Infidel, counteth far more than years of sobriety, and weeks of penance and prayer."
"How know we that the cavalier you mention, Señora, may not have his weeks of penance and his hours of prayer?" answered Luis, who had now found his voice. "Should he be so fortunate as to enjoy a conscientious religious adviser, he can scarce escape both, prayer being so often ordered in the way of penance. He seemeth, indeed, to be a miserable dog, and I wonder not that his mistress holdeth him cheap. Is the name of the lady, also, given in your letter?"
"It is. She is the Doña Maria de las Mercedes de Valverde, nearly allied to the Guzmans and the other great houses, and one of the fairest maidens of Spain."
"That is she!" exclaimed Luis; "and one of the most virtuous, as well as fair, and wise as virtuous!"
"How now, Señor, is it possible that you can have sufficient knowledge of one so situated, as to speak thus positively of her qualities, as well as of her appearance?"
"Her beauty I have seen, and of her excellence one may speak by report. But doth your correspondent, Señora, say aught of what hath become of the graceless lover?"
"It is rumored that he hath again quitted Spain, and, as is supposed, under the grave displeasure of the sovereigns, since it hath been remarked that the queen now never nameth him. None know the road he hath taken, but there is little doubt that he is again roaming the seas, as usual, in quest of low adventures among the ports of the east."
The conversation now changed, and soon after the admiral and his attendants repaired to their different vessels.
"Of a verity, Señor Don Christoval," said Luis, as he walked alone with the great navigator toward the shore, "one little knoweth when he is acquiring fame, and when not. Though but an indifferent mariner, and no pilot, I find my exploits on the ocean are well bruited abroad! If your Excellency but gain half the reputation I already enjoy, by this present expedition, you will have reason to believe that your name will not be forgotten by posterity."
"It is a tribute the great pay for their elevation, Luis," returned the admiral, "that all their acts are commented on, and that they can do little that may be concealed from observation, or escape remarks."
"It would be as well, Señor Almirante, to throw into the scales, at once, calumnies, and lies, and uncharitableness, for all these are to be added to the list. Is it not wonderful, that a young man cannot visit a few foreign lands, in order to increase his knowledge and improve his parts, but all the gossips of Castile should fill their letters to the gossips of the Canaries, with passages touching his movements and demerits? By the Martyrs of the East! if I were Queen of Castile, there should be a law against writing of others' movements, and I do not know, but a law against women's writing letters at all!"
"In which case, Señor de Muños, thou wouldst never possess the satisfaction of receiving a missive from the fairest hand in Castile."
"I mean a woman's writing to a woman, Don Christopher. As to letters from noble maidens intended to cheer the hearts and animate the deeds of cavaliers who adore them, they are useful, out of doubt, and the saints be deaf to the miscreant who would forbid or intercept them! No, Señor, I trust that travelling hath at least made me liberal, by raising me above the narrow prejudices of provinces and cities, and I am far from wishing to put an end to letters from mistresses to their knights, or from parents to their children, or even from wives to their husbands; but, as for the letters of a gossip to a gossip, by your leave, Señor Almirante, I detest them just as much as the Father of Sin detests this expedition of ours!"
"An expedition, certainly, that he hath no great reason to love," answered Columbus, smiling; "since it will be followed by the light of revelation and the triumph of the cross. But what is thy will, friend, that thou seemest in waiting for me, to disburden thyself of something? Thy name is Sancho Mundo, if I remember thy countenance?"
"Señor Don Almirante, your memory hath not mistaken," returned the person addressed; "I am Sancho Mundo, as your Excellency saith, sometimes called Sancho of the Ship-Yard Gate. I desire to say a few words concerning the fate of our voyage, whenever it shall suit you, noble Señor, to hear me where there are no ears present that you distrust."
"Thou may'st speak freely now; this cavalier being my confidant and secretary."
"It is not necessary that I should tell a great pilot, like your Excellency, who is King of Portugal, or what the mariners of Lisbon have been about these many years, since you know all better than myself. Therefore I will just add, that they are discovering all the unknown lands they can, for themselves, and preventing others, as much as in them lies, from doing the same thing."
"Don John of Portugal is an enlightened prince, fellow, and thou wouldst do well to respect his character and rank. His Highness is a liberal sovereign, and hath sent many noble expeditions forth from his harbor."
"That he hath, Señor, and this last is not the least in its designs and intentions," answered Sancho, turning a look of irony toward the admiral, that showed the fellow had more in reserve than he cared to divulge without some wheedling. "No one doubts Don John's willingness to send forth expeditions."
"Thou hast heard some intelligence, Sancho, that it is proper I should know! Speak freely, and rely on my repaying any service of this sort to the full extent of its deservings."
"If your Excellency will have patience to hear me, I will give the whole story, with all minuteness and particularity, and that in a way to leave no part untold, and all parts to be as easily understood as heart can wish, or a priest in the confessional could desire."
"Speak; no one will interrupt thee. As thou art frank, so will be thy reward."
"Well, then, Señor Don Almirante, you must know that about eleven years since, I made a voyage from Palos to Sicily, in a caravel belonging to the Pinzons, here; not to Martin Alonzo, who commandeth the Pinta, under your Excellency's order, but to a kinsman of his late father's, who caused better craft to be constructed than we are apt to get in these days of hurry, and rotten cordage, and careless caulking, to say nothing of the manner in which the canvas is"-- "Nay, good Sancho," interrupted the impatient Luis, who was yet smarting under the remarks of Doña Inez's correspondent--"thou forgettest night is near, and that the boat is waiting for the admiral."
"How should I forget that, Señor, when I can see the sun just dipping into the water, and I belong to the boat myself, having left it in order to tell the noble admiral what I have to say?"
"Permit the man to relate his story in his own manner, Señor Pedro, I pray thee," put in Columbus. "Naught is gained by putting a seamen out in his reckoning."
"No, your Excellency, or in kicking with a mule. And so, as I was saying, I went that voyage to Sicily, and had for a messmate one José Gordo, a Portuguese by birth, but a man who liked the wines of Spain better than the puckering liquors of his own country, and so sailed much in Spanish craft. I never well knew, notwithstanding, whether José was, in heart, most of a Portuguese, or a Spaniard, though he was certainly but an indifferent Christian."
"It is to be hoped that his character hath improved," said Columbus, calmly. "As I foresee that something is to follow on the testimony of this José, you will let me say, that an indifferent Christian is but an indifferent witness. Tell me, at once, therefore, what he hath communicated, that I may judge for myself of the value of his words."
"Now, he that doubteth your Excellency will not discover Cathay is a heretic, seeing that you have discovered my secret without having heard it! José has just arrived, in the felucca that is riding near the Santa Maria, and hearing that we were an expedition that had one Sancho Mundo engaged in it, he came speedily on board of us to see his old shipmate."
"All that is so plain, that I wonder thou thinkest it worthy of relating, Sancho; but, now we have him safe on board the good ship, we can come at once to the subject of his communication."
"That may we, Señor; and so, without any unnecessary delay, I will state, that the subject was touching Don Juan of Portugal, Don Ferdinand of Aragon, Doña Isabella of Castile, your Excellency, Señor Don Almirante, the Señor de Muños here, and myself."
"This is a strange company!" exclaimed Luis, laughing, while he slipped a piece of eight into the hand of the sailor; "perhaps that may aid thee in shortening the story of the singular conjunction."
"Another, Señor, would bring the tale to an end at once. To own the truth, José is behind that wall, and as he told me he thought his news worth a dobla, he will be greatly displeased at finding I have received my half of it, while his half still remaineth unpaid."
"This, then, will set his mind at rest," said Columbus, placing an entire dobla in the hand of the cunning fellow, for the admiral perceived by his manner that Sancho had really something of importance to communicate. "Thou canst summon José to thy aid, and deliver thyself, at once, of thy burden."
Sancho did as directed, and in a minute José had appeared, had received the dobla, weighed it deliberately on his finger, pocketed it, and commenced his tale. Unlike the artful Sancho, he told his story at once, beginning at the right end, and ceasing to speak as soon as he had no more to communicate. The substance of the tale is soon related. José had come from Ferro, and had seen three armed caravels, wearing the flag of Portugal, cruising among the islands, under circumstances that left little doubt their object was to intercept the Castilian expedition. As the man referred to a passenger or two, who had landed within the hour, to corroborate his statement, Columbus and Luis immediately sought the lodgings of these persons, in order to hear their report of the matter. The result proved the sailor had stated nothing but what was true.
"Of all our difficulties and embarrassments, Luis," resumed the admiral, as the two finally proceeded to the shore, "this is much the most serious! We may be detained altogether by these treacherous Portuguese, or we may be followed in our voyage, and have our fair laurels seized upon by others, and all the benefits so justly due for our toil and risk usurped, or at least disputed, by men who had not the enterprise and knowledge to accept the boon, when fairly offered to them."
"Don John of Portugal must have sent far better knights than the Moors of Granada to do the feat," answered Luis, who had a Spaniard's distaste for his peninsular neighbors; "he is a bold and learned prince, they say, but the commission and ensigns of the sovereign of Castile are not to be disregarded, and that, too, in the midst of her own islands, here."
"We have no force fit to contend with that which hath most probably been sent against us. The number and size of our vessels are known, and the Portuguese, questionless, have resorted to the means necessary to effect their purposes, whatever those purposes may be. Alas! Luis, my lot hath been hard, though I humbly trust that the end will repay me for all! Years did I sue the Portuguese to enter fairly into this voyage, and to endeavor to do that, in all honor, which our gracious mistress, Doña Isabella, hath now so creditably commenced; he listened to my reasons and entreaties with cold ears--nay, repelled them, with ridicule and disdain; and yet, here am I scarce fairly embarked in the execution of schemes that they have so often derided, than they endeavor to defeat me by violence and treachery."
"Noble Don Christoval, we will die to a Castilian, ere this shall come to pass!"
"Our only hope is in speedy departure. Thanks to the industry and zeal of Martin Alonzo, the Pinta is ready, and we may quit Gomera with the morning's sun. I doubt if they will have the hardihood to follow us into the trackless and unknown Atlantic, without any other guides than their own feeble knowledge; and we will depart with the return of the sun. All now dependeth on quitting the Canaries unseen."
As this was said they reached the boat, and were quickly pulled on board the Santa Maria. By this time the peaks of the islands were towering like gloomy shadows in the atmosphere, and, soon after, the caravels resembled dark, shapeless specks, on the unquiet element that washed their hulls.
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"They little thought how pure a light, With years, should gather round that day; How love should keep their memories bright-- How wide a realm their sons should sway."
Bryant.
The night that succeeded was one of very varied feelings among the adventurers. As soon as Sancho secured the reward, he had no further scruples about communicating all he knew, to any who were disposed to listen; and long ere Columbus returned on board the vessel, the intelligence had spread from mouth to mouth, until all in the little squadron were apprised of the intentions of the Portuguese. Many hoped that it was true, and that their pursuers might be successful; any fate being preferable, in their eyes, to that which the voyage promised; but, such is the effect of strife, much the larger portion of the crew were impatient to lift the anchors and to make sail, if it were only to get the mastery in the race. Columbus, himself, experienced the deepest concern, for it really seemed as if a hard fortune was about to snatch the cup from his lips, just as it had been raised there, after all his cruel sufferings and delays. He consequently passed a night of deep anxiety, and was the first to rise in the morning.
Every one was on the alert with the dawn; and as the preparations had been completed the previous night, by the time the sun had risen, the three vessels were under way, the Pinta leading, as usual. The wind was light, and the squadron could barely gather steerage way; but as every moment was deemed precious, the vessels' heads were kept to the westward. When a short time out, a caravel came flapping past them, after having been several hours in sight, and the admiral spoke her. She proved to be from Ferro, the most southern and western island of the group, and had come nearly on the route the expedition intended to steer, until they quitted the known seas.
"Dost thou bring any tidings from Ferro?" inquired Columbus, as the strange ship drifted slowly past the Santa Maria; the progress of each vessel being little more than a mile in the hour. "Is there aught of interest in that quarter?"
"Did I know whether, or not, I am speaking to Don Christopher Columbus, the Genoese that their Highnesses have honored with so important a commission, I should feel more warranty to answer what I have both heard and seen, Señor," was the reply.
"I am Don Christopher himself, their Highnesses' admiral and viceroy, for all seas and lands that we may discover, and, as thou hast said, a Genoese in birth, though a Castilian by duty, and in love to the queen."
"Then, noble admiral, I may tell you that the Portuguese are active, three of their caravels being off Ferro, at this moment, with the hope of intercepting your expedition."
"How is this known, friend, and what reason have I for supposing that the Portuguese will dare to send forth caravels, with orders to molest those who sail as the officers of Isabella the Catholic? They must know that the Holy Father hath lately conferred this title on the two sovereigns, in acknowledgment of their great services in expelling the Moor from Christendom."
"Señor, there hath been a rumor of that among the islands, but little will the Portuguese care for aught of that nature, when he deemeth his gold in danger. As I quitted Ferro, I spoke the caravels, and have good reason to think that rumor doth them no injustice."
"Did they seem warlike, and made they any pretensions to a right to interrupt our voyage?"
"To us they said naught of this sort, except to inquire, tauntingly, if the illustrious Don Christoval Colon, the great viceroy of the east, sailed on board us. As for preparation, Señor, they had many lombardas, and a multitude of men in breast-plates and casques. I doubt if soldiers are as numerous at the Azores, as when they sailed."
"Keep they close in with the island, or stretch they off to seaward?"
"Mostly the latter, Señor, standing far toward the west in the morning, and beating up toward the land as the day closeth. Take the word of an old pilot, Don Christopher, the mongrels are there for no good."
This was barely audible, for, by this time, the caravels had drifted past each other, and were soon altogether beyond the reach of the voice.
"Do you believe that the Castilian name standeth so low, Don Christopher," demanded Luis, "that these dogs of Portuguese dare do this wrong to the flag of the queen?"
"I dread naught from force, beyond detention and frauds, certainly; but these, to me, at this moment, would be little less painful than death. Most do I apprehend that these caravels, under the pretence of protecting the rights of Don John, are directed to follow us to Cathay, in which case we should have a disputed discovery, and divided honors. We must avoid the Portuguese, if possible; to effect which purpose, I intend to pass to the westward, without nearing the island of Ferro, any closer than may be rendered absolutely indispensable."
Notwithstanding a burning impatience now beset the admiral, and most with him, the elements seemed opposed to his passage from among the Canaries, into the open ocean. The wind gradually failed, until it became so calm that the sails were hauled up, and the three vessels lay, now laying their sides with the brine, and now rising to the summit of the ground-swell, resembling huge animals that were lazily reposing, under the heats of summer, in drowsy indolence.
Many was the secret _pater_, or _ave_, that was mumbled by the mariners, and not a few vows of future prayers were made, in the hope of obtaining a breeze. Occasionally it seemed as if Providence listened to these petitions, for the air would fan the cheek, and the sails would fall, in the vain expectation of getting ahead; but disappointment as often followed, until all on board felt that they were fated to linger under the visitations of a calm. Just at nightfall, however, a light air arose, and, for a few hours, the wash of the parted waters was audible under the bows of the vessels, though their way was barely sufficient to keep them under the command of their helms. About midnight, however, even this scarcely perceptible motion was lost, and the craft were again lazily wallowing in the ground-swells that the gales had sent in from the vast expanse of the Western Ocean.
When the light reappeared, the admiral found himself between Gomera and Teneriffe, the lofty peak of the latter casting its pointed shadow, like that thrown by a planet, far upon the water, until its sharp apex was renewed, in faint mimicry, along the glassy surface of the ocean. Columbus was now fearful that the Portuguese might employ their boats, or impel some light felucca by her sweeps, in order to find out his position; and he wisely directed the sails to be furled, in order to conceal his vessels, as far as possible, from any prying eyes. The season had advanced to the 7th of September, and such was the situation of this renowned expedition, exactly five weeks after it had left Spain; for this inauspicious calm occurred on a Friday, or on that day of the week on which it had originally sailed.
All practice shows that there is no refuge from a calm at sea, except in patience. Columbus was much too experienced a navigator, not to feel this truth, and, after using the precaution mentioned, he, and the pilots under him, turned their attention to the arrangements required to render the future voyage safe and certain. The few mathematical instruments known to the age, were got up, corrected, and exhibited, with the double intention of ascertaining their state, and of making a display before the common men, that would heighten their respect for their leaders, by adding to their confidence in their skill. The admiral, himself, had already obtained a high reputation as a navigator, among his followers, in consequence of his reckonings having proved so much more accurate than those of the pilots, in approaching the Canaries; and as he now exhibited the instruments then used as a quadrant, and examined his compasses, every movement he made was watched by the seamen, with either secret admiration, or jealous vigilance; some openly expressing their confidence in his ability to proceed wherever he wished to go, and others covertly betraying just that degree of critical knowledge which ordinarily accompanies prejudice, ignorance, and malice.
Luis had never been able to comprehend the mysteries of navigation, his noble head appearing to repudiate learning, as a species of accomplishment but little in accordance with its wants or its tastes. Still, he was intelligent; and within the range of knowledge that it was usual for laymen of his rank to attain, few of his age did themselves more credit in the circles of the court. Fortunately, he had the most perfect reliance on the means of the admiral; and being almost totally without personal apprehensions, Columbus had not a more submissive or blind follower, than the young grandee, under his command.
Man, with all his boasted philosophy, intelligence, and reason, exists the dupe of his own imagination and blindness, as much as of the artifices and designs of others. Even while he fancies himself the most vigilant and cautious, he is as often misled by appearances as governed by facts and judgment; and perhaps half of those who were spectators of this calculated care in Columbus, believed that they felt, in their renewed confidence, the assurances of science and logical deductions, when in truth their senses were impressed, without, in the slightest degree, enlightening their understandings.
Thus passed the day of the 7th September, the night arriving and still finding the little squadron, or fleet, as it was termed in the lofty language of the day, floating helplessly between Teneriffe and Gomera. Nor did the ensuing morning bring a change, for a burning sun beat, unrelieved by a breath of air, on the surface of a sea that was glittering like molten silver. When the admiral was certain, however, by having sent men aloft to examine the horizon, that the Portuguese were not in sight, he felt infinitely relieved, little doubting that his pursuers still lay, as inactive as himself, to the westward of Ferro.
"By the seamen's hopes! Señor Don Christopher," said Luis, as he reached the poop, where Columbus had kept an untiring watch for hours, he himself having just risen from a siesta, "the fiends seem to be leagued against us! Here are we in the third day of our calm, with the Peak of Teneriffe as stationary as if it were a mile-stone, set to tell the porpoises and dolphins the rate at which they swim. If one believed in omens, he might fancy that the saints were unwilling to see us depart, even though it be on their own errand."
"We _may not_ believe in omens, when they are no more than the fruits of natural laws," gravely returned the admiral. "There will shortly be an end of this calm, for a haze is gathering in the atmosphere that promises air from the east, and the motion of the ship will tell thee, that the winds have been busy far to the westward. Master Pilot," addressing the officer of that title, who had charge of the deck at the moment, "thou wilt do well to unfurl thy canvas, and prepare for a favoring breeze, as we shall soon be overtaken by wind from the north-east."
This prediction was verified about an hour later, when all three of the vessels began, again, to part the waters with their sterns. But the breeze, if any thing, proved more tantalizing to the impatient mariners than the calm itself had been; for a strong head sea had got up, and the air proving light, the different craft struggled with difficulty toward the west.
All this time, a most anxious look-out was kept for the Portuguese caravels, the appearance of which, however, was less dreaded than it had been, as they were now supposed to be a considerable distance to leeward. Columbus, and his skilful assistants, Martin Alonzo and Vicente Yañez, or the brothers Pinzon, who commanded the Pinta and the Niña, practised all the means that their experience could suggest to get ahead. Their progress, however, was not only slow but painful, as every fresh impulse given by the breeze, served to plunge the bows of the vessels into the sea with a violence that threatened injuries to the spars and rigging. So trifling, indeed, was their rate of sailing, that it required all the judgment of Columbus to note the nearly imperceptible manner in which the tall, cone-like summit of the Peak of Teneriffe lowered, as it might be, inch by inch. The superstitious feelings of the common men being more active than usual, even, some among them began to whisper that the elements were admonishing them against proceeding, and that tardy as it might seem, the admiral would do well to attend to omens and signs that nature seldom gave without sufficient reason. These opinions, however, were cautiously uttered--the grave, earnest manner of Columbus having created so much respect, as to suppress them in his presence; and the mariners of the other vessels still followed the movements of their admiral with that species of blind dependence which marks the submission of the inferior to the superior, under such circumstances.
When Columbus retired to his cabin for the night, Luis observed that his countenance was unusually grave, as he ended his calculations of the days' work.
"I trust all goes to your wishes, Don Christopher," the young man gaily observed. "We are now fairly on our journey, and, to my eyes, Cathay is already in sight."
"Thou hast that within thee, Don Luis," returned the admiral, "which rendereth what thou wishest to see distinct, and maketh all colors gay. With me it is a duty to see things as they _are_, and, although Cathay lieth plainly before the vision of my mind--thou, Lord, who hast implanted, for thine own great ends, the desire to reach that distant land, only know'st how plainly! --although Cathay is thus plain to my moral view, I am bound to heed the physical obstacles that may exist to our reaching it."
"And are these obstacles getting to be more serious than we could hope, Señor?"
"My trust is still in God--look here, young lord," laying his finger on the chart; "at this point were we in the morning, and to this point have we advanced by means of all the toil of the day, down to this portion of the night. Thou seest that a line of paper marketh the whole of our progress; and, here again, thou seest that we have to cross this vast desert of ocean, ere we may even hope to draw near the end of our journey. By my calculation, with all our exertions, and at this critical moment--critical not only as regardeth the Portuguese, but critical as regardeth our own people--we have made but nine leagues, which are a small portion of the thousand that lie before us. At this rate we may dread a failure of our provisions and water."
"I have all confidence in your resources, Don Christopher, and in your knowledge and experience."
"And I have all confidence in the protection of God; trusting that he will not desert his servant in the moment that he most needeth his support."
Here Columbus prepared himself to catch a few hours' sleep, though it was in his clothes, the interest he felt in the position of his vessels forbidding him to undress. This celebrated man lived in an age when a spurious philosophy, and a pretending but insufficient exercise of reason, placed few, even in appearance, above the frank admission of their constant reliance on a divine power. We say in appearance, as no man, whatever may be the extent of his delusions on this subject, really believes that he is altogether sufficient for his own protection. This absolute self-reliance is forbidden by a law of nature, each carrying in his own breast a monitor to teach him his real insignificance, demonstrating daily, hourly, at each minute even, that he is but a diminutive agent used by a superior power in carrying out its own great and mysterious ends, for the sublime and beneficent purposes for which the world and all it contains has been created. In compliance with the usage of the times, Columbus knelt, and prayed fervently, ere he slept; nor did Luis de Bobadilla hesitate about imitating an example that few, in that day, thought beneath their intelligence or their manhood. If religion had the taint of superstition in the fifteenth century, and men confided too much in the efficacy of momentary and transient impulses, it is certain that it also possessed an exterior of graceful meekness and submission to God, in losing which, it may be well questioned if the world has been the gainer.
The first appearance of light brought the admiral and Luis to the deck. They both knelt again on the poop, and repeated their paters; and then, yielding to the feelings natural to their situation, they arose, eager to watch for what might be revealed by the lifting of the curtain of day. The approach of dawn, and the rising of the sun at sea, have been so often described, that the repetition here might be superfluous; but we shall state that Luis watched the play of colors that adorned the eastern sky, with a lover's refinement of feeling, fancying that he traced a resemblance to the passage of emotions across the tell-tale countenance of Mercedes, in the soft and transient hues that are known to precede a fine morning in September, more especially in a low latitude. As for the admiral, his more practical gaze was turned in the direction in which the island of Ferro lay, awaiting the increase of the light in order to ascertain what changes had been wrought during the hours he had slept. Several minutes passed in profound attention, when the navigator beckoned Luis to his side.
"Seest thou that dark, gloomy pile, which is heaving up out of the darkness, here at the south and west of us?" he said--"it gaineth form and distinctness at each instant, though distant some eight or ten leagues; that is Ferro, and the Portuguese are there, without question, anxiously expecting our appearance. In this calm, neither can approach the other, and thus far we are safe. It is now necessary to ascertain if the pursuing caravels are between us and the land, or not; after which, should it prove otherwise, we shall be reasonably safe, if we approach no nearer to the island, and we can maintain, as yesterday, the advantage of the wind. Seest thou any sail, Luis, in that quarter of the ocean?"
"None, Señor; and the light is already of sufficient strength to expose the white canvas of a vessel, were any there."
Columbus made an ejaculation of thankfulness, and immediately ordered the look-out aloft to examine the entire horizon. The report was favorable; the dreaded Portuguese caravels being nowhere visible. As the sun arose, however, a breeze sprung up at the southward and westward, bringing Ferro, and consequently any vessels that might be cruising in that quarter, directly to windward of the fleet. Sail was made without the loss of a moment; and the admiral stood to the northward and westward, trusting that his pursuers were looking out for him on the south side of the island, which was the ground where those who did not thoroughly understand his aim, would be most likely to expect him. By this time the westerly swell had, in a great measure, gone down; and though the progress of the vessels was far from rapid, it was steady, and seemed likely to last. The hours went slowly by, and as the day advanced, objects became less and less distinct on the sides of Ferro. Its entire surface next took the hazy appearance of a dim and ill-defined cloud; and then it began slowly to sink into the water. Its summit was still visible, as the admiral, with the more privileged of his companions, assembled on the poop, to take a survey of the ocean and of the weather. The most indifferent observer might now have noted the marked difference in the state of feeling which existed among the adventurers on board the Santa Maria. On the poop, all was cheerfulness and hope, the present escape having induced even the distrustful, momentarily, to forget the uncertain future; the pilots, as usual, were occupied and sustained by a species of marine stoicism; while a melancholy had settled on the crew that was as apparent as if they were crowding around the dead. Nearly every man in the ship was in some one of the groups that had assembled on deck; and every eye seemed riveted, as it might be by enchantment, on the fading and falling heights of Ferro. While things were in this state, Columbus approached Luis, and aroused him from a sort of trance, by laying a finger lightly on his shoulder.
"It cannot be that the Señor de Muños is affected by the feelings of the common men," observed the admiral, with a slight mixture of surprise and reproach; "this, too, at a moment that all of an intelligence sufficient to foresee the glorious consequences, are rejoicing that a heaven-sent breeze is carrying us to a safe distance from the pursuing and envious caravels! Why dost thou thus regard the people beneath, with a steady eye and unwavering look? Is it that thou repentest embarking, or dost thou merely muse on the charms of thy mistress?"
"By San Iago! Don Christopher, this time your sagacity is at fault. I neither repent, nor muse as you would imply; but I gaze at yonder poor fellows with pity for their apprehensions."
"Ignorance is a hard master, Señor Pedro, and one that is now exercising his power over the imaginations of the seamen, with the ruthlessness of a tyrant. They dread the worst merely because they have not the knowledge to foresee the best. Fear is a stronger passion than hope, and is ever the near ally of ignorance. In vulgar eyes that which hath not yet been--nay, which hath not, in some measure, become familiar by use--is deemed impossible; men reasoning in a circle that is abridged by their information. Those fellows are gazing at the island, as it disappears, like men taking a last look at the things of life. Indeed, this concern exceedeth even what I could have anticipated."
"It lieth deep, Señor, and yet it riseth to the eyes; for I have seen tears on cheeks that I could never have supposed wetted in any manner but by the spray of the ocean!"
"There are our two acquaintances, Sancho and Pepe, neither of whom seemeth particularly distressed, though the last hath a cast of melancholy in his face. As for the first, the knave showeth the indifference of a true mariner--one who is never so happy as when furthest from the dangers of rocks and shoals: to such a man, the disappearance of one island, and the appearance of another, are alike matters of indifference. He seeth but the visible horizon around him, and considereth the rest of the world, temporarily, as a blank. I look for loyal service in that Sancho, in despite of his knavery, and count upon him as one of the truest of my followers."
Here the admiral was interrupted by a cry from the deck beneath him, and, looking round, his practised and quick eye was not slow in discovering that the horizon to the southward presented the usual watery blank of the open ocean. Ferro had, in fact, altogether disappeared, some of the most sanguine of the seamen having fancied that they beheld it, even after it had finally sunk behind the barrier of waves. As the circumstance became more and more certain, the lamentations among the people grew less and less equivocal and louder, tears flowed without shame or concealment, hands were wrung in a sort of a senseless despair, and a scene of such clamor ensued, as threatened some serious danger to the expedition from this new quarter. Under such circumstances, Columbus had all the people collected beneath the break of the poop, and standing on the latter, where he could examine every countenance for himself, he addressed them on the subject of their grief. On this occasion the manner of the great navigator was earnest and sincere, leaving no doubt that he fully believed in the truth of his own arguments, and that he uttered nothing with the hope to delude or to mislead.
"When Don Ferdinand and Doña Isabella, our respected and beloved sovereigns, honored me with the commission of admiral and viceroy, in those secret seas toward which we are now steering," he said, "I considered it as the most glorious and joyful event of my life, as I now consider this moment, that seemeth to some among you so painful, as second to it in hope and cause for felicitation. In the disappearance of Ferro, I see also the disappearance of the Portuguese; for, now that we are in the open ocean, without the limits of any known land, I trust that Providence hath placed us beyond the reach and machinations of all our enemies. While we prove true to ourselves, and to the great objects that are before us, there is no longer cause for fear. If any person among you hath a mind to disburden himself, in this matter, let him speak freely; we being much too strong in argument to wish to silence doubts by authority."
"Then, Señor Don Almirante," put in Sancho, whose tongue was ever ready to wag, as occasion offered, "it is just that which maketh your Excellency so joyful that maketh these honest people so sad. Could they always keep the island of Ferro in sight, or any other known land, they would follow you to Cathay with as gentle a pull as the launch followeth the caravel in a light breeze and smooth water; but it is this leaving all behind, as it might be, earth as well as wives and children, that saddens their hearts, and uncorks their tears."
"And thou, Sancho, an old mariner that wast born at sea"-- "Nay, your Excellency, illustrious Señor Don Almirante," interrupted Sancho, looking up with pretended simplicity, "not exactly at sea, though within the scent of its odor; since, having been found at the shipwright's gate, it is not probable they would have made a haven just to land so small a part of the freight."
"Well, born _near_ the sea, if thou wilt--but from thee I expect better things than unmanly lamentations because an island hath sunk below the horizon."
"Excellency, you may; it mattereth little to Sancho, if half the islands in the sea were sunk a good deal lower. There are the Cape de Verdes, now, which I never wish to look upon again, and Lampidosa, besides Stromboli and others in that quarter, would be better out of the way, than where they are, as for any good they do us seamen. But, if your Excellency will condescend to tell these honest people whither it is that we are bound, and what you expect to find in port, and, more especially, when we are to come back, it would comfort them in an unspeakable degree."
"As I hold it to be the proper office of men in authority to let their motives be known, when no evil followeth the disclosure, this will I most cheerfully do, requiring the attention of all near me, and chiefly of those who are most uneasy concerning our present position and future movements. The end of our voyage is Cathay, a country that is known to lie in the uttermost eastern extremity of Asia, whither it hath been more than once reached by Christian travellers; and its difference from all other voyages, or journeys, that may have been attempted in order to reach the same country, is in the circumstance that we go west, while former travellers have proceeded east. But this is effecting our purposes by means that belong only to stout-hearted mariners, since none but those who are familiar with the ocean, skilful pilots, and obedient and ready seamen, can traverse the waters, without better guides than the knowledge of the stars, currents, winds, and other phenomena of the Atlantic, and such aids as may be gleaned from science. The reason on which I act, is a conviction that the earth is round, whence it followeth that the Atlantic, which we know to possess an eastern boundary of land, must also have a western; and from certain calculations that leave it almost certain, that this continent, which I hold will prove to be India, cannot lie more than some twenty-five or thirty days' sailing, if as many, from our own Europe. Having thus told when and where I expect to find the country we seek, I will now touch a little on the advantages that we may all expect to derive from the discovery. According to the accounts of a certain Marco Polo, and his relatives, gentlemen of Venice, and men of fair credit and good reputations, the kingdom of Cathay is not only one of the most extensive known, but one that most aboundeth in gold and silver, together with the other metals of value, and precious stones. Of the advantages of the discovery of such a land to yourselves, ye may judge by its advantages to me. Their Highnesses have dignified me with the rank of admiral and viceroy, in anticipation of our success, and, persevering to a successful termination of your efforts, the humblest man among ye may look with confidence to some signal mark of their favor. Rewards will doubtless be rendered in proportion to your merits; he that deserveth much, receiving more than he who hath deserved less. Still will there be sufficient for all. Marco Polo and his relatives dwelt seventeen years in the court of the Great Khan, and were every way qualified to give a true account of the riches and resources of those regions; and well were they--simple Venetian gentlemen, without any other means than could be transported on the backs of beasts of burden--rewarded for their toils and courage. The jewels alone, with which they returned, served long to enrich their race, renovating a decayed but honorable family, while they did their enterprise and veracity credit in the eyes of men.
"As the ocean, for a long distance this side of the continent of Asia and the kingdom of Cathay, is known to abound with islands, we may expect first to meet with them, where, it would be doing nature herself injustice, did we not anticipate fragrant freights of balmy spices, and other valuable commodities with which that favored quarter of the earth, it is certain, is enriched. Indeed, it is scarce possible for the imagination to conceive of the magnitude of the results that await our success, while naught but ridicule and contempt could attend a hasty and inconsiderate return. Going not as invaders, but as Christians and friends, we have no reason to expect other than the most friendly reception; and, no doubt, the presents and gifts, alone, that will naturally be offered to strangers who have come so far, and by a road that hath hitherto been untravelled, will forty-fold repay you for all your toils and troubles.
"I say nothing of the honor of being among those who have first carried the cross to the heathen world," continued the admiral, uncovering himself, and looking around him with solemn gravity; "though our fathers believed it to be no little distinction to have been one in the armies that contended for the possession of the sepulchre. But neither the church, nor its great master, forgetteth the servitor that advanceth its interests, and we may all look for blessings, both here and hereafter."
As he concluded, Columbus devoutly crossed himself, and withdrew from the sight of his people among those who were on the poop. The effect of this address was, for the moment, very salutary, and the men saw the clouds that hung over the land disappear, like the land itself, with less feeling than they had previously manifested. Nevertheless, they remained distrustful and sad, some dreaming that night of the pictures that Columbus had drawn of the glories of the East, and others fancying, in their sleep, that demons were luring them into unknown seas, where they were doomed to wander forever, as a punishment for their sins; conscience asserting its power in all situations, and most vividly in those of distrust and uncertainty.
Shortly before sunset, the admiral caused the three vessels to heave-to, and the two Pinzons to repair on board his own ship. Here he laid before these persons his orders and plans for their government, in the event of a separation.
"Thus you will understand me, Señores," he concluded, after having explained at length his views: "Your first and gravest duty will be to keep near the admiral, in all weather, and under every circumstance, so long as it may be possible; but, failing of the possibility, you will make your way due westward, on this parallel of latitude, until you have gone seven hundred leagues from the Canaries; after which, you are to lie-to at night, as, by that time, it is probable you will be among the islands of Asia; and it will be both prudent, and necessary to our objects, to be more on the alert for discoveries, from that moment. Still, you will proceed westward, relying on seeing me at the court of the Great Khan, should Providence deny us an earlier meeting."
"This is well, Señor Almirante," returned Martin Alonzo, raising his eyes, which had long been riveted on the chart, "but it will be far better for all to keep together, and chiefly so to us, who are little used to the habits of princes, if we wait for your Excellency's protection before we rush unheedingly into the presence of a sovereign as potent as the Grand Khan."
"Thou showest thy usual prudence, good Martin Alonzo, and I much commend thee for it. It were, indeed, better that thou shouldst wait my arrival, since that eastern potentate may conceive himself better treated by receiving the first visit from the viceroy of the sovereigns, who is the bearer of letters directly from his own royal master and mistress, than by receiving it from one of inferior rank. Look thou well to the islands and their products, Señor Pinzon, shouldst thou first gain those seas, and await my appearance, before thou proceedest to aught else. How stand thy people affected on taking leave of the land?"
"Ill enough, Señor; so much so, indeed, as to put me in fear of a mutiny. There are those in the Pinta who need to stand in wholesome dread of the anger of their Highnesses, to prevent their making a sudden and violent return to Palos."
"Thou wouldst do well to look sharply to this spirit, that it may be kept under. Deal kindly and gently with these disaffected spirits as long as may be, encouraging them by all fair and reasonable promises; but beware that the distemper get not the mastery of thy authority. And now, Señores, as the night approacheth, take boat and return to your vessels, that we may profit by the breeze."
When Columbus was again alone with Luis, he sat in his little cabin, with a hand supporting his head, musing like one lost in reflection.
"Thou hast long known this Martin Alonzo, Don Luis de Bobadilla?" he at length asked, betraying the current of his thoughts, by the nature of the question.
"Long, Señor, as youths count time; though it would seem but a day in the calculations of aged men."
"Much dependeth on him; I hope he may prove honest; as yet he hath shown himself liberal, enterprising, and manly."
"He is human, Don Christopher, and therefore liable to err. Yet as men go, I esteem Martin Alonzo far from being among the worst of his race. He hath not embarked in this enterprise under knightly vows, nor with any churchman's zeal; but give him the chance of a fair return for his risks, and you will find him as true as interest ever leaveth a man, when there is any occasion to try his selfishness."
"Then thou, only, will I trust with my secret. Look at this paper, Luis. Here thou seest that I have been calculating our progress since morning, and I find that we have come full nineteen leagues, though it be not in a direct westerly line. Should I let the people know how far we may have truly come, at the end of some great distance, there being no land visible, fear will get the mastery over them, and no man can foresee the consequences. I shall write down publicly, therefore, but fifteen leagues, keeping the true reckoning sacred for thine eye and mine. God will forgive me this deception, in consideration that it is practised in the interest of his own church. By making these small deductions daily, it will enable us to advance a thousand leagues, without awakening alarm sufficient for more than seven or eight hundred."
"This is reducing courage to a scale I little dreamt of, Señor," returned Luis, laughing. "By San Luis, my true patron! we should think ill of the knight who found it necessary to uphold his heart by a measurement of leagues."
"All unknown evils are dreaded evils. Distance hath its terrors for the ignorant, and it may justly have its terrors for the wise, young noble, when it is measured on a trackless ocean; and there ariseth another question touching those great staples of life, food and water."
With this slight reproof of the levity of his young friend, the admiral prepared himself for his hammock by kneeling and repeating the prayers of the hour.
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"id": "36406"
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"Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?"
Bryant.
The slumbers of Columbus were of short duration. While his sleep lasted it was profound, like that of a man who has so much control over his will as to have reduced the animal functions to its domination, for he awoke regularly at short intervals, in order that his watchful eye might take a survey of the state of the weather, and of the condition of his vessels. On this occasion, the admiral was on deck again, a little after one, where he found all things seemingly in that quiet and inspiring calm that ordinarily marks, in fine weather, a middle watch at sea. The men on deck mostly slumbered; the drowsy pilot, and the steersman, with a look-out or two, alone remaining erect and awake. The wind had freshened, and the caravel was ploughing her way ahead, with an untiring industry, leaving Ferro and its dangers, at each instant, more and more remote. The only noises that were audible, were the gentle sighing of the wind among the cordage, the wash of the water, and the occasional creaking of a yard, as the breeze forced it, with a firmer pressure, to distend its tackle and to strain its fittings.
The night was dark, and it required a moment to accustom the eye to objects by a light so feeble: when this was done, however, the admiral discovered that the ship was not close by the wind, as he had ordered that she should be kept. Walking to the helm, he perceived that it was so far borne up, as to cause her head to fall off toward the north-east, which was, in fact, in the direction to Spain.
"Art thou a seaman, and disregardest thy course, in this heedless manner?" sternly demanded the admiral; "or art thou only a muleteer, who fancieth he is merely winding his way along a path of the mountains. Thy heart is in Spain, and thou thinkest that a vain wish to return may meet with some relief in this idle artifice!"
"Alas, Señor Almirante! your Excellency hath judged rightly in believing that my heart is in Spain, where it ought to be, moreover, as I have left behind me at Moguer seven motherless children."
"Dost thou not know, fellow, that I, too, am a father, and that the dearest objects of a father's hopes are left behind me, also? In what, then, dost thou differ from me, my son being also without a mother's care?"
"Excellency, he hath an admiral for a father, while my boys have only a helmsman!"
"And what will it matter to Don Diego"--Columbus was fond of dwelling on the honors he had received from the sovereigns, even though it were a little irregularly--"what will it matter to Don Diego, my son, that his parent perished an admiral, if he perish at all; and in what will he profit more than your children, when he findeth himself altogether without a parent?"
"Señor, it will profit him to be cherished by the king and queen, to be honored as your child, and to be fostered and fed as the offspring of a viceroy, instead of being cast aside as the issue of a nameless mariner."
"Friend, thou hast some reason in this, and in-so-much I respect thy feelings," answered Columbus, who, like our own Washington, appears to have always submitted to a lofty and pure sense of justice; "but thou wouldst do well to remember the influence that thy manly and successful perseverance in this voyage may produce on the welfare of thy children, instead of thus dwelling on weak forebodings of ills that are little likely to come to pass. Neither of us hath much to expect, should we fail of our discoveries, while both may hope every thing should we succeed. Can I trust thee now, to keep the ship on her course, or must I send for another mariner to relieve the helm?"
"It may be better, noble admiral, to do the last. I will bethink me of thy counsel, and strive with my longings for home; but it would be safer to seek another for this day, while we are so near to Spain."
"Dost thou know one Sancho Mundo, a common seaman of this crew?"
"Señor, we all know him; he hath the name of the most skilful of our craft, of all in Moguer."
"Is he of thy watch, or sleepeth he with his fellows of the relief below?"
"Señor, he is of our watch; and sleepeth not with his fellows below, for the reason that he sleepeth on deck. No care, or danger, can unsettle the confidence of Sancho! To him the sight of land is so far an evil, that I doubt if he rejoice should we ever reach those distant countries that your Excellency seemeth to expect we may."
"Go find this Sancho, and bid him come hither; I will discharge thy office the while."
Columbus now took the helm with his own hands, and with a light play of the tiller brought the ship immediately up as near the wind as she would lie. The effect was felt in more quick and sudden plunges into the sea, a deeper heel to leeward, and a fresh creaking aloft, that denoted a renewed and increased strain on all the spars and their tackle. In the course of a few minutes, however, Sancho appeared, rubbing his eyes, and yawning.
"Take thou this duty," said the admiral, as soon as the man was near him, "and discharge it faithfully. Those who have been here already, have proved unfaithful, suffering the vessel to fall off, in the direction of Spain; I expect better things of thee. I think, friend Sancho, I may count on thee as a true and faithful follower, even in extremity?"
"Señor Don Almirante," said Sancho, who took the helm, giving it a little play to feel his command of it, as a skilful coachman brings his team in subjection on first assuming the reins, "I am a servant of the crown's, and your inferior and subordinate; such duty as becometh me, I am ready to discharge."
"Thou hast no fear of this voyage--no childish forebodings of becoming an endless wanderer in an unknown sea, without hope of ever seeing wife or child again?"
"Señor, you seem to know our hearts as well as if your Excellency had made them with your own hands, and then put them into our miserable bodies!"
"Thou hast, then, none of these unsuitable and unseamanlike apprehensions?"
"Not as much, Excellency, as would raise an ave in a parish priest, or a sigh in an old woman. I may have my misgivings, for we all have weaknesses, but none of them incline to any dread of sailing about the ocean, since that is my happiness; nor to any concern about wife and children, not having the first, and wishing not to think I have the last."
"If thou hast misgivings, name them. I could wish to make one firm as thou, wholly my friend."
"I doubt not, Señor, that we shall reach Cathay, or whatever country your Excellency may choose to seek; I make no question of your ability to beard the Great Khan, and, at need, to strip the very jewels from his turban--as turban he must have, being an Infidel; nor do I feel any misgivings about the magnitude and richness of our discoveries and freights, since I believe, Señor Don Almirante, you are skilful enough to take the caravels in at one end of the earth and out at the other; or, even to load them with carbuncles, should diamonds be wanting."
"If thou hast this faith in thy leader, what other distrust can give thee concern?"
"I distrust the value of the share, whether of honor or of jewels, that will fall to the lot of one Sancho Mundo, a poor, unknown, almost shirtless mariner, that hath more need of both than hath ever crossed the mind of our gracious lady, Doña Isabella, or of her royal consort."
"Sancho, thou art a proof that no man is without his failings, and I fear thou art mercenary. They say all men have their prices; thou seemest clearly to have thine."
"Your Excellency hath not been sailing about the world for nothing, or you could not tell every man his inclinations so easily. I have ever suspected I was mercenary, and so have accepted all sorts of presents to keep the feeling down. Nothing appeases a mercenary longing like gifts and rewards; and as for price, I strive hard to keep mine as high as possible, lest it should bring me into discredit for a mean and grovelling spirit. Give me a high price, and plenty of gifts, and I can be as disinterested as a mendicant friar."
"I understand thee, Sancho; thou art to be bought, but not to be frightened. In thy opinion a single dobla is too little to be divided between thee and thy friend, the Portuguese. I will make a league with thee on thine own terms; here is another piece of gold; see that thou remainest true to me throughout the voyage."
"Count on me, without scruple, Señor Don Almirante, and with scruples, too, should they interfere. Your Excellency hath not a more disinterested friend in the fleet. I only hope that when the share-list shall be written out, the name of Sancho Mundo may have an honorable place, as will become his fidelity. And now, your Excellency, go sleep in peace; the Santa Maria shall lie as near to the route to Cathay, as this south-westerly breeze will suffer."
Columbus complied, though he rose once or twice more, during the night, to ascertain the state of the weather, and that the men did their duties. So long as Sancho remained at the helm, he continued faithful to his compact; but, as he went below with his watch, at the usual hour, successors were put in his place, who betrayed the original treachery of the other helmsman. When Luis left his hammock, Columbus was already at work, ascertaining the distance that had been run in the course of the night. Catching the inquiring glance of the young man, the admiral observed, gravely, and not altogether without melancholy in his manner-- "We have had a good run, though it hath been more northerly than I could have desired. I find that the vessels are thirty leagues further from Ferro than when the sun set, and thou seest, here, that I have written four-and-twenty in the reckoning, that is intended for the eyes of the people. But there hath been great weakness at work this night among the steersmen, if not treachery: they have kept the ship away in a manner to cause her to run a part of the time in a direction nearly parallel to the coast of Europe, so that they have been endeavoring to deceive me, on the deck, while I have thought it necessary to attempt deceiving them in the cabin. It is painful, Don Luis, to find such deceptions resorted to, or such deceptions necessary, when one is engaged in an enterprise that surpasseth all others ever yet attempted by man, and that, too, with a view to the glory of God, the advantage of the human race, and the especial interests of Spain."
"The holy churchmen, themselves, Don Christopher, are obliged to submit to this evil," answered the careless Luis; "and it does not become us laymen to repine at what they endure. I am told that half the miracles they perform are, in truth, miracles of but a very indifferent quality; the doubts and want of faith of us hardened sinners rendering such little inventions necessary for the good of our souls."
"That there are false-minded and treacherous churchmen, as well as false-minded and treacherous laymen, Luis, I little doubt," answered the admiral; "but this cometh of the fall of man, and of his evil nature. There are also righteous and true miracles, that come of the power of God, and which are intended to uphold the faith, and to encourage those who love and honor his holy name. I do not esteem any thing that hath yet befallen us to belong very distinctly to this class; nor do I venture to hope that we are to be favored in this manner by an especial intervention in our behalf; but it exceedeth all the machinations of the devils to persuade me that we shall be deserted while bent on so glorious a design, or that we are not, indirectly and secretly, led, in our voyage, by a spirit and knowledge that both come of Divine grace and infinite wisdom."
"This may be so, Don Christopher, so far as you are concerned; though, for myself, I claim no higher a guide than an angel. An angel's purity, and, I hope I may add, an angel's love, lead me, in my blind path across the ocean!"
"So it seemeth to thee, Luis; but thou canst not know that a higher power doth not use the Doña Mercedes as an instrument in this matter. Although no miracle rendereth it apparent to the vulgar, a spirit is placed in my breast, in conducting this enterprise, that I should deem it blasphemy to resist. God be praised, my boy, we are at last quit of the Portuguese, and are fairly on our road! At present all our obstacles must arise from the elements, or from our own fears. It gladdeneth my heart to find that the two Pinzons remain true, and that they keep their caravels close to the Santa Maria, like men bent on maintaining their faith, and seeing an end of the adventure."
As Luis was now ready, he and the admiral left the cabin together. The sun had risen, and the broad expanse of the ocean was glittering with his rays. The wind had freshened, and was gradually getting further to the south, so that the vessels headed up nearly to their course; and, there being but little sea, the progress of the fleet was, in proportion, considerable. Every thing appeared propitious; and the first burst of grief, on losing sight of known land, having subsided, the crews were more tranquil, though dread of the future was smothered, like the latent fires of a volcano, rather than extinguished. The aspect of the sea was favorable, offering nothing to view that was unusual to mariners; and, as there is always something grateful in a lively breeze, when unaccompanied with danger, the men were probably encouraged by a state of things to which they were accustomed, and which brought with it cheerfulness and hope. In the course of the day and night, the vessels ran a hundred and eighty miles still further into the trackless waste of the ocean, without awakening half the apprehensions in the bosoms of the mariners that they had experienced on losing sight of land. Columbus, however, acting on the cautious principle he had adopted, when he laid before his people the result of the twenty-four hours' work, reduced the distance to about one hundred and fifty.
Tuesday, the 10th of September, brought a still more favorable change of wind. This day, for the first time since quitting the Canaries, the heads of the vessels were laid fairly to the west; and, with the old world directly behind them, and the unknown ocean in their front, the adventurers proceeded onward with a breeze at south-east. The rate of sailing was about five miles in the hour; compensating for the want of speed, by the steadiness of their progress, and by the directness of their course.
The observations that are usually made at sea, when the sun is in the zenith, were over, and Columbus had just announced to his anxious companions that the vessels were gradually setting south, owing to the drift of some invisible current, when a cry from the mast-head announced the proximity of a whale. As the appearance of one of these monsters of the deep breaks the monotony of a sea life, every one was instantly on the look-out, some leaping into the rigging and others upon the rails, in order to catch a glimpse of his gambols.
"Dost thou see him, Sancho?" demanded the admiral of Mundo, the latter being near him at the moment. "To me the water hath no appearance of any such animals being at hand."
"Your Excellency's eye, Señor Don Almirante, is far truer than that of the babbler's aloft. Sure as this is the Atlantic, and yonder is the foam of the crests of the waves, there is no whale."
"The flukes! --the flukes!" shouted a dozen voices at once, pointing to a spot where a dark object arose above the froth of the sea, showing a pointed summit, with short arms extended on each side. "He playeth with his head beneath the water, and the tail uppermost!"
"Alas! --alas!" exclaimed the practised Sancho, with the melancholy of a true seaman, "what these inexperienced and hasty brawlers call the fluke of a whale, is naught but the mast of some unhappy ship, that hath left her bones, with her freight and her people, in the depths of the ocean!"
"Thou art right, Sancho," returned the admiral. "I now see that thou meanest: it is truly a spar, and doubtless betokeneth a shipwreck."
This fact passed swiftly from mouth to mouth, and the sadness that ever accompanies the evidences of such a disaster, settled on the faces of all the beholders. The pilots alone showed indifference, and they consulted on the expediency of endeavoring to secure the spar, as a resource in time of need; but they abandoned the attempt on acccount of the agitation of the water, and of the fairness of the wind, the latter being an advantage a true mariner seldom likes to lose.
"There is a warning to us!" exclaimed one of the disaffected, as the Santa Maria sailed past the waving summit of the spar; "God hath sent this sign to warn us not to venture where he never intended navigators to go!"
"Say, rather," put in Sancho, who, having taken the fee, had ever since proved a willing advocate, "it is an omen of encouragement sent from heaven. Dost thou not see that the part of the mast that is visible resembleth a cross, which holy sign is intended to lead us on, filled with hopes of success?"
"This is true, Sancho," interrupted Columbus. "A cross hath been reared for our edification, as it might be, in the midst of the ocean, and we are to regard it as a proof that Providence is with us, in our attempt to carry its blessings to the aid and consolation of the heathen of Asia."
As the resemblance to the holy symbol was far from fanciful, this happy hit of Sancho's was not without its effect. The reader will understand the likeness all the better, when he is told that the upper end of a mast has much the appearance of a cross, by means of the trussel-trees; and, as often happens, this particular spar was floating nearly perpendicular, owing to some heavy object being fast to its heel, leaving the summit raised some fifteen or twenty feet above the surface of the sea. In a quarter of an hour this last relic of Europe and of civilization disappeared in the wake of the vessels, gradually diminishing in size and settling toward the water, until its faint outlines vanished in threads, still wearing the well-known shape of the revered symbol of Christianity.
After this little incident, the progress of the vessels was uninterrupted by any event worthy of notice for two days and nights. All this time the wind was favorable, and the adventurers proceeded due west, by compass, which was, in fact, however, going a little north of the real point--a truth that the knowledge of the period had not yet mastered. Between the morning of the 10th September, and the evening of the 13th, the fleet had passed over near ninety leagues of ocean, holding its way in a line but a little deviating from a direct one athwart the great waste of water, and having consequently reached a point as far, if not further west than the position of the Azores, then the most westerly land known to European navigators. On the 13th, the currents proved to be adverse, and, having a south-easterly set, they had a tendency to cause the ships to sheer southwardly, bringing them, each hour, nearer to the northern margin of the trades.
The admiral and Luis were at their customary post, on the evening of the 13th--the day last mentioned--as Sancho left the helm, his tour of duty having just ended. Instead of going forward, as usual, among the people, the fellow hesitated, surveyed the poop with a longing eye, and, finding it occupied only by the admiral and his constant companion, he ascended the ladder, as if desirous of making some communication.
"Wouldst thou aught with me, Sancho?" demanded the admiral, waiting for the man to make certain that no one else was on the narrow deck. "Speak freely: thou hast my confidence."
"Señor Don Almirante, your Excellency well knoweth that I am no fresh-water fish, to be frightened at the sight of a shark or a whale, or one that is terrified because a ship headeth west, instead of east; and yet I do come to say that this voyage is not altogether without certain signs and marvels, that it may be well for a mariner to respect, as unusual, if not ominous."
"As thou sayest, Sancho, thou art no driveller to be terrified by the flight of a bird, or at the presage of a drifting spar, and thou awakenest my curiosity to know more. The Señor de Muños is my confidential secretary, and nothing need be hid from him. Speak freely, then, and without further delay. If gold is thy aim, be certain thou shalt have it."
"No, Señor, my news is not worth a maravedi, or it is far beyond the price of gold; such as it is, your Excellency can take it, and think no more of my reward. You know, Señor, that we old mariners will have our thoughts as we stand at the helm, sometimes fancying the smiles and good looks of some hussy ashore, sometimes remembering the flavor of rich fruits and well-savored mutton; and then, again, for a wonder, bethinking us of our sins."
"Fellow, all this I well know; but it is not matter for an admiral's ear."
"I know not that, Señor; I have known admirals who have relished mutton after a long cruise; ay, and who have bethought them, too, of smiling faces and bright eyes, and who, if they did not, at times, bethink them of their sins, have done what was much worse, help to add to the great account that was heaping up against them. Now, there was"-- "Let me toss this vagabond into the sea, at once, Don Christopher," interrupted the impatient Luis, making a forward movement as if to execute the threat, an act which the hand of Columbus arrested; "we shall never hear a tale the right end first, as long as he remaineth in the ship."
"I thank you, my young Lord of Llera," answered Sancho, with an ironical smile; "if you are as ready at drowning seamen, as you are at unhorsing Christian knights in the tourney, and Infidels in the fray, I would rather that another should be master of my baths."
"Thou know'st me, knave? Thou hast seen me on some earlier voyage."
"A cat may look at a king, Señor Conde; and why not a mariner on his passenger? But spare your threats, and your secret is in safe hands. If we reach Cathay, no one will be ashamed of having made the voyage; and if we miss it, it is little likely that any will go back to relate the precise manner in which your Excellency was drowned, or starved to death, or in what other manner you became a saint in Abraham's bosom."
"Enough of this!" said Columbus, sternly; "relate what thou hast to say, and see that thou art discreet touching this young noble."
"Señor, your word is law. Well, Don Christopher, it is one of the tricks of us mariners, at night, to be watching an old and constant friend, the north star; and while thus occupied an hour since, I noted that this faithful guide and the compass by which I was steering, told different tales."
"Art certain of this?" demanded the admiral, with a quickness and emphasis that betrayed the interest he felt in the communication.
"As certain, Señor, as fifty years' looking at the star, and forty years' watching of the compass can make a man. But there is no occasion, your Excellency, to depend on my ignorance, since the star is still where God placed it; and there is your private compass at your elbow--one may be compared with the other."
Columbus had already bethought him of making this comparison; and by the time Sancho ceased speaking, he and Luis were examining the instrument with eager curiosity. The first, and the most natural, impression, was a belief that the needle of the instrument below was defective, or, at least, influenced by some foreign cause; but an attentive observation soon convinced the navigator that the remark of Sancho was true. He was both astonished and concerned to find that the habitual care, and professional eye of the fellow had been active, and quick to note a change as unusual as this. It was, indeed, so common with mariners to compare their compasses with the north star--a luminary that was supposed never to vary its position in the heavens, as that position related to man--that no experienced seaman, who happened to be at the helm at nightfall, could well overlook the phenomenon.
After repeated observations with his own compasses, of which he kept two--one on the poop, and another in the cabin; and having recourse also to the two instruments in the binnacle, Columbus was compelled to admit to himself that all four varied, alike, from their usual direction, nearly six degrees. Instead of pointing due north, or, at least, in a direct line toward a point on the horizon immediately beneath the star, they pointed some five or six degrees to the westward of it. This was both a novel and an astounding departure from the laws of nature, as they were then understood, and threatened to render the desired results of the voyage so much the more difficult of attainment, as it at once deprived the adventurers of a sure reliance on the mariner's principal guide, and would render it difficult to sail, with any feeling of certainty as to the course, in cloudy weather, or dark nights. The first thought of the admiral, on this occasion, however, was to prevent the effect which such a discovery would be likely to produce on men already disposed to anticipate the worst.
"Thou wilt say nothing of this, Sancho?" he observed to the man. "Here is another dobla to add to thy store."
"Excellency, pardon a humble seaman's disobedience, if my hand refuse to open to your gift. This matter toucheth of supernatural means; and, as the devil may have an agency in the miracle, in order to prevent our converting them heathen, of whom you so often speak, I prefer to keep my soul as pure as may be, in the matter, since no one knoweth what weapons we may be driven to use, should we come to real blows with the Father of Sin."
"Thou wilt, at least, prove discreet?"
"Trust me for that, Señor Don Almirante; not a word shall pass my lips about this matter, until I have your Excellency's permission to speak."
Columbus dismissed the man, and then he turned toward Luis, who had been a silent but attentive listener to what had passed.
"You seem disturbed at this departure from the usual laws of the compass, Don Christopher," observed the young man, gaily. "To me it would seem better to rely altogether on Providence, which would scarcely lead us out here, into the wide Atlantic, on its own errand, and desert us when we most need its aid."
"God implants in the bosom of his servants a desire to advance his ends, but human agents are compelled to employ natural means, and, in order to use such means advantageously, it is necessary to understand them. I look upon this phenomenon as a proof that our voyage is to result in discoveries of unknown magnitude, among which, perhaps, are to be numbered some clue to the mysteries of the needle. The mineral riches of Spain differ, in certain particulars, from the mineral riches of France; for, though some things are common to all lands, others are peculiar to particular countries. We may find regions where the loadstone abounds, or may, even now, be in the neighborhood of some island that hath an influence on our compasses that we cannot explain."
"Is it known that islands have ever produced this effect on the needle?"
"It is not--nor do I deem such a circumstance very probable, though all things are possible. We will wait patiently for further proofs that this phenomenon is real and permanent, ere we reason further on a matter that is so difficult to be understood."
The subject was now dropped, though the unusual incident gave the great navigator an uneasy and thoughtful night. He slept little, and often was his eye fastened on the compass that was suspended in his cabin as a "tell-tale," for so seamen term the instrument by which the officer overlooks the course that is steered by the helmsman, even when the latter least suspects his supervision. Columbus arose sufficiently early to get a view of the star before its brightness was dimmed by the return of light, and made another deliberate comparison of the position of this familiar heavenly body with the direction of the needles. The examination proved a slight increase of the variation, and tended to corroborate the observations of the previous night. The result of the reckoning showed that the vessels had run nearly a hundred miles in the course of the last twenty-four hours, and Columbus now believed himself to be about six times that distance west of Ferro, though even the pilots fancied themselves by no means as far.
As Sancho kept his secret, and no other eye among the helmsmen was as vigilant, the important circumstance, as yet, escaped general attention. It was only at night, indeed, that the variation could be observed by means of the polar star, and it was yet so slight that no one but a very experienced and quick-eyed mariner would be apt to note it. The whole of the day and night of the 14th consequently passed without the crew's taking the alarm, and this so much the more as the wind had fallen, and the vessels were only some sixty miles further west than when they commenced. Still, Columbus noted the difference, slight as was the change, ascertaining, with the precision of an experienced and able navigator, that the needle was gradually varying more and more to the westward, though it was by steps that were nearly imperceptible.
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"On thy unaltering blaze The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost, Fixes his steady gaze, And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast; And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right."
Hymn to the North Star.
The following day was Saturday, the 15th, when the little fleet was ten days from Gomera; or it was the sixth morning since the adventurers had lost sight of the land. The last week had been one of melancholy forebodings, though habit was beginning to assert its influence, and the men manifested openly less uneasiness than they had done in the three or four previous days. Their apprehensions were getting to be dormant for want of any exciting and apparent stimulus, though they existed as latent impulses, in readiness to be roused at the occurrence of any untoward event. The wind continued fair, though light--the whole twenty-four hours' work showing considerably less than a hundred miles, as the true progress west. All this time Columbus kept his attention fastened on the needles, and he perceived that as the vessels slowly made their westing, the magnets pointed more and more, though by scarcely palpable changes, in the same direction.
The admiral and Luis, by this time, had fallen into such habits of close communication, that they usually rose and slept at the same time. Though far too ignorant of the hazards he ran to feel uneasiness, and constitutionally, as well as morally, superior to idle alarms, the young man had got to feel a sort of sportsman's excitement in the result; and, by this time, had not Mercedes existed, he would have been as reluctant to return without seeing Cathay, as Columbus himself. They conversed together of their progress and their hopes, without ceasing, and Luis took so much interest in his situation as to begin to learn how to discriminate in matters that might be supposed to affect its duration and ends.
On the night of the Saturday just mentioned, Columbus and his reputed secretary were alone on the poop, conversing, as usual, on the signs of the times, and of the events of the day.
"The Niña had something to say to you, last evening, Don Christopher," observed the young man; "I was occupied in the cabin, with my journal, and had no opportunity of knowing what passed."
"Her people had seen a bird or two, that are thought never to go far from the land. It is possible that islands are at no great distance, for man hath nowhere passed over any very great extent of sea without meeting with them. We cannot, however, waste the time necessary for a search, since the glory and profit of ascertaining the situation of a group of islands would be but a poor compensation for the loss of a continent."
"Do you still remark those unaccountable changes in the needles, Señor?"
"In this respect there is no change, except that which goeth to corroborate the phenomenon. My chief apprehension is of the effect on the people, when the circumstance shall be known."
"Are there no means to persuade them that the needle pointeth thus west, as a sign Providence willeth they should pursue that course, by persevering in the voyage?"
"This might do, Luis," answered the admiral, smiling, "had not fear so sharpened their wits, that their first question would be an inquiry why Providence should deprive us of the means of knowing whither we are travelling, when it so much wisheth us to go in any particular direction."
A cry from the watch on deck arrested the discourse, while a sudden brightness broke on the night, illuminating the vessels and the ocean, as if a thousand lamps were shedding their brilliancy upon the surrounding portion of the sphere. A ball of fire was glancing athwart the heavens, and seemed to fall into the sea, at the distance of a few leagues, or at the limits of the visible horizon. Its disappearance was followed by a gloom as profound as the extraordinary and fleeting light had been brilliant. This was only the passage of a meteor; but it was such a meteor as men do not see more than once in their lives--if it is seen as often; and the superstitious mariners did not fail to note the incident among the extraordinary omens that accompanied the voyage; some auguring good, and others evil, from the event.
"By St. Iago!" exclaimed Luis, as soon as the light had vanished, "Señor Don Christopher, this voyage of ours doth not seem fated to pass away unheeded by the elements and other notable powers! Whether these portents speak in our favor, or not, they speak us any thing but men engaged in an every-day occupation."
"Thus it is with the human mind!" returned Columbus. "Let but its owner pass beyond the limits of his ordinary habits and duties, and he sees marvels in the most simple changes of the weather--in a flash of lightning--a blast of air--or the passage of a meteor; little heeding that these miracles exist in his own consciousness, and have no connection with the every-day laws of nature. These sights are by no means uncommon, especially in low latitudes; and they augur neither for nor against our enterprise."
"Except, Señor Almirante, as they may beset the spirits and haunt the imaginations of the men. Sancho telleth me, that a brooding discontent is growing among them; and that, while they seem so tranquil, their disrelish of the voyage is hourly getting to be more and more decided."
Notwithstanding this opinion of the admiral, and some pains that he afterward took to explain the phenomenon to the people on deck, the passage of the meteor had, indeed, not only produced a deep impression on them, but its history went from watch to watch, and was the subject of earnest discourse throughout the night. But the incident produced no open manifestation of discontent; a few deeming it a propitious omen, though most secretly considered it an admonition from heaven against any impious attempts to pry into those mysteries of nature that, according to their notions, God, in his providence, had not seen fit to reveal to man.
All this time the vessels were making a steady progress toward the west. The wind had often varied, both in force and direction, but never in a manner to compel the ships to shorten sail, or to deviate from what the admiral believed to be the proper course. They supposed themselves to be steering due west, but, owing to the variation, were in fact now holding a west-and-by-south course, and were gradually getting nearer to the trades; a movement in which they had also been materially aided by the force of the currents. In the course of the 15th and 16th of the month, the fleet had got about two hundred miles further from Europe, Columbus taking the usual precaution to lessen the distance in the public reckoning. The latter day was a Sunday; and the religious offices, which were then seldom neglected in a Christian ship, produced a deep and sublime effect on the feelings of the adventurers. Hitherto the weather had partaken of the usual character of the season, and a few clouds, with a slight drizzling rain, had relieved the heat; but these soon passed away, and were succeeded by a soft south-east wind, that seemed to come charged with the fragrance of the land. The men united in the evening chants, under these propitious circumstances; the vessels drawing near each other, as if it might be to form one temple in honor of God, amid the vast solitudes of an ocean that had seldom, if ever, been whitened by a sail. Cheerfulness and hope succeeded to this act of devotion, and both were speedily heightened by a cry from the look-out aloft, who pointed ahead and to leeward, as if he beheld some object of peculiar interest in that quarter. The helms were varied a little; and in a few minutes the vessels entered into a field of sea-weed, that covered the ocean for miles. This sign of the vicinity of land was received by the mariners with a shout; and the very beings who had so shortly before been balancing on the verge of despair, now became elate with joy.
These weeds were indeed of a character to awaken hope in the bosom of the most experienced mariner. Although some had lost their freshness, a great proportion of them were still green, and had the appearance of having been quite recently separated from their parent rocks, or the earth that had nourished them. No doubt was now entertained, even by the pilots, of the vicinity of land. Tunny-fish were also seen in numbers, and the people of the Niña were sufficiently fortunate to strike one. The seamen embraced each other, with tears in their eyes, and many a hand was squeezed in friendly congratulation, that the previous day would have been withheld in surly misanthropy.
"And do you partake of all this hope, Don Christopher?" demanded Luis; "are we really to expect the Indies as a consequence of these marine plants, or is the expectation idle?"
"The people deceive themselves in supposing our voyage near an end. Cathay must yet be very distant from us. We have come but three hundred and sixty leagues since losing sight of Ferro, which, according to my computations, cannot be much more than a third of our journey. Aristotle mentioned that certain vessels of Cadiz were forced westward by heavy gales, until they reached a sea covered with weeds, a spot where the tunny-fish abounded. This is the fish, thou must know, Luis, that the ancients fancied could see better with the right eye than with the left, because it hath been noted that, in passing the Bosphorus, they ever take the right shore in proceeding toward the Euxine, and the left in returning"-- "By St. Francis! there can be no wonder if creatures so one-sided in their vision, should have strayed thus far from home," interrupted the light-hearted Luis, laughing. "Doth Aristotle, or the other ancients, tell us how they regarded beauty; or whether their notions of justice were like those of the magistrate who hath been fed by both parties?"
"Aristotle speaketh only of the presence of the fish in the weedy ocean, as we see them before us. The mariners of Cadiz fancied themselves in the neighborhood of sunken islands, and, the wind permitting, made the best of their way back to their own shores. Thia place, in my judgment, we have now reached; but I expect to meet with no land, unless, indeed, we may happen to fall in with some island that lieth off here in the ocean, as a sort of beacon between the shore of Europe and that of Asia. Doubtless land is not distant, whence these weeds have drifted, but I attach little importance to its sight, or discovery. Cathay is my aim, Don Luis, and I am a searcher for continents, not islands."
It is now known that while Columbus was right in his expectations of not finding a continent so early, he was mistaken in supposing land to lie any where in that vicinity. Whether these weeds are collected by the course of the currents, or whether they rise from the bottom, torn from their beds by the action of the water, is not yet absolutely ascertained, though the latter is the most common opinion, extensive shoals existing in this quarter of the ocean. Under the latter supposition, the mariners of Cadiz were nearer the truth than is first apparent, a sunken island having all the characteristics of a shoal, but those which may be supposed to be connected with the mode of formation.
No land was seen. The vessels continued their progress at a rate but little varying from five miles the hour, shoving aside the weeds, which at times accumulated in masses, under their bows, but which could offer no serious obstacle to their progress. As for the admiral, so lofty were his views, so steady his opinions concerning the great geographical problem he was about to solve, and so determined his resolution to persevere to the end, that he rather hoped to miss than to fall in with the islands, that he fancied could be at no great distance. The day and night carried the vessels rather more than one hundred miles to the westward, placing the fleet not far from midway between the meridians that bounded the extreme western and eastern margins of the two continents, though still much nearer to Africa than to America, following the parallel of latitude on which it was sailing. As the wind continued steady, and the sea was as smooth as a river, the three vessels kept close together, the Pinta, the swiftest craft, reducing her canvas for that purpose. During the afternoon's watch of the day that succeeded that of the meeting with the weeds, which was Monday, the 17th September, or the eighth day after losing sight of Ferro, Martin Alonzo Pinzon hailed the Santa Maria, and acquainted the pilot on deck of his intention to get the amplitude of the sun, as soon as the luminary should be low enough, with a view to ascertain how far his needles retained their virtue. This observation, one of no unusual occurrence among mariners, it was thought had better be made in all the caravels simultaneously, that any error of one might be corrected by the greater accuracy of the rest.
Columbus and Luis were in a profound sleep in their cots, taking their siestas, when the former was awakened by such a shake of the shoulder as seamen are wont to give, and are content to receive. It never required more than a minute to arouse the great navigator from his deepest slumbers to the fullest possession of his faculties, and he was awake in an instant.
"Señor Don Almirante," said Sancho, who was the intruder, "it is time to be stirring: all the pilots are on deck in readiness to measure the amplitude of the sun, as soon as the heavenly bodies are in their right places. The west is already beginning to look like a dying dolphin, and ere many minutes it will be gilded like the helmet of a Moorish Sultan."
"An amplitude measured!" exclaimed Columbus, quitting his cot on the instant. "This is news, indeed! Now we may look for such a stir among the people, as hath not been witnessed since we left Cadiz!"
"So it hath appeared to me, your Excellency, for the mariner hath some such faith in the needle as the churchman bestoweth on the goodness of the Son of God. The people are in a happy humor at this moment, but the saints only know what is to come!"
The admiral awoke Luis, and in five minutes both were at their customary station on the poop. Columbus had gained so high a reputation for skill in navigation, his judgment invariably proving right, even when opposed to those of all the pilots in the fleet, that the latter were not sorry to perceive he had no intention to take an instrument in hand, but seemed disposed to leave the issue to their own skill and practice. The sun slowly settled, the proper time was watched, and then these rude mariners set about their task, in the mode that was practised in their time. Martin Alonzo Pinzon, the most ready and best taught of them all, was soonest through with his task. From his lofty stand, the admiral could overlook the deck of the Pinta, which vessel was sailing but a few hundred yards from the Santa Maria, and it was not long before he observed her commander moving from one compass to another, in the manner of a man who was disturbed. Another minute or two elapsed, when the skiff of the caravel was launched; a sign was made for the admiral's vessel to shorten sail, and Martin Alonzo was soon forcing his way through the weeds that still covered the surface of the ocean, toward the Santa Maria. As he gained the deck of the latter ship, on one of her sides, his kinsman, Vicente Yañez, the commander of the Niña, did the same thing on the other. In the next instant both were at the side of the great navigator, on the poop, whither they had been followed by Sancho Ruiz and Bartolemeo Roldan, the two pilots of the admiral.
"What meaneth this haste, good Martin Alonzo?" calmly asked Columbus: "thou and thy brother, Vicente Yañez, and these honest pilots, hurry toward me as if ye had cheering tidings from Cathay."
"God only knoweth, Señor Almirante, if any of us are ever to be permitted to see that distant land, or any shore that is only to be reached by mariners through the aid of a needle," answered the elder Pinzon, with a haste that almost rendered him breathless. "Here have we all been at the comparison of the instruments, and we find them, without a single exception, varying from the true north, by, at least, a full point!"
"That would be a marvel, truly! Ye have made some oversight in your observations, or have been heedless in the estimates."
"Not so, noble admiral," put in Vicente Yañez, to sustain his brother. "Even the magnets are becoming false to us; and as I mentioned the circumstance to the oldest steersman of my craft, he assures me that the north star did not tally with his instrument throughout the night!"
"Others say the same, here," added Ruiz--"nay, some are ready to swear that the wonder hath been noted ever since we entered the sea of weeds!"
"This may be so, Señores," answered Columbus, with an undisturbed mien, "and yet no evil follow. We all know that the heavenly bodies have their revolutions, some of which no doubt are irregular, while others are more in conformity with certain settled rules. Thus it is with the sun himself, which passeth once around the earth in the short space of twenty-four hours, while no doubt he hath other, and more subtile movements, that are unknown to us, on account of the exceeding distance at which he is placed in the heavens. Many astronomers have thought that they have been able to detect these variations, spots having been seen on the disc of the orb at times, which have disappeared, as if hid behind the body of the luminary. I think it will be found that the north star hath made some slight deviation in its position, and that it will continue thus to move for some short period, after which, no doubt, it will be found returning to its customary position, when it will be seen that its temporary eccentricity hath in no manner disturbed its usual harmony with the needles. Note the star well throughout the night, and in the morning let the amplitude be again taken, when I think the truth of my conjecture will be proved by the regularity of the movement of the heavenly body. So far from being discouraged by this sign, we ought rather to rejoice that we have made a discovery, which, of itself, will entitle the expedition to the credit of having added materially to the stores of science!"
The pilots were fain to be satisfied with this solution of their doubts, in the absence of any other means of accounting for them. They remained long on the poop discoursing of the strange occurrence; and as men, even in their blindest moods, usually reason themselves into either tranquillity or apprehension, they fortunately succeeded in doing the first on this occasion. With the men there was more difficulty, for when it became known to the crews of the three vessels that the needles had begun to deviate from their usual direction, a feeling akin to despair seized on them, almost without exception. Here Sancho was of material service. When the panic was at its height, and the people were on the point of presenting themselves to the admiral, with a demand that the heads of the caravels should be immediately turned toward the north-east, he interposed with his knowledge and influence to calm the tumult. The first means this trusty follower had recourse to, in order to bring his shipmates back to reason, was to swear, without reservation, that he had frequently known the needle and the north star to vary, having witnessed the fact with his own eyes on twenty previous occasions, and no harm to come of it. He invited the elder and more experienced seamen to make an accurate observation of the difference which already existed, which was quite a point of the compass, and then to see, in the morning, if this difference had not increased in the same direction.
"This," he continued, "will be a certain sign, my friends, that the star is in motion, since we can all see that the compasses are just where they have been ever since we left Palos de Moguer. When one of two things is in motion, and it is certain which stands still, there can be no great difficulty in saying which is the uneasy one. Now, look thou here, Martin Martinez," who was one of the most factious of the disaffected; "words are of little use when men can prove their meaning by experiments like this. Thou seest two balls of spun-yarn on this windlass; well, it is wanted to be known which of them remains there, and which is taken away. I remove the smallest ball, thou perceivest, and the largest remains; from which it followeth, as only one can remain, and that one is the larger ball, why the smaller must be taken away. I hold no man fit to steer a caravel, by needle or by star, who will deny a thing that is proven as plainly and as simply as this!"
Martin Martinez, though a singularly disaffected man, was no logician; and, Sancho's oaths backing his demonstrations to the letter, his party soon became the most numerous. As there is nothing so encouraging to the dull-minded and discontented mutineer, as to perceive that he is of the strongest side, so is there nothing so discouraging as to find himself in the minority; and Sancho so far prevailed as to bring most of his fellows round to a belief in the expediency of waiting to ascertain the state of things in the morning, before they committed themselves by any act of rashness.
"Thou hast done well, Sancho," said Columbus, an hour later, when the mariner came secretly to make his nightly report of the state of feeling among the people. "Thou hast done well in all but these oaths, taken to prove that thou hast witnessed this phenomenon before. Much as I have navigated the earth, and careful as have been my observations, and ample as have been my means, never before have I known the needle to vary from its direction toward the north star: and I think that which hath escaped my notice would not be apt to attract thine."
"You do me injustice, Señor Don Almirante, and have inflicted a wound touching my honesty, that a dobla only can cure"-- "Thou knowest, Sancho, that no one felt more alarm when the deviation of the needle was first noted, than thyself. So great, in sooth, was thy apprehension, that thou even refused to receive gold, a weakness of which thou art usually exceedingly innocent."
"When the deviation was first noted, your Excellency, this was true enough; for, not to attempt to mislead one who hath more penetration than befalleth ordinary men, I did fancy that our hopes of ever seeing Spain or St. Clara de Moguer again, were so trifling as to make it of no great consequence who was admiral, and who a simple helmsman."
"And yet thou wouldst now brazen it out, and deny thy terror! Didst thou not swear to thy fellows, that thou hadst often seen this deviation before; ay, even on as many as twenty occasions?"
"Well, Excellency, this is a proof that a cavalier may make a very capital viceroy and admiral, and know all about Cathay, without having the clearest notions of history! I told my shipmates, Don Christopher, that I had noted these changes before this night, and if tied to the stake to be burnt as a martyr, as I sometimes think will one day be the fate of all of us superfluously honest men, I would call on yourself, Señor Almirante, as the witness of the truth of what I had sworn to."
"Thou wouldst, then, summon a most unfortunate witness, Sancho, since I neither practise false oaths myself, nor encourage their use in others."
"Don Luis de Bobadilla y Pedro de Muños, here, would then be my reliance," said the imperturbable Sancho; "for proof a man hath a right to, when wrongfully accused, and proof I will have. Your Excellency will please to remember that it was on the night of Saturday, the 15th, that I first notified your worship of this very change, and that we are now at the night of Monday, the 17th. I swore to twenty times noting this phenomenon, as it is called, in those eight-and-forty hours, when it would have been nearer the truth had I said two hundred times. Santa Maria! I did nothing but note it for the first few hours!"
"Go to, Sancho; thy conscience hath its latitude as well as its longitude; but thou hast thy uses. Now, that thou understandest the reason of the variation, however, thou wilt encourage thy fellows, as well as keep up thy spirits."
"I make no question that it is all as your Excellency sayeth about the star's travelling," returned Sancho; "and it hath crossed my mind that it is possible we are nearer Cathay than we have thought; this movement being made by some evil-disposed spirits on purpose to make us lose the way."
"Go to thy hammock, knave, and bethink thee of thy sins; leaving the reasons of these mysteries to those who are better taught. There is thy dobla, and see that thou art discreet."
In the morning every being in the three caravels waited impatiently for the results of the new observations. As the wind continued favorable, though far from fresh, and a current was found setting to the westward, the vessels had made, in the course of twenty-four hours, more than a hundred and fifty miles, which rendered the increase in the variation perceptible, thus corroborating a prophecy of Columbus, that had been ventured on previous observation. So easily are the ignorant the dupes of the plausible, that this solution temporarily satisfied all doubts, and it was generally believed that the star had moved, while the needle remained true.
How far Columbus was misled by his own logic in this affair, is still a matter of doubt. That he resorted to deceptions which might be considered innocent, in order to keep up the courage of his companions, is seen in the fact of the false, or public reckoning; but there is no proof that this was one of the instances in which he had recourse to such means. No person of any science believed, even when the variation of the compass was unknown, that the needle pointed necessarily to the polar star; the coincidence in the direction of the magnetic needle and the position of the heavenly body, being thought accidental; and there is nothing extravagant in supposing that the admiral--who had the instrument in his possession, and was able to ascertain that none of its virtue was visibly lost, while he could only reason from supposed analogy concerning the evolutions of the star--should imagine that a friend he had ever found so faithful, had now deserted him, leaving him disposed to throw the whole mystery of the phenomenon on the more distant dwellers in space. Two opinions have been ventured concerning the belief of the celebrated navigator, in the theory he advanced on this occasion; the one affirming, and the other denying his good faith in urging the doctrine he had laid down. Those who assert the latter, however, would seem to reason a little loosely themselves, their argument mainly resting on the improbability of a man like Columbus uttering so gross a scientific error, at a time when science itself knew no more of the existence of the phenomenon, than is known to-day of its cause. Still it is possible that the admiral may not have had any settled notions on the subject, even while he was half inclined to hope his explanation was correct; for it is certain that, in the midst of the astronomical and geographical ignorance of his age, this extraordinary man had many accurate and sublime glimpses of truths that were still in embryo as respected their development and demonstration by the lights of precise and inductive reasoning.
Fortunately, if the light brought with it the means of ascertaining with certainty the variation of the needle, it also brought the means of perceiving that the sea was still covered with weeds, and other signs that were thought to be encouraging, as connected with the vicinity of land. The current being now in the same direction as the wind, the surface of the ocean was literally as smooth as that of an inland sheet of water, and the vessels were enabled to sail, without danger, within a few fathoms of each other.
"This weed, Señor Almirante," called out the elder Pinzon, "hath the appearance of that which groweth on the banks of streams, and I doubt that we are near to the mouth of some exceeding great river!"
"This may be so," returned Columbus; "than which there can be no more certain sign than may be found in the taste of the water. Let a bucket be drawn, that we may know."
While Pepe was busied in executing this order, waiting until the vessel had passed through a large body of weeds for that purpose, the quick eye of the admiral detected a crab struggling on the surface of the fresh-looking plants, and he called to the helmsman in sufficient season, to enable him so far to vary his course, as to allow the animal to be taken.
"Here is a most precious prize, good Martin Alonzo," said Columbus, holding the crab between a finger and thumb, that the other might see it. "These animals are never known to go further than some eighty leagues from the land; and see, Señor, yonder is one of the white tropic birds, which, it is said, never sleep on the water! Truly, God favoreth us; and what rendereth all these tokens more grateful, is the circumstance of their coming from the west--the hidden, unknown, mysterious west!"
A common shout burst from the crews at the appearance of these signs, and again the beings who lately had been on the verge of despair, were buoyed up with hope, and ready to see propitious omens in even the most common occurrences of the ocean. All the vessels had hauled up buckets of water, and fifty mouths were immediately wet with the brine; and so general was the infatuation, that every man declared the sea far less salt than usual. So complete, indeed, was the delusion created by these cheerful expectations, and so thoroughly had all concern in connection with the moving star been removed by the sophism of Sancho, that even Columbus, habitually so wary, so reasoning, so calm, amid his loftiest views, yielded to his native enthusiasm, and fancied that he was about to discover some vast island, placed midway between Asia and Europe; an honor not to be despised, though it fell so far short of his higher expectations.
"Truly, friend Martin Alonzo," he said, "this water seemeth to have less of the savor of the sea, than is customary at a distance from the outlet of large rivers!"
"My palate telleth the same tale, Señor Almirante. As a further sign, the Niña hath struck another tunny, and her people are at this moment hoisting it in."
Shout succeeded shout, as each new encouraging proof appeared; and the admiral, yielding to the ardor of the crews, ordered sail to be pressed on all the vessels, that each might endeavor to outstrip the others, in the hope of being the first to discover the expected island. This strife soon separated the caravels, the Pinta easily outsailing the other two, while the Santa Maria and the Niña came on more slowly, in her rear. All was gaiety and mirth, the livelong day, on board those isolated vessels, that, unknown to those they held, were navigating the middle of the Atlantic, with horizon extending beyond horizon, without change in the watery boundary, as circle would form without circle, on the same element, were a vast mass of solid matter suddenly dropped into the sea.
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"The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew, As glad to waft him from his native home; And fast the white rocks faded from his view, And soon were lost in circumambient foam: And then, it may be, of his wish to roam Repented he, but in his bosom slept The silent thought, nor from his lips did come One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept."
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.
As night drew near, the Pinta shortened sail, permitting her consorts to close. All eyes now turned anxiously to the west, where it was hoped that land might at any moment appear. The last tint, however, vanished from the horizon, and darkness enveloped the ocean without bringing any material change. The wind still blew a pleasant breeze from the south-east, and the surface of the ocean offered little more inequality than is usually met on the bosoms of large rivers. The compasses showed a slightly increasing deviation from their old coincidence with the polar star, and no one doubted, any longer, that the fault was in the heavenly body. All this time the vessels were getting to the southward, steering, in fact, west and by south, when they thought they were steering west--a circumstance that alone prevented Columbus from first reaching the coast of Georgia, or that of the Carolinas, since, had he missed the Bermudas, the current of the Gulf Stream meeting him on his weather bow, he would have infallibly been set well to the northward, as he neared the continent.
The night passed as usual, and at noon of the 17th, or at the termination of the nautical day, the fleet had left another long track of ocean between it and the old world. The weeds were disappearing, and with them the tunny fish, which were, in truth, feeding on the products of shoals that mounted several thousands of feet nearer to the surface of the water, than was the case with the general bed of the Atlantic. The vessels usually kept near each other at noon, in order to compare their observations; but the Pinta, which, like a swift steed, was with difficulty restrained, shot ahead, until the middle of the afternoon, when, as usual, she lay-by for the admiral to close. As the Santa Maria came sweeping on, the elder Pinzon stood, cap in hand, ready to speak her, waiting only for her to come within sound of his voice.
"God increaseth the signs of land, and the motives of encouragement, Señor Don Christopher," he called out, cheerfully, while the Pinta filled her sails in order to keep way with the admiral. "We have seen large flights of birds ahead, and the clouds at the north look heavy and dense, as if hovering over some island, or continent, in that quarter."
"Thou art a welcome messenger, worthy Martin Alonzo; though I wish thee to remember, that the most I expect to meet with in this longitude is some cluster of pleasant islands, Asia being yet several days' sail more distant. As the night approacheth, thou wilt see thy clouds take still more of the form of the land, and I doubt that groups may be found on each side of us; but our high destination is Cathay, and men with such an object before them, may not turn aside for any lesser errand."
"Have I your leave, noble admiral, to push ahead in the Pinta, that our eyes may first be greeted with the grateful sight of Asia? I nothing doubt of seeing it ere morning."
"Go, of God's sake, good pilot, if thou thinkest this; though I warn thee that no continent can yet meet thine eyes. Nevertheless, as any land in these distant and unknown seas must be a discovery, and bring credit on Castile, as well as on ourselves, he who first perceiveth it will merit the reward. Thou, or any one else, hath my full permission to discover islands, or continents, in thousands."
The people laughed at this sally, for the light-hearted are easily excited to mirth; and then the Pinta shot ahead. As the sun set, she was seen again lying-to for her companions--a dark speck on the rainbow colors of the glorious sky. The horizon at the north presented masses of clouds, in which it was not difficult to fancy the summits of ragged mountains, receding valleys, with headlands, and promontories, foreshortened by distance.
The following day the wind baffled, for the first time since encountering the trades; and the clouds collected over-head, dispersing drizzling showers on the navigators. The vessels now lay near each other, and conversation flew from one to the other--boats passing and repassing, constantly.
"I have come, Señor Almirante," said the elder Pinzon, as he reached the deck of the Santa Maria, "at the united request of my people, to beg that we may steer to the north, in quest of land, islands and continent, that no doubt lie there, and thus crown this great enterprise with the glory that is due to our illustrious sovereigns, and your own forethought."
"The wish is just, good Martin Alonzo, and fairly expressed, but it may not be granted. That we should make creditable discoveries, by thus steering, is highly probable, but in so doing we should fall far short of our aim. Cathay and the Great Khan still lie west; and we are here, not to add another group, like the Canaries, or the Azores, to the knowledge of man, but to complete the circle of the earth, and to open the way for the setting up of the cross in the regions that have so long been the property of infidels."
"Hast thou nothing to say, Señor de Muños, in support of our petition? Thou hast favor with his Excellency, and may prevail on him to grant us this small behest!"
"To tell thee the truth, good Martin Alonzo," answered Luis, with more of the indifference of manner that might have been expected from the grandee to the pilot, than the respect that would become the secretary to the second person of the expedition--"to tell thee the truth good Martin Alonzo, my heart is so set on the conversion of the Great Khan, that I wish not to turn either to the right or left, until that glorious achievement be sufficiently secure. I have observed that Satan effecteth little against those who keep in the direct path, while his success with those who turn aside is so material, as to people his dominions with errants."
"Is there no hope, noble admiral? and must we quit all these cheering signs, without endeavoring to trace them to some advantageous conclusion?"
"I see no better course, worthy friend. This rain indicateth land; also this calm; and here is a visitor that denoteth more than either--yonder, in the direction of thy Pinta, where it seemeth disposed to rest its wings."
Pinzon, and all near him, turned, and, to their common delight and astonishment, they saw a pelican, with extended wings that spread for ten feet, sailing a few fathoms above the sea, and apparently aiming at the vessel named. The adventurous bird, however, as if disdaining to visit one of inferior rank, passed the Pinta, and, sweeping up grandly toward the admiral, alighted on a yard of the Santa Maria.
"If this be not a certain sign of the vicinity of land," said Columbus gravely, "it is what is far better, a sure omen that God is with us. He is sending these encouraging calls to confirm us in our intention to serve him, and to persevere to the end. Never before, Martin Alonzo, have I seen a bird of this species a day's sail from the shore!"
"Such is my experience, too, noble admiral; and, with you, I look upon this visit as a most propitious omen. May it not be a hint to turn aside, and to look further in this quarter?"
"I accept it not as such, but rather as a motive to proceed. At our return from the Indies, we may examine this part of the ocean with greater security, though I shall think naught accomplished until India be fairly reached, and India is still hundreds of leagues distant. As the time is favorable, however, we will call together our pilots, and see how each man placeth his vessel on the chart."
At this suggestion, all the navigators assembled on board the Santa Maria, and each man made his calculations, sticking a pin in the rude chart--rude as to accuracy, but beautiful as to execution--that the admiral, with the lights he then possessed, had made of the Atlantic ocean. Vicente Yañez, and his companions of the Niña, placed their pin most in advance, after measuring off four hundred and forty marine leagues from Gomera. Martin Alonzo varied a little from this, setting his pin some twenty leagues farther east. When it was the turn of Columbus, he stuck a pin twenty leagues still short of that of Martin Alonzo, his companions having, to all appearance, like less skilful calculators, thus much advanced ahead of their true distance. It was then determined what was to be stated to the crews, and the pilots returned to their respective vessels.
It would seem that Columbus really believed he was then passing between islands, and his historian, Las Casas, affirms that he was actually right in his conjecture; but if islands ever existed in that part of the ocean, they have long since disappeared; a phenomenon which, while it is not impossible, can scarcely be deemed probable. It is said that breakers have been seen, even within the present century, in this vicinity, and it is not unlikely that extensive banks do exist, though Columbus found no bottom with two hundred fathoms of line. The great collection of weeds, is a fact authenticated by some of the oldest records of human investigations, and is most probably owing to some effect of the currents which has a tendency to bring about such an end; while the birds must be considered as stragglers lured from their usual haunts by the food that would be apt to be collected by the union of weeds and fish. Aquatic birds can always rest on the water, and the animal that can wing its way through the air at the rate of thirty, or even fifty miles the hour, needs only sufficient strength, to cross the entire Atlantic in four days and nights.
Notwithstanding all these cheering signs, the different crews soon began to feel again the weight of a renewed despondency. Sancho, who was in constant but secret communication with the admiral, kept the latter properly advised of the state of the people, and reported that more murmurs than usual prevailed, the men having passed again, by the suddenness of the reaction, from the most elastic hope, nearly to the verge of despair. This fact was told Columbus just at sunset on the evening of the 20th, or on that of the eleventh day after the fleet lost sight of land, and while the seaman was affecting to be busy on the poop, where he made most of his communications.
"They complain, your Excellency," continued Sancho, "of the smoothness of the water; and they say that when the winds blow at all, in these seas, they come only from the eastward, having no power to blow from any other quarter. The calms, they think, prove that we are getting into a part of the ocean where there is no wind; and the east winds, they fancy, are sent by Providence to drive those there who have displeased Heaven by a curiosity that it was never intended that any who wear beards should possess."
"Do thou encourage them, Sancho, by reminding the poor fellows that calms prevail, at times, in all seas; and, as for the east winds, is it not well known that they blow from off the African shores, in low latitudes, at all seasons of the year, following the sun in his daily track around the earth? I trust thou hast none of this silly apprehension?"
"I endeavor to keep a stout heart, Señor Don Almirante, having no one before me to disgrace, and leaving no one behind me to mourn over my loss. Still, I should like to hear a little about the riches of those distant lands, as I find the thoughts of their gold and precious stones have a sort of religious charm over my weakness, when I begin to muse upon Moguer and its good cheer."
"Go to, knave; thy appetite for money is insatiable; take yet another dobla, and as thou gazest on it thou mayst fancy what thou wilt of the coin of the Great Khan; resting certain that so great a monarch is not without gold, any more than he is probably without the disposition to part with it, when there is occasion."
Sancho received his fee, and left the poop to Columbus and our hero.
"These ups and downs among the knaves," said Luis, impatiently, "were best quelled, Señor, by an application of the flat of the sword, or, at need, of its edge."
"This may not be, my young friend, without, at least, far more occasion than yet existeth for the severity. Think not that I have passed so many years of my life in soliciting the means to effect so great a purpose, and have got thus far on my way, in unknown seas, with a disposition to be easily turned aside from my purpose. But God hath not created all alike; neither hath he afforded equal chances for knowledge to the peasant and the noble. I have vexed my spirit too often, with arguments on this very subject, with the great and learned, not to bear a little with the ignorance of the vulgar. Fancy how much fear would have quickened the wits of the sages of Salamanca, had our discussion been held in the middle of the Atlantic, where man never had been, and whence no eyes but those of logic and science could discover a safe passage."
"This is most true, Señor Almirante; and yet, methinks the knights that were of your antagonists should not have been wholly unmanned by fear. What danger have we here? this is the wide ocean, it is true, and we are no doubt distant some hundreds of leagues from the known islands, but, we are not the less safe. By San Pedro! I have seen more lives lost in a single onset of the Moors, than these caravels could hold in bodies, and blood enough spilt to float them!"
"The dangers our people dread may be less turbulent than those of a Moorish fray, Don Luis, but they are not the less terrible. Where is the spring that is to furnish water to the parched lip, when our stores shall fail; and where the field to give us its bread and nourishment? It is a fearful thing to be brought down to the dregs of life, by the failure of food and water, on the surface of the wide ocean, dying by inches, often without the consolations of the church, and ever without Christian sepulture. These are the fancies of the seaman, and he is only to be driven from them violently when duty demands extreme remedies for his disease."
"To me it seemeth, Don Christopher, that it will be time to reason thus, when our casks are drained, and the last biscuit is broken. Until then, I ask leave of your Excellency to apply the necessary logic to the _outside_ of the heads of these varlets, instead of their insides, of which I much question the capacity to hold any good."
Columbus too well understood the hot nature of the young noble to make a serious reply; and they both stood some time leaning against the mizen-mast, watching the scene before them, and musing on the chances of their situation. It was night, and the figures of the watch, on the deck beneath, were visible only by a light that rendered it difficult to distinguish countenances. The men were grouped; and it was evident by the low but eager tones in which they conversed, that they discussed matters connected with the calm, and the risks they ran. The outlines of the Pinta and Niña were visible, beneath a firmament that was studded with brilliants, their lazy sails hanging in festoons, like the drapery of curtains, and their black hulls were as stationary as if they both lay moored in one of the rivers of Spain. It was a bland and gentle night, but the immensity of the solitude, the deep calm of the slumbering ocean, and even the occasional creaking of a spar, by recalling to the mind the actual presence of vessels so situated, rendered the scene solemn, almost to sublimity.
"Dost thou detect aught fluttering in the rigging, Luis?" the admiral cautiously inquired. "My ear deceiveth me, or I hear something on the wing. The sounds, moreover, are quick and slight, like those produced by birds of indifferent size."
"Don Christopher, you are right. There are little creatures perched on the upper yards, and that of a size like the smaller songsters of the land."
"Hark!" interrupted the admiral. "That is a joyous note, and of such a melody as might be met in one of the orange groves of Seville, itself! God be praised for this sign of the extent and unity of his kingdom, since land cannot well be distant, when creatures, gentle and frail as these, have so lately taken their flight from it!"
The presence of these birds soon became known to all on deck, and their songs brought more comfort than the most able mathematical demonstration, even though founded on modern learning, could have produced on the sensitive feelings of the common men.
"I told thee land was near," cried Sancho, turning with exultation to Martin Martinez, his constant disputant; "here thou hast the proof of it, in a manner that none but the traitor will deny. Thou hearest the songs of orchard birds--notes that would never come from the throats of the tired; and which sound as gaily as if the dear little feathered rogues were pecking at a fig or a grape in a field of Spain."
"Sancho is right!" exclaimed the seamen. "The air savors of land, too; and the sea hath a look of the land; and God is with us--blessed be his Holy name--and honor to our lord the king, and to our gracious mistress, Doña Isabella!"
From this moment concern seemed to leave the vessel, again. It was thought, even by the admiral himself, that the presence of birds so small, and which were judged to be so feeble of wing, was an unerring evidence that land was nigh; and land, too, of generous productions, and a mild, gentle climate; for these warblers, like the softer sex of the human family, best love scenes that most favor their gentle propensities and delicate habits.
Investigation has since proved that, in this particular, however plausible the grounds of error, Columbus was deceived. Men often mistake the powers of the inferior animals of creation, and at other times they overrate the extent of their instinct. In point of fact, a bird of light weight would be less liable to perish on the ocean, and in that low latitude, than a bird of more size, neither being aquatic. The sea-weed itself would furnish resting-places without number for the smaller animals, and, in some instances, it would probably furnish food. That birds, purely of the land, should take long flights at sea, is certainly improbable; but, apart from the consequence of gales, which often force even that heavy-winged animal the owl, hundreds of miles from the land, instinct is not infallible; whales being frequently found embayed in shallow waters, and birds sailing beyond the just limits of their habits. Whatever may have been the cause of the opportune appearance of these little inhabitants of the orchard on the spars of the Santa Maria, the effect was of the most auspicious kind on the spirits of the men. As long as they sang, no amateurs ever listened to the most brilliant passages from the orchestra with greater delight than those rude seamen listened to their warbling; and while they slept, it was with a security that had its existence in veneration and gratitude. The songs were renewed with the dawn, shortly after which the whole went off in a body, taking their flight toward the south-west. The next day brought a calm, and then an air so light, that the vessels could with difficulty make their way through the dense masses of weeds, that actually gave the ocean the appearance of vast inundated meadows. The current was now found to be from the west, and shortly after daylight a new source of alarm was reported by Sancho.
"The people have got a notion in their heads, Señor Almirante, which partaketh so much of the marvellous, that it findeth exceeding favor with such as love miracles more than they love God. Martin Martinez, who is a philosopher in the way of terror, maintaineth that this sea, into which we seem to be entering deeper and deeper, lieth over sunken islands, and that the weeds, which it would be idle to deny grow more abundant as we proceed, will shortly get to be so plentiful on the surface of the water, that the caravels will become unable to advance or to retreat."
"Doth Martin find any to believe this silly notion?"
"Señor Don Almirante, he doth; and for the plain reason that it is easier to find those who are ready to believe an absurdity, than to find those who will only believe truth. But the man is backed by some unlucky chances, that must come of the Powers of Darkness, more particularly as they can have no great wish to see your Excellency reach Cathay, with the intention of making a Christian of the Great Khan, and of planting the tree of the cross in his dominions. This calm sorely troubleth many, moreover, and the birds are beginning to be looked upon as creatures sent by Satan himself, to lead us whither we can never return. Some even believe we shall tread on shoals, and lie forever stranded wrecks in the midst of the wide ocean!"
"Go, bid the men prepare to sound; I will show them the folly of this idea, at least; and see that all are summoned to witness the experiment."
Columbus now repeated this order to the pilots, and the deep-sea was let go in the usual manner. Fathom after fathom of the line glided over the rail, the lead taking its unerring way toward the bottom, until so little was left as to compel the downward course to be arrested.
"Ye see, my friends, that we are yet full two hundred fathoms from the shoals ye so much dread, and as much more as the sea is deeper than our measurement. Lo! yonder, too, is a whale, spouting the water before him--a creature never seen except on the coasts of large islands or continents."
This appeal of Columbus, which was in conformity with the notions of the day, had its weight--his crew being naturally most under the influence of notions that were popular. It is now known, however, that whales frequent those parts of the ocean where their food is most abundant, and one of the best grounds for taking them, of late years, has been what is called the False Brazil Banks, which lie near the centre of the ocean. In a word, all those signs, that were connected with the movements of birds and fishes, and which appear to have had so much effect, not only on the common men of this great enterprise, but on Columbus himself, were of far less real importance than was then believed; navigators being so little accustomed to venture far from the land themselves, that they were not duly acquainted with the mysteries of the open ocean.
Notwithstanding the moments of cheerfulness and hope that intervened, distrust and apprehension were fast getting to be again the prevailing feelings among the mariners. Those who had been most disaffected from the first, seized every occasion to increase these apprehensions; and when the sun rose, Saturday, September 22d, on a calm sea, there were not a few in the vessels who were disposed to unite in making another demand on the admiral to turn the heads of the caravels toward the east.
"We have come some hundreds of leagues before a fair wind, into a sea that is entirely unknown to man, until we have reached a part of the ocean where the wind seems altogether to fail us, and where there is danger of our being bound up in immovable weeds, or stranded on sunken islands, without the means of procuring food or water!"
Arguments like these were suited to an age in which even the most learned were obliged to grope their way to accurate knowledge, through the mists of superstition and ignorance, and in which it was a prevailing weakness to put faith, on the one hand, in visible proofs of the miraculous power of God, and, on the other, in substantial evidences of the ascendency of evil spirits, as they were permitted to affect the temporal affairs of those they persecuted.
It was, therefore, most fortunate for the success of the expedition, that a light breeze sprang up from southward and westward, in the early part of the day just mentioned, enabling the vessels to gather way, and to move beyond the vast fields of weeds, that equally obstructed the progress of the caravels, and awakened the fears of their people. As it was an object to get clear of the floating obstacles that surrounded the vessels, the first large opening that offered was entered, and then the fleet was brought close upon a wind, heading as near as possible to the desired course. Columbus now believed himself to be steering west-north-west, when, in fact, he was sailing in a direction far nearer to his true course, than when his ships headed west by compass; the departure from the desired line of sailing, being owing to the variation in the needle. This circumstance alone, would seem to establish the fact, that Columbus believed in his own theory of the moving star, since he would hardly have steered west-and-by-south-half-south, with a fair wind, for many days in succession, as he is known to have done, when it was his strongest wish to proceed directly west. He was now heading up, within half a point of the latter course, though he and all with him, fancied they were running off nearly two points to leeward of the so much desired direction.
But these little variations were trifles as compared with the advantage that the admiral obtained over the fears of his followers by the shift of the wind, and the liberation from the weeds. By the first, the men saw a proof that the breezes did not always blow from the same quarter; and by the last, they ascertained that they had not actually reached a point where the ocean had become impassable. Although the wind was now favorable to return to the Canaries, no one any longer demanded that such a course should be adopted, so apt are we all to desire that which appears to be denied to us, and so ready to despise that which lies perfectly at our disposal.
This, indeed, was a moment when the feelings of the people appeared to be as variable as the light and baffling winds themselves. The Saturday passed away in the manner just mentioned, the vessels once more entering into large fields of weeds, just as the sun set. When the light returned, the airs headed them off to north-west and north-west-by-north, by compass, which was, in truth, steering north-west-by-west-half-west, and north-west-half-west. Birds abounded again, among which was a turtle-dove, and many living crabs were seen crawling among the weeds. All these signs would have encouraged the common men, had they not already so often proved deceptive.
"Señor," said Martin Martinez, to the admiral, when Columbus went among the crew to raise their drooping spirits, "we know not what to think! For days did the wind blow in the same direction, leading us on, as it might be, to our ruin; and then it hath deserted us in such a sea as mariners in the Santa Maria never before saw. A sea, looking like meadows on a river side, and which wanteth only kine and cow-herds, to be mistaken for fields a little overflowed by a rise of the water, is a fearful thing!"
"Thy meadows are the weeds of the ocean, and prove the richness of the nature that hath produced them; while thy breezes from the east, are what all who have ever made the Guinea voyage, well know to exist in latitudes so low. I see naught in either to alarm a bold seaman; and as for the bottom, we all know it hath not yet been found by many a long and weary fathom of line. Pepe, thou hast none of these weaknesses; but hast set thy heart on Cathay and a sight of the Great Khan?"
"Señor Almirante, as I swore to Monica, so do I swear to your Excellency; and that is to be true and obedient. If the cross is to be raised among the Infidels, my hand shall not be backward in doing its share toward the holy act. Still, Señor, none of us like this long unnatural calm. Here is an ocean that hath no waves, but a surface so smooth that we much distrust whether the waters obey the same laws, as they are known to do near Spain; for never before have I beheld a sea that hath so much the air of the dead! May it not be, Señor, that God hath placed a belt of this calm and stagnant water around the outer edges of the earth, in order to prevent the unheedy from looking into some of his sacred secrets?"
"Thy reasoning hath, at least, a savor of religion; and, though faulty, can scarce be condemned. God hath placed man on this earth, Pepe, to be its master, and to serve him by extending the dominion of his church, as well as by turning to the best account all the numberless blessings that accompany the great gift. As to the limits, of which thou speakest, they exist only in idea, the earth being a sphere, or a ball, to which there are no other edges than those thou seest everywhere on its surface."
"And as for what Martin saith," put in Sancho, who was never at fault for a fact, or for a reason, "concerning the winds, and the weeds, and the calms, I can only wonder where a seaman of his years hath been navigating so long, that these things should be novelties. To me, all this is as common as dish-water at Moguer, and so much a matter of course, that I should not have remarked it, but for the whinings of Martin and his fellows. When the Santa Catalina made the voyage to that far-off region, Ireland, we landed on the sea-weed, a distance of half a league or so from the coast; and as for the wind, it blew regularly four weeks from one quarter, and four weeks from the other; after which the people of the country said it would blow four weeks each way, transversely; but we did not remain long enough in those seas to enable me to swear to the two last facts."
"Hast thou not heard of shoals so wide that a caravel could never find its way out of them, if it once entered?" demanded Martinez, fiercely, for, much addicted to gross exaggerations himself, he little liked to be outdone; "and do not these weeds bespeak our near approach to such a danger, when the weeds themselves often are so closely packed as to come near to stop the ship?"
"Enough of this," said the admiral: "at times we have weeds, and then we are altogether free from them; these changes are owing to the currents; no doubt as soon as we have passed this meridian, we shall come to clear water again."
"But the calm, Señor Almirante," exclaimed a dozen voices. "This unnatural smoothness of the ocean frighteneth us! Never before did we see water so stagnant and immovable!"
"Call ye this stagnant and immovable?" exclaimed the admiral. "Nature herself arises to reproach your senseless fears, and to contradict your mistaken reasoning, by her own signs and portents!"
This was said as the Santa Maria's bows rose on a long low swell, every spar creaking at the motion, and the whole hull heaving and setting as the billow passed beneath it, washing the sides of the ship from the water line to its channels. At this moment there was not even a breath of air, and the seamen gazed about them with an astonishment that was increased and rendered extreme by dread. The ship had scarcely settled heavily into the long trough when a second wave lifted her again forward, and billow succeeded billow, each successive wave increasing in height, until the entire ocean was undulating, though only marked at distant intervals, and that slightly, by the foam of crests or combing seas. It took half an hour to bring this phenomenon up to its height, when all three vessels were wallowing in the seas, as mariners term it, their hulls falling off helplessly into the troughs, until the water fairly spouted from their low scuppers, as each rose by her buoyancy from some roll deeper than common. Fancying that this occurrence promised to be either a source of new alarm, or a means of appeasing the old one, Columbus took early measures to turn it to account, in the latter mode. Causing all the crew to assemble at the break of the poop, he addressed them, briefly, in the following words: "Ye see, men, that your late fears about the stagnant ocean are rebuked, in this sudden manner, as it might be, by the hand of God himself, proving, beyond dispute, that no danger is to be apprehended from that source. I might impose on your ignorance, and insist that this sudden rising of the sea is a miracle wrought to sustain me against your rebellious repinings and unthinking alarms; but the cause in which I am engaged needs no support of this nature, that doth not truly come from heaven. The calms, and the smoothness of the water, and even the weeds of which ye complain, come from the vicinity of some great body of land; I think not a continent, as that must lie still further west, but of islands, either so large or so numerous, as to make a far-extended lee; while these swells are probably the evidence of wind at a distance, which hath driven up the ocean into mountainous waves, such as we often see them, and which send out their dying efforts, even beyond the limits of the gale. I do not say that this intervention, to appease your fears, doth not come of God, in whose hands I am; for this last do I fully believe, and for it am I fully grateful; but it cometh through the agencies of nature, and can in no sense be deemed providential, except as it demonstrateth the continuance of the divine care, as well as its surpassing goodness. Go, then, and be tranquil. Remember, if Spain be far behind ye, that Cathay now lieth at no great distance before ye; that each hour shorteneth that distance, as well as the time necessary to reach our goal. He that remaineth true and faithful, shall not repent his confidence; while he who unnecessarily disturbeth either himself or others, with silly doubts, may look forward to an exercise of authority that shall maintain the rights of their Highnesses to the duty of all their servants."
We record this speech of the great navigator with so much the more pleasure, as it goes fully to establish the fact that he did not believe the sudden rising of the seas, on this occasion, was owing to a direct miracle, as some of the historians and biographers seem inclined to believe; but rather to a providential interference of Divine Power, through natural means, in order to protect him against the consequences of the blind apprehensions of his followers. It is not easy, indeed, to suppose that a seaman as experienced as Columbus, could be ignorant of the natural cause of a circumstance so very common on the ocean, that those who dwell on its coast have frequent occasion to witness its occurrence.
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"'_Ora pro nobis, Mater! _'--what a spell Was in those notes, with day's last glory dying On the flush'd waters--seemed they not to swell From the far dust, wherein my sires were lying With crucifix and sword? --Oh! yet how clear Comes their reproachful sweetness to my ear! ' _Ora_'--with all the purple waves replying, All my youth's visions rising in the strain-- And I had thought it much to bear the rack and chain!"
The Forest Sanctuary.
It may now be well to recapitulate, and to let the reader distinctly know how far the adventurers had actually advanced into the unknown waters of the Atlantic; what was their real, and what their supposed position. As has been seen, from the time of quitting Gomera, the admiral kept two reckonings, one intended for his own government, which came as near the truth as the imperfect means of the science of navigation that were then in use would allow, and another that was freely exhibited to the crew, and was purposely miscalculated in order to prevent alarm, on account of the distance that had been passed. As Columbus believed himself to be employed in the service of God, this act of deception would be thought a species of pious fraud, in that devout age; and it is by no means probable that it gave the conscience of the navigator any trouble, since churchmen, even, did not hesitate always about buttressing the walls of faith by means still less justifiable.
The long calms and light head-winds had prevented the vessels from making much progress for the few last days; and, by estimating the distance that was subsequently run in a course but a little south of west, it appears, notwithstanding all the encouraging signs of birds, fishes, calms, and smooth water, that on the morning of Monday, September 24th, or that of the fifteenth day after losing sight of Ferro, the expedition was about half-way across the Atlantic, counting from continent to continent, on the parallel of about 31 or 32 degrees of north latitude. The circumstance of the vessels being so far north of the Canaries, when it is known that they had been running most of the time west, a little southerly, must be imputed to the course steered in the scant winds, and perhaps to the general set of the currents. With this brief explanation, we return to the daily progress of the ships.
The influence of the trades was once more felt, though in a very slight degree, in the course of the twenty-four hours that succeeded the day of the "miraculous seas," and the vessels again headed west by compass. Birds were seen as usual, among which was a pelican. The whole progress of the vessels was less than fifty miles, a distance that was lessened, as usual, in the public reckoning.
The morning of the 25th was calm, but the wind returned, a steady, gentle breeze from the south-east, when the day was far advanced, the caravels passing most of the hours of light floating near each other in a lazy indolence, or barely stirring the water with their stems, at a rate little, if any, exceeding that of a mile an hour.
The Pinta kept near the Santa Maria, and the officers and crews of the two vessels conversed freely with each other concerning their hopes and situation. Columbus listened to these dialogues for a long time, endeavoring to collect the predominant feeling from the more guarded expressions that were thus publicly delivered, and watching each turn of the expressions with jealous vigilance. At length it struck him that the occasion was favorable to producing a good effect on the spirits of his followers.
"What hast thou thought of the chart I sent thee three days since, good Martin Alonzo?" called out the admiral. "Dost thou see in it aught to satisfy thee that we are approaching the Indies, and that our time of trial draweth rapidly to an end?"
At the first sound of the admiral's voice, every syllable was hushed among the people; for, in spite of their discontent, and their disposition even to rise against him, in their extremity, Columbus had succeeded in creating a profound respect for his judgment and his person among all his followers. " 'Tis a rare and well-designed chart, Señor Don Christopher," answered the master of the Pinta, "and doth a fair credit to him who hath copied and enlarged, as well as to him who first projected it. I doubt that it is the work of some learned scholar, that hath united the opinions of all the greater navigators in his map."
"The original came from one Paul Toscanelli, a learned Tuscan, who dwelleth at Firenze in that country; a man of exceeding knowledge, and of an industry in investigation that putteth idleness to shame. Accompanying the chart he sent a missive that hath much profound and learned matter on the subject of the Indies, and touching those islands that thou seest laid down with so much particularity. In that letter he speaketh of divers places, as being so many wonderful exemplars of the power of man; more especially of the port of Zaiton, which sendeth forth no less than a hundred ships yearly, loaded with the single product of the pepper-tree. He saith, moreover, that an ambassador came to the Holy Father, in the time of Eugenius IV., of blessed memory, to express the desire of the Great Khan, which meaneth King of Kings, in the dialect of those regions, to be on friendly terms with the Christians of the west, as we were then termed; but of the east, as will shortly be our designation in that part of the world."
"This is surprising, Señor!" exclaimed Pinzon: "how is it known, or is it known at all, of a certainty?"
"Beyond a question; since Paul stateth, in his missive, that he saw much of this same ambassador, living greatly in his society, Eugenius deceasing as lately as 1477. From the ambassador, no doubt a wise and grave personage, since no other would have been sent so far on a mission to the Head of the Church; from this discreet person, then, did Toscanelli gain much pleasant information concerning the populousness and vast extent of those distant countries, the gorgeousness of the palaces, and the glorious beauty of the cities. He spoke of one town, in particular, that surpasseth all others of the known world; and of a single river that hath two hundred noble cities on its own banks, with marble bridges spanning the stream. The chart before thee, Martin Alonzo, showeth that the exact distance from Lisbon to the city of Quisay is just three thousand nine hundred miles of Italy, or about a thousand leagues, steering always in a due-west direction." [2] [Footnote 2: NOTE. --It is worthy of remark that the city of Philadelphia stands, as near as may be, in the position that the honest Paul Toscanelli supposed to have been occupied by "the famous city of Quisay."]
"And doth the learned Tuscan say aught of the riches of those countries?" demanded Master Alonzo--a question that caused all within hearing to prick up their ears, afresh.
"That doth he, and in these precise and impressive words--'This is a noble country,' observed the learned Paul, in his missive, 'and ought to be explored by us, on account of its great riches, and the quantity of gold, silver, and precious stones, which might be obtained there.' He moreover described Quisay as being five-and-thirty leagues in circuit, and addeth that its name in the Castilian, is 'the City of Heaven.'"
"In which case," muttered Sancho, though in a tone so low that no one but Pepe heard him, "there is little need of our bearing thither the cross, which was intended for the benefit of man, and not of paradise."
"I see here two large islands, Señor Almirante," continued Pinzon, keeping his eyes on the chart, "one of which is called Antilla, and the other is the Cipango of which your Excellency so often speaketh."
"Even so, good Martin Alonzo, and thou also seest that they are laid down with a precision that must prevent any experienced navigator from missing his way, when in pursuit of them. These islands lie just two hundred and twenty-five leagues asunder."
"According to our reckoning, here, in the Pinta, noble Admiral, we cannot, then, be far from Cipango at this very moment."
"It would so seem by the reckonings, though I somewhat doubt their justness. It is a common error of pilots to run ahead of their reckonings, but in this instance, apprehension hath brought ye behind them. Cipango lieth many days' sail from the continent of Asia, and cannot, therefore, be far from this spot; still the currents have been adverse, and I doubt that it will be found that we are as near this island, good Martin Alonzo, as thou and thy companions imagine. Let the chart be returned, and I will trace our actual position on it, that all may see what reason there is to despond, and what reason to rejoice."
Pinzon now took the chart, rolled it together carefully, attached a light weight, and securing the whole with the end of a log-line, he hove it on board the Santa Maria, as a seaman makes a cast with the lead. So near were the vessels at the moment, that this communication was made without any difficulty; after which, the Pinta, letting fall an additional sail or two, flapped slowly ahead, her superiority, particularly in light winds, being at all times apparent.
Columbus now caused the chart to be spread over a table on the poop, and invited all who chose to draw near, in order that they might, with their own eyes, see the precise spot on the ocean where the admiral supposed the vessels to be. As each day's work was accurately laid down, and measured on the chart, by one as expert as the great navigator himself, there is little question that he succeeded in showing his people, as near as might be, and subject to the deduction in distance that was intentionally made, the longitude and latitude to which the expedition had then reached; and as this brought them quite near those islands which were believed to lie east of the continent of Asia, this tangible proof of their progress had far more effect than any demonstration that depended on abstract reasoning, even when grounded on premises that were true; most men submitting sooner to the authority of the senses, than to the influence of the mere mind. The seamen did not stop to inquire how it was settled that Cipango lay in the precise place where it had been projected on this famous chart, but, seeing it there, in black and white, they were disposed to believe it was really in the spot it appeared to be; and, as Columbus' reputation for keeping a ship's reckoning far surpassed that of any other navigator in the fleet, the facts were held to be established. Great was the joy, in consequence; and the minds of the people again passed from the verge of despair to an excess and illusion of hope, that was raised only to be disappointed.
That Columbus was sincere in all that related to this new delusion, with the exception of the calculated reduction of the true distance, is beyond a doubt. In common with the cosmographers of the age, he believed the circumference of the earth much less than actual measurement has since shown it to be; striking out of the calculation, at once, nearly the whole breadth of the Pacific Ocean. That this conclusion was very natural, will be seen by glancing at the geographical facts that the learned then possessed, as data for their theories.
It was known that the continent of Asia was bounded on the east by a vast ocean, and that a similar body of water bounded Europe on the west, leaving the plausible inference, on the supposition that the earth was a sphere, that nothing but islands existed between these two great boundaries of land. Less than half of the real circumference of the globe is to be found between the western and eastern verges of the old continent, as they were then known; but it was too bold an effort of the mind, to conceive that startling fact, in the condition of human knowledge at the close of the fifteenth century. The theories were consequently content with drawing the limits of the east and the west into a much narrower circle, finding no data for any freer speculation; and believing it a sufficient act of boldness to maintain the spherical formation of the earth at all. It is true, that the latter theory was as old as Ptolemy, and quite probably much older; but even the antiquity of a system begins to be an argument against it, in the minds of the vulgar, when centuries elapse, and it receives no confirmation from actual experiment. Columbus supposed his island of Cipango, or Japan, to lie about one hundred and forty degrees of longitude east of its actual position; and, as a degree of longitude in the latitude of Japan, or 35° north, supposing the surface of the earth to be perfectly spherical, is about fifty-six statute miles, it follows that Columbus had advanced this island, on his chart, more than seven thousand English miles toward the eastward, or a distance materially exceeding two thousand marine leagues.
All this, however, was not only hidden in mystery as regards the common men of the expedition, but it far out-stripped the boldest conceptions of the great navigator himself. Facts of this nature, notwithstanding, are far from detracting from the glory of the vast discoveries that were subsequently made, since they prove under what moral disadvantages the expedition was conceived, and under what a limited degree of knowledge it finally triumphed.
While Columbus was thus employed with the chart, it was a curious thing to witness the manner in which the seamen watched his smallest movement, studied the expression of his grave and composed countenance, and sought to read their fate in the contraction, or dilation, of his eyes. The gentlemen of the Santa Maria, and the pilots, stood at his elbow, and here and there some old mariner ventured to take his post at hand, where he could follow the slow progress of the pen, or note the explanation of a figure. Among these was Sancho, who was generally admitted to be one of the most expert seamen in the little fleet--in all things, at least, that did not require the knowledge of the schools. Columbus even turned to these men, and spoke to them kindly, endeavoring to make them comprehend a part of their calling, which they saw practised daily, without ever succeeding in acquiring a practical acquaintance with it, pointing out particularly the distance come, and that which yet remained before them. Others, again, the less experienced, but not the less interested among the crew, hung about the rigging, whence they could overlook the scene, and fancy they beheld demonstrations that came of theories which it as much exceeded their reasoning powers to understand, as it exceeded their physical vision to behold the desired Indies themselves. As men become intellectual, they entertain abstractions, leaving the dominion of the senses to take refuge in that of thought. Until this change arrives, however, we are all singularly influenced by a parade of positive things. Words spoken seldom produce the effect of words written; and the praise or censure that would enter lightly and unheeded into the ear, might even change our estimates of character, when received into the mind through the medium of the eye. Thus, the very seamen, who could not comprehend the reasoning of Columbus, fancied they understood his chart, and willingly enough believed that islands and continents must exist in the precise places where they saw them so plainly delineated.
After this exhibition, cheerfulness resumed its sway over the crew of the Santa Maria; and Sancho, who was generally considered as of the party of the admiral, was eagerly appealed to by his fellows, for many of the little circumstances that were thought to explain the features of the chart.
"Dost think, Sancho, that Cipango is as large as the admiral hath got the island on the chart?" asked one who had passed from the verge of despair to the other extreme; "that it lieth fairly, any eye may see, since its look is as natural as that of Ferro or Madeira."
"That hath he," answered Sancho, positively, "as one may see by its shape. Didst not notice the capes, and bays, and headlands, all laid down as plainly as on any other well-known coast? Ah! these Genoese are skilful navigators; and Señor Colon, our noble admiral, hath not come all this distance without having some notion in what roadstead he is to anchor."
In such conclusive arguments, the dullest minds of the crew found exceeding consolation; while among all the common people of the ship, there was not one who did not feel more confidence in the happy termination of the voyage, since he had this seeming ocular proof of the existence of land in the part of the ocean they were in.
When the discourse between the admiral and Pinzon ceased, the latter made sail on the Pinta, which vessel had slowly passed the Santa Maria, and was now a hundred yards, or more, ahead of her; neither going through the water at a rate exceeding a knot an hour. At the moment just mentioned, or while the men were conversing of their newly awakened hopes, a shout drew all eyes toward their consort, where Pinzon was seen on the poop, waving his cap in exultation, and giving the usual proofs of extravagant delight.
"Land! --Land! Señor!" he shouted. "I claim my reward! Land! Land!"
"In what direction, good Martin Alonzo?" asked Columbus, so eagerly that his voice fairly trembled. "In which quarter dost thou perceive this welcome neighbor?"
"Here, to the south-west," pointing in that direction--"a range of dim but noble mountains, and such as promise to satisfy the pious longings of the Holy Father himself!"
Every eye turned toward the south-west, and there, indeed, they fancied they beheld the long-sought proofs of their success. A faint, hazy mass was visible in the horizon, broken in outline, more distinctly marked than clouds usually are, and yet so obscure as to require a practised eye to draw it out of the obscurity of the void. This is the manner in which land often appears to seamen, in peculiar conditions of the atmosphere; others, under such circumstances, being seldom able to distinguish it at all. Columbus was so practised in all the phenomena of the ocean, that the face of every man in the Santa Maria was turned toward his, in breathless expectation of the result, as soon as the first glance had been given toward the point of the compass mentioned. It was impossible to mistake the expression of the admiral's countenance, which immediately became radiant with delight and pious exultation. Uncovering himself, he cast a look upward in unbounded gratitude, and then fell on his knees, to return open thanks to God. This was the signal of triumph, and yet, in their desolate situation, exultation was not the prevalent feeling of the moment. Like Columbus, the men felt their absolute dependence on God; and a sense of humble and rebuked gratitude came over every spirit, as it might be simultaneously. Kneeling, the entire crews of the three vessels simultaneously commenced the chant of "Gloria in excelsis Deo!" lifting the voice of praise, for the first time since the foundations of the earth were laid, in that deep solitude of the ocean. Matins and vespers, it is true, were then habitually repeated in most Christian ships; but this sublime chant was now uttered to waves that had been praising their Maker, in their might and in their calm, for so many thousand years, for the first time in the voice of man. " _Glory be to God on high! _" sang these rude mariners, with hearts softened by their escapes, dangers, and success, speaking as one man, though modulating their tones to the solemn harmony of a religious rite--"_and on earth peace, good will toward men. We praise thee, we bless thee, we worship thee, we glorify thee, we give thanks to thee for thy great glory! O Lord God! Heavenly King! God the Father Almighty!" &c., &c._ In this noble chant, which would seem to approach as near to the praises of angels as human powers can ever hope to rise, the voice of the admiral was distinct, and deep, but trembling with emotion.
When this act of pious gratitude was performed, the men ascended the rigging to make more certain of their success. All agreed in pronouncing the faintly delineated mass to be land, and the first sudden transport of unexpected joy was succeeded by the more regulated feelings of confirmed security. The sun set a little north of the dim mountains, and night closed around the scene, shadowing the ocean with as much gloom as is ever to be found beneath a tropical and cloudless sky. As the first watch was set, Columbus, who, whenever the winds would allow, had persevered in steering what he fancied to be a due-west course, to satisfy the longings of his people, ordered the vessels to haul up to south-west by compass, which was, in fact, heading south-west-by-south-southerly. The wind increased, and, as the admiral had supposed the land to be distant about twenty-five leagues, when last seen, all in the little fleet confidently relied on obtaining a full and complete view of it in the morning. Columbus himself entertained this hope, though he varied his course reluctantly, feeling certain that the continent would be met by sailing west, or what he thought to be west, though he could have no similar confidence as to making any island.
Few slept soundly that night--visions of oriental riches, and of the wonders of the East, crowding on the minds of even the least imaginative, converting their slumbers into dreams rendered uneasy by longings for gold, and anticipations of the wonders of the unknown East. The men left their hammocks, from hour to hour, to stand in the rigging, watching for some new proofs of their proximity to the much-desired islands, and straining their eyes in vain, in the hope of looking deeper into the obscurity in quest of objects that fancy had already begun to invest with forms. In the course of the night, the vessels ran in a direct line toward the south-west, seventeen of the twenty-five leagues that Columbus had supposed alone separated him from this new discovery; and just before the light dawned, every soul in the three vessels was stirring, in the eager hope of having the panorama of day open on such a sight, as they felt it to be but a slight grievance to have come so far, and to have risked so much, to behold.
"Yonder is a streak of light, glimmering in the east," cried Luis, in a cheerful voice; "and now, Señor Almirante, we may unite in terming you the honored of the earth!"
"All rests with God, my young friend," returned Columbus; "whether land is near us or not, it boundeth the western ocean, and to that boundary we must proceed. Thou art right, truly, friend Gutierrez; the light is beginning to shed itself along the eastern margin of the sea, and even to rise in an arch into the vault above it."
"Would that the sun rose, for this one day, in the west, that we might catch the first glimpse of our new possessions in that radiant field of heaven, which his coming rays are so gloriously illuminating above the track we have just passed!"
"That will not happen, Master Pedro, since Sol hath journeyed daily round this planet of ours, from east to west, since time began, and will so continue to journey until time shall cease. This _is_ a fact on which our senses may be trusted, though they mislead us in so many other things."
So reasoned Columbus, a man whose mind had out-stripped the age, in his favorite study, and who was usually so calm and philosophical; simply because he reasoned in the fetters of habit and prejudice. The celebrated system of Ptolemy, that strange compound of truth and error, was the favorite astronomical law of the day. Copernicus, who was then but a mere youth, did not reduce the just conception of Pythagoras--just in outline, though fanciful in its connection with both cause and effect--to the precision of science for many years after the discovery of America; and it is a strong proof of the dangers which attended the advancement of thought, that he was rewarded for this vast effort of human reason, by excommunication from the church, the maledictions of which actually rested on his soul, if not on his body, until within a few years of the present moment! This single circumstance will show the reader how much our navigator had to overcome in achieving the great office he had assumed.
But all this time, the day is dawning, and the light is beginning to diffuse itself over the entire panorama of ocean and sky. As means were afforded, each look eagerly took in the whole range of the western horizon, and a chill of disappointment settled on every heart, as suspicion gradually became confirmation, that no land was visible. The vessels had passed, in the night, those bounds of the visible horizon, where masses of clouds had settled; and no one could any longer doubt that his senses had been deceived by some accidental peculiarity in the atmosphere. All eyes now turned again to the admiral, who, while he felt the disappointment in his inmost heart, maintained a dignified calm that it was not easy to disturb.
"These signs are not infrequent at sea, Señor," he said to those near him, speaking loud enough, nevertheless, to be heard by most of the crew, "though seldom as treacherous as they have now proved to be. All accustomed to the ocean have doubtless seen them often; and as physical facts, they must be taken as counting neither for nor against us. As omens, each person will consider them as he putteth his trust in God, whose grace and mercy to us all, is yet, by a million of times, unrequited, and still would be, were we to sing _Glory in excelsis_, from morn till night, as long as breath lasted for the sacred office."
"Still, our hope was so very strong, Don Christopher," observed one of the gentlemen, "that we find the disappointment hard to be borne. You speak of omens, Señor; are there any physical signs of our being near the land of Cathay?"
"Omens come of God, if they come at all. They are a species of miracles preceding natural events, as real miracles surpass them. I think this expedition cometh of God; and I see no irreverence in supposing that this late appearance of land may have been heaped along the horizon for an encouraging sign to persevere, and as a proof that our labors will be rewarded in the end. I cannot say, nevertheless, that any but natural means were used, for these deceptions are familiar to us mariners."
"I shall endeavor so to consider it, Señor Almirante," gravely returned the other, and the conversation dropped.
The non-appearance of the land, which had been so confidently hoped for, produced a deep gloom in the vessels, notwithstanding; again changing the joy of their people into despondency. Columbus continued to steer due west by compass, or west-by-south-southerly, in reality, until meridian, when, yielding to the burning wishes of those around him, he again altered his course to the south-west. This course was followed until the ships had gone far enough in that direction to leave no doubt that the people had been misled by clouds, the preceding evening. At night, when not the faintest hope remained, the vessels kept away due west again, running, in the course of the twenty-four hours, quite thirty-one leagues, which were recorded before the crew as twenty-four.
For several succeeding days no material changes occurred. The wind continued favorable, though frequently so light as to urge the vessels very slowly ahead, reducing the day's progress sometimes to little more than fifty of our English miles. The sea was calm, and weeds were again met, though in much smaller quantities than before. September 29th, or the fourth day after Pinzon had called out "land," another frigate-bird was seen; and as it was the prevalent notion among seamen that this bird never flew far from the shore, some faint hopes were momentarily revived by his passage. Two pelicans also appeared, and the air was so soft and balmy that Columbus declared nothing but nightingales were wanting, to render the nights as delicious as those of Andalusia.
In this manner did birds come and go, exciting hopes that were doomed to be disappointed; sometimes flying in numbers that would seem to forbid the idea that they could be straying on the waste of waters, without the certainty of their position. Again, too, the attention of the admiral and of the people, was drawn to the variation of the needle, all uniting in the opinion that the phenomenon was only to be explained by the movements of the star. At length the first day of October arrived, and the pilots of the admiral's vessel seriously set to work to ascertain the distance they had come. They had been misled, as well as the rest, by the management of Columbus, and they now approached the latter, as he stood at his usual post on the poop, in order to give the result of their calculations, with countenances that were faithful indexes of the concern they felt.
"We are not less than five hundred and seventy-eight leagues west of Ferro, Señor Almirante," commenced one of the two; "a fearful distance to venture into the bosom of an unknown ocean!"
"Thou say'st true, honest Bartolemeo," returned Columbus, calmly; "though the further we venture, the greater will be the honor. Thy reckoning is even short of the truth, since this of mine, which is no secret from our people, giveth even five hundred and eighty-four leagues, fully six more than thine. But, after all, this scarce equalleth a voyage from Lisbon to Guinea, and we are not men to be outdone by the seamen of Don John!"
"Ah! Señor Almirante, the Portuguese have their islands by the way, and the old world at their elbows; while we, should this earth prove not to be really a sphere, are hourly sailing toward its verge, and are running into untried dangers!"
"Go to, Bartolemeo! thou talkest like a river-man who hath been blown outside his bar by a strong breeze from the land, and who fancieth his risks greater than man ever yet endured, because the water that wetteth his tongue is salt. Let the men see this reckoning, fearlessly; and strive to be of cheer, lest we remember thy misgivings beneath the groves of Cathay."
"The man is sorely beset with dread," coolly observed Luis, as the pilots descended from the poop with a lingering step and a heavy heart. "Even your six short leagues added to the weight on his spirit. Five hundred and seventy-eight were frightful, but five hundred and eighty-four became burdensome to his soul!"
"What would he then have thought had he known the truth, of which, young count, even thou art ignorant?"
"I hope you do not distrust my nerves, Don Christopher, that this matter is kept a secret from me?"
"I ought not, I do believe, Señor de Llera; and yet one gets to be distrustful even of himself, when weighty concerns hang by a thread. Hast thou any real idea of the length of the road we have come?"
"Not I, by St. Iago! Señor. It is enough for me that we are far from the Doña Mercedes, and a league more or less counts but little. Should your theory be true, and the earth prove to be round, I have the consolation of knowing that we shall get back to Spain, in time, even by chasing the sun."
"Still thou hast some general notion of our true distance from Ferro, knowing that each day it is lessened before the people."
"To tell you the truth, Don Christopher, arithmetic and I have little feeling for each other. For the life of me, I never could tell the exact amount of my own revenues, in figures, though it might not be so difficult to come at their results, in another sense. If truth were said, however, I should think your five hundred and eighty leagues might fairly be set down at some six hundred and ten or twenty."
"Add yet another hundred and thou wilt not be far from the fact. We are, at this moment, seven hundred and seven leagues from Ferro, and fast drawing near to the meridian of Cipango. In another glorious week, or ten days at most, I shall begin seriously to expect to see the continent of Asia!"
"This is travelling faster than I had thought, Señor," answered Luis, carelessly; "but journey on; one of your followers will not complain, though we circle the earth itself."
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"Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? The gulf, the rock of Salamis?"
Byron.
The adventurers had now been twenty-three days out of sight of land, all of which time, with the exception of a few very immaterial changes in the wind, and a day or two of calms, they had been steadily advancing toward the west, with a southern variation that ranged between a fourth of a point and a point and a quarter, though the latter fact was unknown to them. Their hopes had been so often raised to be disappointed, that a sort of settled gloom now began to prevail among the common men, which was only relieved by irregular and uncertain cries of "land," as the clouds produced their usual deceptions in the horizon. Still their feelings were in that feverish state which admits of any sudden change; and as the sea continued smooth as a river, the air balmy, and the skies most genial, they were prevented from falling into despair. Sancho reasoned, as usual, among his fellows, resisting ignorance and folly, with impudence and dogmatism; while Luis unconsciously produced an effect on the spirits of his associates by his cheerfulness and confidence. Columbus, himself, remained calm, dignified, and reserved, relying on the justice of his theories, and continuing resolute to attain his object. The wind remained fair, as before, and in the course of the night and day of the 2d of October, the vessels sailed more than a hundred miles still further into that unknown and mysterious sea. The weeds now drifted westerly, which was a material change, the currents previously setting, in the main, in an opposite direction. The 3d proved even a still more favorable day, the distance made reaching to forty-seven leagues. The admiral now began to think seriously that he had passed the islands laid down in his chart, and, with the high resolution of one sustained by grand conceptions, he decided to stand on west, with the intention of reaching the shores of the Indies, at once. The 4th was a better day than either, the little fleet passing steadily ahead, without deviating from its course, until it had fairly made one hundred and eighty-nine miles, much the greatest day's work it had yet achieved. This distance, so formidable to men who began to count each hour and each league with uneasiness, was reckoned to all on board, but Luis, as only one hundred and thirty-eight miles.
Friday, October 5th, commenced even more favorably, Columbus finding his ship gliding though the water--there being no sea to cause her to reel and stagger--at the rate of about eight miles the hour, which was almost as fast as she had ever been known to go, and which would have caused this day's work to exceed the last, had not the wind failed in the night. As it was, however, fifty-seven more leagues were placed between Ferro and the position of the vessel; a distance that was reduced to forty-five, with the crew. The following day brought no material change, Providence appearing to urge them on at a speed that must soon solve the great problem which the admiral had been so long discussing with the learned. It was already dark, when the Pinta came sheering down upon the quarter of the Santa Maria, until she had got so near that her commander hailed without the aid of a trumpet.
"Is Señor Don Christopher at his post, as usual?" hurriedly demanded Pinzon, speaking like one who felt he had matter of weight upon his mind: "I see persons on the poop; but know not if his Excellency be among them."
"What wouldst thou, good Martin Alonzo?" answered the admiral: "I am here, watching for the shores of Cipango, or Cathay, whichever God, in his goodness, may be pleased first to give us."
"I see so many reasons, noble admiral, for changing our course more to the south, that I could not resist the desire to come down and say as much. Most of the late discoveries have been made in the southern latitudes, and we might do well to get more southing."
"Have we gained aught by changing our course in this direction? Thy heart seemeth bent on more southern climes, worthy friend; while to my feelings we are now in the very paradise of sweets, land only excepted. Islands _may_ lie south, or even north of us; but a continent _must_ lie west. Why abandon a certainty for an uncertainty? the greater for the less? Cipango, or Cathay, for some pleasant spot, fragrant with spices no doubt, but without a name, and which can never equal the glories of Asia, either as a discovery or as a conquest?"
"I would, Señor, I might prevail on you to steer more to the south!"
"Go to, Martin Alonzo, and forget thy cravings. My heart is in the west, and thither reason teacheth me to follow it. First hear my orders, and then go seek the Niña, that thy brother, the worthy Vicente Yañez, may obey them also. Should aught separate us in the night, it shall be the duty of all to stand manfully toward the west, striving to find our company; for it would be a sad, as well as a useless thing, to be wandering alone in this unknown ocean."
Pinzon, though evidently much displeased, was fain to obey, and after a short but a sharp and loud altercation with the admiral, the commander of the Pinta caused her to sheer toward the felucca to execute the order.
"Martin Alonzo beginneth to waver," Columbus observed to Luis. "He is a bold and exceeding skilful mariner, but steadiness of object is not his greatest quality. He must be restrained from following the impulses of his weakness, by the higher hand of authority. Cathay! --Cathay is my aim!"
After midnight the wind increased, and for two hours the caravels glanced through the smooth ocean at their greatest speed, which equalled nine English miles the hour. Few now undressed, except to change their clothes; and Columbus slumbered on the poop that night, using an old sail for his couch. Luis was his companion, and both were up and on the deck with the first appearance of dawn. A common feeling seemed to exist among all, that land was near, and that a great discovery was about to be made. An annuity of ten thousand maravedis had been promised by the sovereigns to him who should first descry land, and every eye was on the gaze, whenever opportunity permitted, to gain the prize.
As the light diffused itself downward toward the margin of the ocean, in the western horizon, all thought there was the appearance of land, and sail was eagerly crowded on the different vessels, in order to press forward as fast as possible, that their respective crews might enjoy the earliest and the best chances of obtaining the first view. In this respect, circumstances singularly balanced the advantages and disadvantages between the competitors. The Niña was the fastest vessel in light airs and smooth water, but she was also the smallest. The Pinta came next in general speed, holding a middle place in size, and beating her consorts with a fresh breeze; while the Santa Maria, the last in point of sailing, had the highest masts, and consequently swept the widest range of horizon.
"There is a good feeling uppermost to-day, Señor Don Christopher," said Luis, as he stood at the admiral's side, watching the advance of the light; "and if eyes can do it, we may hope for the discovery of land. The late run hath awakened all our hopes, and land we must have, even if we raise it from the bottom of the ocean."
"Yonder is Pepe, the dutiful husband of Monica, perched on our highest yard, straining his eyes toward the west, in the hope of gaining the reward!" said Columbus, smiling. "Ten thousand maravedis, yearly, would, in sooth, be some atonement to carry back to the grieved mother and the deserted boy!"
"Martin Alonzo is in earnest, also, Señor. See how he presseth forward in the Pinta; but Vicente Yañez hath the heels of him, and is determined to make his salutations first to the Great Khan, neglectful of the elder brother's rights."
"Señor! --Señores!" shouted Sancho from the spar on which he was seated as composedly as a modern lady would recline on her ottoman--"the felucca is speaking in signals."
"This is true," cried Columbus--"Vicente Yañez showeth the colors of the queen, and there goeth a lombarda to announce some great event!"
As these were the signals directed in the event that either vessel should discover land before her consorts, little doubt was entertained that the leading caravel had, at last, really announced the final success of the expedition. Still the recent and grave disappointment was remembered, and, though all devoutly poured out their gratitude in mental offerings, their lips were sealed until the result should show the truth. Every rag of canvas was set, however, and the vessels seemed to hasten their speed toward the west, like birds tired with an unusual flight, which make new efforts with their wearied wings as the prospect of alighting suddenly breaks on their keen vision and active instincts.
Hour passed after hour, however, and brought no confirmation of the blessed tidings. The western horizon looked heavy and clouded throughout the morning, it is true, often deceiving even the most practised eyes; but as the day advanced, and the vessels had passed more than fifty miles further toward the west, it became impossible to ascribe the hopes of the morning to another optical illusion. The depression of spirits that succeeded this new disappointment was greater than any that had before existed, and the murmurs that arose were neither equivocal nor suppressed. It was urged that some malign influence was leading the adventurers on, finally to abandon them to despair and destruction, in a wilderness of waters. This is the moment when, it has been said, Columbus was compelled to make conditions with his followers, stipulating to abandon the enterprise altogether, should it fail of success in a given number of days. But this weakness has been falsely ascribed to the great navigator, who never lost the fullest exercise of his authority, even in the darkest moments of doubt; maintaining his purpose, and asserting his power, with the same steadiness and calmness, in what some thought this distant verge of the earth, as he had done in the rivers of Spain. Prudence and policy at last dictated a change of course, however, which he was neither too obstinate nor too proud to submit to, and he accordingly adopted it of his own accord.
"We are now quite a thousand leagues from Ferro, by my private reckoning, friend Luis," said Columbus to his young companion, in one of their private conferences, which took place after nightfall, "and it is really time to expect the continent of Asia. Hitherto I have looked for naught but islands, and not with much expectation of seeing even them, though Martin Alonzo and the pilots have been so sanguine in their hopes. The large flocks of birds, however, that have appeared to-day, would seem to invite us to follow their flights--land, out of doubt, being their aim. I shall accordingly change our course more to the south, though not as far as Pinzon desireth, Cathay being still my goal."
Columbus gave the necessary orders, and the two other caravels were brought within hail of the Santa Maria, when their commanders were directed to steer west-south-west. The reason for this change was the fact that so many birds had been seen flying in that direction. The intention of the admiral was to pursue this course for two days. Notwithstanding this alteration, no land was visible in the morning; but, as the wind was light, and the vessels had only made five leagues since the course was changed, the disappointment produced less despondency than usual. In spite of their uncertainty, all in the vessels now rioted in the balmy softness of the atmosphere, which was found so fragrant that it was delicious to breathe it. The weeds, too, became more plenty, and many of them were as fresh as if torn from their native rocks only a day or two previously. Birds, that unequivocally belonged to the land, were also seen in considerable numbers, one of which was actually taken; while ducks abounded, and another pelican was met. Thus passed the 8th of October, the adventurers filled with hope, though the vessels only increased their distance from Europe some forty miles in the course of the twenty-four hours. The succeeding day brought no other material change than a shift of wind, which compelled the admiral to alter his course to west-by-north, for a few hours. This caused him some uneasiness, for it was his wish to proceed due west, or west-southerly; though it afforded considerable relief to many among his people, who had been terrified by the prevalence of the winds in one direction. Had the variation still existed, this would have been, in fact, steering the very course the admiral desired to go; but by this time, the vessels were in a latitude and longitude where the needle resumed its powers and became faithful to its direction. In the course of the night, the trades also resumed their influence; and early on the morning of the 10th, the vessels again headed toward the west-south-west, by compass, which was, in truth, the real course, or as near to it as might be.
Such was the state of things when the sun rose on the morning of the 10th October, 1492. The wind had freshened, and all three of the vessels were running free the whole day, at a rate varying from five knots to nine. The signs of the proximity of land had been so very numerous of late, that, at every league of ocean they passed over, the adventurers had the strongest expectations of discovering it, and nearly every eye in all three of the ships was kept constantly bent on the western horizon, in the hope of its owner's being the first to make the joyful announcement of its appearance. The cry of "land" had been so frequent of late, however, that Columbus caused it to be made known that he who again uttered it causelessly, should lose the reward promised by the sovereigns, even should he happen to be successful in the end. This information induced more caution, and not a tongue betrayed its master's eagerness on this all-engrossing subject, throughout the anxious and exciting days of the 8th, 9th, and 10th October. But, their progress in the course of the 10th exceeding that made in the course of both the other days, the evening sky was watched with a vigilance even surpassing that which had attended any previous sunset. This was the moment most favorable for examining the western horizon, the receding light illuminating the whole watery expanse in that direction, in a way to give up all its secrets to the eye.
"Is that a hummock of land?" asked Pepe of Sancho, in a low voice, as they lay together on a yard, watching the upper limb of the sun, as it settled, like a glimmering star, beneath the margin of the ocean; "or is it some of this misguiding vapor that hath so often misled us of late?" " 'Tis neither, Pepe," returned the more cool and experienced Sancho; "but a rise of the sea, which is ever thus tossing itself upward on the margin of the ocean. Didst ever see a calm so profound, that the water left a straight circle on the horizon? No--no--there is no land to be seen in the west to-night; the ocean, in that quarter, looking as blank as if we stood on the western shore of Ferro, and gazed outward into the broad fields of the Atlantic. Our noble admiral may have the truth of his side, Pepe; but, as yet, he hath no other evidence of it than is to be found in his reasons."
"And dost thou, too, take sides against him, Sancho, and say that he is a madman who is willing to lead others to destruction, as well as himself, so that he die an admiral in fact, and a viceroy in fancy?"
"I take sides against no man whose doblas take sides with me, Pepe; for that would be quarrelling with the best friend that both the rich and poor can make, which is gold. Don Christopher is doubtless very learned, and one thing hath he settled to my satisfaction, even though neither he nor any of us ever see a single jewel of Cathay, or pluck a hair from the beard of the Great Khan, and that is, that this world is round; had it been a plain, all this water would not be placed at the outer side, since it would clearly run off, unless dammed up by land. Thou canst conceive that, Pepe?"
"That do I; it is reasonable and according to every man's experience. Monica thinketh the Genoese a saint!"
"Harkee, Pepe; thy Monica is no doubt an uncommonly sensible woman, else would she never have taken thee for a husband, when she might have chosen among a dozen of thy fellows. I once thought of the girl myself, and might have told her so, had she seen fit to call me a saint, too, which she did not, seeing that she used a very different epithet. But, admitting the Señor Colon to be a saint, he would be none the better admired for it, inasmuch as I never yet met with a saint, or even with a virgin, that could understand the bearings and distances of a run as short as that from Cadiz to Barcelona."
"Thou speakest irreverently, Sancho, of virgins and saints, seeing that they know every thing"-- "Ay, every thing but that. Our Lady of Rabida does not know south-east-and-by-southe-half-southe, from north-west-and-by-noathe-half-noathe. I have tried her, in this matter, and I tell thee she is as ignorant of it as thy Monica is ignorant of the manner in which the Duchess of Medina Sidonia saluteth the noble duke, her husband, when he returneth from hawking."
"I dare say the duchess would not know, either, what to say, were she in Monica's place, and were she called on to receive me, as Monica will be, when we return from this great expedition. If I have never hawked, neither hath the duke ever sailed for two-and-thirty days, in a west course from Ferro, and this, too, without once seeing land!"
"Thou say'st true, Pepe; nor hast thou ever yet done this and returned to Palos. But what meaneth all this movement on deck? Our people seem to be much moved by some feeling, while I can swear it is not from having discovered Cathay, or from having seen the Great Khan, shining like a carbuncle, on his throne of diamonds."
"It is rather that they do not see him thus, that the men are moved. Dost not hear angry and threatening words from the mouths of the troublesome ones?"
"By San Iago! were I Don Christopher, but I would deduct a dobla from the wages of each of the rascals, and give the gold to such peaceable men as you and me, Pepe, who are willing to starve to death, ere we will go back without a sight of Asia." " 'Tis something of this sort, of a truth, Sancho. Let us descend, that his Excellency may see that he hath some friends among the crew."
As Sancho assented to this proposition, he and Pepe stood on the deck in the next minute. Here, indeed, the people were found in a more mutinous state than they had been since the fleet left Spain. The long continuation of fair winds, and pleasant weather, had given them so much reason to expect a speedy termination of their voyage, that nearly the whole crew were now of opinion it was due to themselves to insist on the abandonment of an expedition that seemed destined to lead to nothing but destruction. The discussion was loud and angry, even one or two of the pilots inclining to think, with their inferiors, that further perseverance would certainly be useless, and might be fatal. When Sancho and Pepe joined the crowd, it had just been determined to go in a body to Columbus, and to demand, in terms that could not be misconceived, the immediate return of the ships to Spain. In order that this might be done with method, Pedro Alonzo Niño, one of the pilots, and an aged seaman called Juan Martin, were selected as spokesmen. At this critical moment, too, the admiral and Luis were seen descending from the poop, with an intent to retire to their cabin, when a rush was made aft, by all on deck, and twenty voices were heard simultaneously crying-- "Señor--Don Christopher--Your Excellency--Señor Almirante!"
Columbus stopped, and faced the people with a calmness and dignity that caused the heart of Niño to leap toward his mouth, and which materially checked the ardor of most of his followers.
"What would ye?" demanded the admiral, sternly. "Speak! Ye address a friend."
"We come to ask our precious lives, Señor," answered Juan Martin, who thought his insignificance might prove a shield--"nay, what is more, the means of putting bread into the mouths of our wives and children. All here are weary of this profitless voyage, and most think if it last any longer than shall be necessary to return, it will be the means of our perishing of want."
"Know ye the distance that lieth between us and Ferro, that ye come to me with this blind and foolish request? Speak, Niño; I see that thou art also of their number, notwithstanding thy hesitation."
"Señor," returned the pilot, "we are all of a mind. To go further into this blank and unknown ocean, is tempting God to destroy us, for our wilfulness. It is vain to suppose that this broad belt of water hath been placed by Providence around the habitable earth for any other purpose than to rebuke those who audaciously seek to be admitted to mysteries beyond their understanding. Do not all the churchmen, Señor--the pious prior of Santa Maria de Rabida, your own particular friend, included--tell us constantly of the necessity of submitting to a knowledge we can never equal, and to believe without striving to lift a veil that covers incomprehensible things?"
"I might retort on thee, honest Niño, with thine own words," answered Columbus, "and bid thee confide in those whose knowledge thou canst never equal, and to follow submissively where thou art totally unfitted to lead. Go to; withdraw with thy fellows, and let me hear no more of this."
"Nay, Señor," cried two or three in a breath, "we cannot perish without making our complaints heard. We have followed too far already, and, even now, may have gone beyond the means of a safe return. Let us, then, turn the heads of the caravels toward Spain, this night, lest we never live to see that blessed country again."
"This toucheth on revolt! Who among ye dare use language so bold, to your admiral?"
"All of us, Señor," answered twenty voices together. "Men need be bold, when their lives would be forfeited by silence."
"Sancho, art thou, too, of the party of these mutineers? Dost thou confess thy heart to be Spain-sick, and thy unmanly fears to be stronger than thy hopes of imperishable glory and thy longings for the riches and pleasures of Cathay?"
"If I do, Señor Don Almirante, set me to greasing masts, and take me from the helm, forever, as one unfit to watch the whirlings of the north star. Sail with the caravels, into the hall of the Great Khan, and make fast to his throne, and you will find Sancho at his post, whether it be at the helm or at the lead. He was born in a ship-yard, and hath a natural desire to know what a ship can do."
"And thou, Pepe? Hast thou so forgotten thy duty as to come with this language to thy commander? to the admiral and viceroy of thy sovereign, the Doña Isabella?"
"Viceroy over what?" exclaimed a voice from the crowd, without permitting Pepe to answer. "A viceroy over sea-weed, and one that hath tunny-fish, and whales, and pelicans, for subjects! We tell you, Señor Colon, that this is no treatment for Castilians, who require more substantial discoveries than fields of weeds, and islands of clouds!"
"Home! --Home! --Spain! --Spain! --Palos! --Palos!" cried nearly all together, Sancho and Pepe having quitted the throng and ranged themselves at the side of Columbus. "We will no further west, which is tempting God; but demand to be carried back whence we came, if, indeed, it be not already too late for so happy a deliverance."
"To whom speak ye in this shameless manner, graceless knaves?" exclaimed Luis, unconsciously laying a hand where it had been his practice to carry a rapier. "Get ye gone, or"-- "Be tranquil, friend Pedro, and leave this matter with me," interrupted the admiral, whose composure had scarce been deranged by the violent conduct of his subordinates. "Listen to what I have to say, ye rude and rebellious men, and let it be received as my final answer to any and all such demands as ye have just dared to make. This expedition hath been sent forth by the two sovereigns, your royal master and mistress, with the express design of crossing the entire breadth of the vast Atlantic, until it might reach the shores of India. Now, let what will happen, these high expectations shall not be disappointed; but westward we sail, until stopped by the land. For this determination, my life shall answer. Look to it, that none of yours be endangered by resistance to the royal orders, or by disrespect and disobedience to their appointed substitute; for, another murmur, and I mark the man that uttereth it, for signal punishment. In this ye have my full determination, and beware of encountering the anger of those whose displeasure may prove more fatal than these fancied dangers of the ocean.
"Look at what ye have before you, in the way of fear, and then at what ye have before ye, in the way of hope. In the first case, ye have every thing to dread from the sovereigns' anger, should ye proceed to a violent resistance of their authority; or, what is as bad, something like a certainty of your being unable to reach Spain, for want of food and water, should ye revolt against your lawful leaders and endeavor to return. For this, it is now too late. The voyage east must, as regards time, be double that we have just made, and the caravels are beginning to be lightened in their casks. Land, and land in this region, hath become necessary to us. Now look at the other side of the picture. Before ye, lieth Cathay, with all its riches, its novelties, and its glories! A region more wonderful than any that hath yet been inhabited by man, and occupied by a race as gentle as they are hospitable and just. To this must be added the approbation of the sovereigns, and the credit that will belong to the meanest mariner that hath manfully stood by his commander in achieving so great an end."
"If we will obey three days longer, Señor, will you then turn toward Spain, should no land be seen?" cried a voice from the crowd.
"Never," returned Columbus, firmly. "To India am I bound, and for India will I steer, though another month be needed to complete the journey. Go, then, to your posts or your hammocks, and let me hear no more of this."
There was so much natural dignity in the manner of Columbus, and when he spoke in anger, his voice carried so much of rebuke with it, that it exceeded the daring of ordinary men to presume to answer when he commanded silence. The people sullenly dispersed, therefore, though the disaffection was by no means appeased. Had there been only a single vessel in the expedition, it is quite probable that they would have proceeded to some act of violence; but, uncertain of the state of feeling in the Pinta and the Niña, and holding Martin Alonzo Pinzon in as much habitual respect as they stood in awe of Columbus, the boldest among them were, for the present, fain to give vent to their dissatisfaction in murmurs, though they secretly meditated decided measures, as soon as an opportunity for consultation and concert with the crews of the other vessels might offer.
"This looketh serious, Señor," said Luis, as soon as he and the admiral were alone again in their little cabin, "and, by St. Luke! it might cool the ardor of these knaves, did your Excellency suffer me to cast two or three of the most insolent of the vagabonds into the sea."
"Which is a favor that some among them have actually contemplated conferring upon thee and me," answered Columbus.
"Sancho keepeth me well informed of the feeling among the people, and it is now many days since he hath let me know this fact. We will proceed peaceably, if possible, Señor Gutierrez, or de Muños, whichever name thou most affectest, as long as we can; but should there truly arise an occasion to resort to force, thou wilt find that Christofero Colombo knoweth how to wield a sword as well as he knoweth how to use his instruments of science."
"How far do you really think us from land, Señor Almirante? I ask from curiosity, and not from dread; for though the ship floated on the very verge of the earth, ready to fall off into vacuum, you should hear no murmur from me."
"I am well assured of this, young noble," returned Columbus, affectionately squeezing the hand of Luis, "else wouldst thou not be here. I make our distance from Ferro exceed a thousand marine leagues; this is about the same as that at which I have supposed Cathay to lie from Europe, and it is, out of question, sufficiently far to meet with many of the islands that are known to abound in the seas of Asia. The public reckoning maketh the distance a little more than eight hundred leagues; but, in consequence of the favorable currents of which we have lately had so much, I doubt if we are not fully eleven hundred from the Canaries, at this moment, if not even further. We are doubtless a trifle nearer to the Azores, which are situated further west, though in a higher latitude."
"Then you think, Señor, that we may really expect land, ere many days?"
"So certain do I feel of this, Luis, that I should have little apprehension of complying with the terms of these audacious men, but for the humiliation. Ptolemy divided the earth into twenty-four hours, of fifteen degrees each, and I place but some five or six of these hours in the Atlantic. Thirteen hundred leagues, I feel persuaded, will bring us to the shores of Asia, and eleven of these thirteen hundred leagues do I believe we have come."
"To-morrow may then prove an eventful day, Señor Almirante; and now to our cots, where I shall dream of a fairer land than Christian eye ever yet looked upon, with the fairest maiden of Spain--nay, by San Pedro! of Europe--beckoning me on!"
Columbus and Luis now sought their rest. In the morning, it was evident by the surly looks of the people, that feelings like a suppressed volcano were burning in their bosoms, and that any untoward accident might produce an eruption. Fortunately, however, signs, of a nature so novel, soon appeared, as to draw off the attention of the most disaffected from their melancholy broodings. The wind was fresh, as usual fair, and, what was really a novelty since quitting Ferro, the sea had got up, and the vessels were riding over waves which removed that appearance of an unnatural calm that had hitherto alarmed the men with its long continuance. Columbus had not been on deck five minutes, when a joyful cry from Pepe drew all eyes toward the yard on which he was at work. The seaman was pointing eagerly at some object in the water, and rushing to the side of the vessel, all saw the welcome sign that had caught his gaze. As the ship lifted on a sea, and shot ahead, a rush of a bright fresh green was passed, and the men gave a loud shout, for all well knew that this plant certainly came from some shore, and that it could not have been long torn from the spot of its growth.
"This is truly a blessed omen!" said Columbus; "rushes cannot grow without the light of heaven, whatever may be the case with weeds."
This little occurrence changed, or at least checked, the feelings of the disaffected. Hope once more resumed its sway, and all who could, ascended the rigging to watch the western horizon. The rapid motion of the vessels, too, added to this buoyancy of feeling, the Pinta and Niña passing and repassing the admiral, as it might be in pure wantonness. A few hours later, fresh weeds were met, and about noon Sancho announced confidently that he had seen a fish which is known to live in the vicinity of rocks. An hour later, the Niña came sheering up toward the admiral, with her commander in the rigging, evidently desirous of communicating some tidings of moment.
"What now, good Vicente Yañez?" called out Columbus; "thou seemest the messenger of welcome news!"
"I think myself such, Don Christopher," answered the other. "We have just passed a bush bearing roseberries, quite newly torn from the tree! This is a sign that cannot deceive us."
"Thou say'st true, my friend. To the west! --to the west! Happy will he be whose eyes first behold the wonders of the Indies!"
It would not be easy to describe the degree of hope and exultation that now began to show itself among the people. Good-natured jests flew about the decks, and the laugh was easily raised where so lately all had been despondency and gloom. The minutes flew swiftly by, and every man had ceased to think of Spain, bending his thoughts again on the as yet unseen west.
A little later, a cry of exultation was heard from the Pinta, which was a short distance to windward and ahead of the admiral. As this vessel shortened sail and hove-to, lowering a boat, and then immediately kept away, the Santa Maria soon came foaming up under her quarter, and spoke her.
"What now, Martin Alonzo?" asked Columbus, suppressing his anxiety in an appearance of calmness and dignity. "Thou and thy people seem in an ecstasy!"
"Well may we be so! About an hour since, we passed a piece of the cane-plant, of the sort of which sugar is made in the East, as travellers say, and such as we often see in our own ports. But this is a trifling symptom of land compared to the trunk of a tree that we have also passed. As if Providence had not yet dealt with us with sufficient kindness, all these articles were met floating near each other; and we have thought them of sufficient value to lower a boat, that we might possess them."
"Lay thy sails to the mast, good Martin Alonzo, and send thy prizes hither, that I may judge of their value."
Pinzon complied, and the Santa Maria being hove-to, at the same time, the boat soon touched her side. Martin Alonzo made but one bound from the thwart to the gunwale of the ship, and was soon on the deck of the admiral. Here he eagerly displayed the different articles that his men tossed after him, all of which had been taken out of the sea, not an hour before.
"See, noble Señores," said Martin Alonzo, almost breathless with haste to display his treasures--"this is a sort of board, though of unknown wood, and fashioned with exceeding care: here is also another piece of cane: this is a plant that surely cometh from the land; and most of all, this is a walking-stick, fashioned by the hand of man, and that, too, with exceeding care!"
"All this is true," said Columbus, examining the different articles, one by one; "God, in his might and power, be praised for these comfortable evidences of our near approach to a new world! None but a malignant Infidel can now doubt of our final success."
"These things have questionless come from some boat that hath been upset, which will account for their being so near each other in the water," said Martin Alonzo, willing to sustain his physical proofs by a plausible theory. "It would not be wonderful were drowned bodies near."
"Let us hope not, Martin Alonzo," answered the admiral; "let us fancy naught so melancholy. A thousand accidents may have thrown these articles together, into the sea; and once there, they would float in company for a twelvemonth, unless violently separated. But come they whence they may, to us, they are infallible proofs that not only land is near, but land which is the abiding-place of men."
It is not easy to describe the enthusiasm that now prevailed in all the vessels. Hitherto they had met with only birds, and fishes, and weeds, signs that are often precarious; but here was such proof of their being in the neighborhood of their fellow-creatures, as it was not easy to withstand. It was true, articles of this nature might drift, in time, even across the vast distance they had come; but it was not probable that they would drift so far in company. Then, the berries were fresh, the board was of an unknown wood, and the walking-stick, in particular, if such indeed was its use, was carved in a manner that was never practised in Europe. The different articles passed from hand to hand, until all in the ship had examined them; and every thing like doubt vanished before this unlooked-for confirmation of the admiral's predictions. Pinzon returned to his vessel, sail was again made, and the fleet continued to steer to the west-south-west, until the hour of sunset.
Something like a chill of disappointment again came over the more faint-hearted of the people, however, as they once more, or for the thirty-fourth time since quitting Gomera, saw the sun sink behind a watery horizon. More than a hundred vigilant eyes watched the glowing margin of the ocean, at this interesting moment, and though the heavens were cloudless, naught was visible but the gloriously tinted vault, and the outline of water, broken into the usual ragged forms of the unquiet element.
The wind freshened as evening closed, and Columbus having called his vessels together, as was usual with him at that hour, he issued new orders concerning the course. For the last two or three days they had been steering materially to the southward of west, and Columbus, who felt persuaded that his most certain and his nearest direction from land to land, was to traverse the ocean, if possible, on a single parallel of latitude, was anxious to resume his favorite course, which was what he fancied to be due west. Just as night drew around the mariners, accordingly, the ships edged away to the required course, and ran off at the rate of nine miles the hour, following the orb of day as if resolute to penetrate into the mysteries of his nightly retreat, until some great discovery should reward the effort.
Immediately after this change in the course, the people sang the vesper hymn, as usual, which, in that mild sea, they often deferred until the hour when the watch below sought their hammocks. That night, however, none felt disposed to sleep; and it was late when the chant of the seamen commenced, with the words of "_Salve fac Regina_." It was a solemn thing to hear the songs of religious praise mingling with the sighings of the breeze and the wash of the waters, in that ocean solitude; and the solemnity was increased by the expectations of the adventurers and the mysteries that lay behind the curtain they believed themselves about to raise. Never before had this hymn sounded so sweetly in the ears of Columbus, and Luis found his eyes suffusing with tears, as he recalled the soft thrilling notes of Mercedes' voice, in her holy breathings of praise at this hour. When the office ended, the admiral called the crew to the quarter-deck, and addressed them earnestly from his station on the poop.
"I rejoice, my friends," he said, "that you have had the grace to chant the vesper hymn in so devout a spirit, at a moment when there is so much reason to be grateful to God for his goodness to us throughout this voyage. Look back at the past and see if one of you, the oldest sailor of your number, can recall any passage at sea, I will not say of equal length, for that no one here hath ever before made, but any equal number of days at sea, in which the winds have been as fair, the weather as propitious, or the ocean as calm, as on this occasion. Then what cheering signs have encouraged us to persevere! God is in the midst of the ocean, my friends, as well as in his sanctuaries of the land. Step by step, as it were, hath he led us on, now filling the air with birds, now causing the sea to abound with unusual fishes, and then spreading before us fields of plants, such as are seldom met far from the rocks where they grew. The last and best of his signs hath he given us this day. My own calculations are in unison with these proofs, and I deem it probable that we reach the land this very night. In a few hours, or when we shall have run the distance commanded by the eye, as the light left us, I shall deem it prudent to shorten sail; and I call on all of you to be watchful, lest we unwittingly throw ourselves on the strange shores. Ye know that the sovereigns have graciously promised ten thousand maravedis, yearly, and for life, to him who shall first discover land: to this rich reward I will add a doublet of velvet, such as it would befit a grandee to wear. Sleep not, then; but, at the turn of the night, be all vigilance and watchfulness. I am now most serious with ye, and look for land this very blessed night."
These encouraging words produced their full effect, the men scattering themselves in the ship, each taking the best position he could, to earn the coveted prizes. Deep expectation is always a quiet feeling, the jealous senses seeming to require silence and intensity of concentration, in order to give them their full exercise. Columbus remained on the poop, while Luis, less interested, threw himself on a sail, and passed the time in musing on Mercedes, and in picturing to himself the joyful moment when he might meet her again, a triumphant and successful adventurer.
The death-like silence that prevailed in the ship, added to the absorbing interest of that important night. At the distance of a mile was the little Niña, gliding on her course with a full sail; while half a league still further in advance, was to be seen the shadowy outline of the Pinta, which preceded her consorts, as the swiftest sailer with a fresh breeze. Sancho had been round to every sheet and brace, in person, and never before had the admiral's ship held as good way with her consorts as on that night, all three of the vessels appearing to have caught the eager spirit of those they contained, and to be anxious to outdo themselves. At moments the men started, while the wind murmured through the cordage, as if they heard unknown and strange voices from a mysterious world; and fifty times, when the waves combed upon the sides of the ship, did they turn their heads, expecting to see a crowd of unknown beings, fresh from the eastern world, pouring in upon their decks.
As for Columbus, he sighed often; for minutes at a time would he stand looking intently toward the west, like one who strove to penetrate the gloom of night, with organs exceeding human powers. At length he bent his body forward, gazed intently over the weather railing of the ship, and then, lifting his cap, he seemed to be offering up his spirit in thanksgiving or prayer. All this Luis witnessed where he lay: at the next instant he heard himself called.
"Pero Gutierrez--Pedro de Muños--Luis--whatever thou art termed," said Columbus, his fine masculine voice trembling with eagerness--"come hither, son; tell me if thine eyes accord with mine. Look in this direction--here, more on the vessel's beam; seest thou aught uncommon?"
"I saw a light, Señor; one that resembled a candle, being neither larger nor more brilliant; and to me it appeared to move, as if carried in the hand, or tossed by waves."
"Thy eyes did not deceive thee; thou seest it doth not come of either of our consorts, both of which are here on the bow."
"What do you, then, take this light to signify, Don Christopher?"
"Land! It is either on the land itself, rendered small by distance, or it cometh of some vessel that is a stranger to us, and which belongeth to the Indies. There is Rodrigo Sanchez of Segovia, the comptroller of the fleet, beneath us; descend, and bid him come hither."
Luis did as required, and presently the comptroller was also at the admiral's side. Half an hour passed, and the light was not seen again; then it gleamed upward once or twice, like a torch, and finally disappeared. This circumstance was soon known to all in the ship, though few attached the same importance to it as Columbus himself.
"This is land," quietly observed the admiral, to those near his person: "ere many hours we may expect to behold it. Now ye may pour out your souls in gratitude and confidence, for in such a sign there can be no deception. No phenomenon of the ocean resembleth that light; and my reckoning placeth us in a quarter of the world where land _must_ exist, else is the earth no sphere."
Notwithstanding this great confidence on the part of the admiral, most of those in the ship did not yet feel the same certainty in the result, although all felt the strongest hopes of falling in with land next day. Columbus saying no more on the subject, the former silence was soon resumed, and, in a few minutes, every eye was again turned toward the west, in anxious watchfulness. In this manner the time passed away, the ships driving ahead with a speed much exceeding that of their ordinary rate of sailing, until the night had turned, when its darkness was suddenly illuminated by a blaze of light, and the report of a gun from the Pinta came struggling up against the fresh breeze of the trades.
"There speaketh Martin Alonzo!" exclaimed the admiral; "and we may be certain that he hath not given the signal idly. Who sitteth on the top-gallant yard, there, on watch for wonders ahead?"
"Señor Don Almirante, it is I," answered Sancho. "I have been here since we sang the vesper hymn."
"Seest thou aught unusual, westward? Look vigilantly, for we touch on mighty things!"
"Naught, Señor, unless it be that the Pinta is lessening her canvas, and the Niña is already closing with our fleet consort--nay, I now see the latter shortening sail also!"
"For these great tidings, all honor and praise be to God! These are proofs that no false cry hath this time misled their judgments. We will join our consorts, good Bartolemeo, ere we take in a single inch of canvas."
Every thing was now in motion on board the Santa Maria, which went dashing ahead for another half hour, when she came up with the two other caravels, both of which had hauled by the wind, under short canvas, and were forging slowly through the water, on different tacks, like coursers cooling themselves after having terminated a severe struggle by reaching the goal.
"Come hither, Luis," said Columbus, "and feast thine eyes with a sight that doth not often meet the gaze of the best of Christians."
The night was far from dark, a tropical sky glittering with a thousand stars, and even the ocean itself appearing to emit a sombre, melancholy light. By the aid of such assistants it was possible to see several miles, and more especially to note objects on the margin of the ocean. When the young man cast his eyes to leeward, as directed by Columbus, he very plainly perceived a point where the blue of the sky ceased, and a dark mound rose from the water, stretching for a few leagues southward, and then terminated, as it had commenced, by a union between the watery margin of the ocean and the void of heaven. The intermediate space had the defined outline, the density, and the hue of land, as seen at midnight.
"Behold the Indies!" said Columbus; "the mighty problem is solved! This is doubtless an island, but a continent is near. Laud be to God!"
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"There is a Power, whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast-- The desert and illimitable air-- Lone wandering, but not lost."
Bryant.
The two or three hours that succeeded, were hours of an extraordinary and intense interest. The three vessels stood hovering off the dusky shore, barely keeping at a safe distance, stripped of most of their canvas, resembling craft that cruised leisurely at a given point, indifferent to haste or speed. As they occasionally and slowly passed each other, words of heart-felt congratulation were exchanged; but no noisy or intemperate exultation was heard on that all-important night. The sensations excited in the adventurers, by their success, were too deep and solemn for any such vulgar exhibition of joy; and perhaps there was not one among them all who did not, at that moment, inwardly confess his profound submission to, and absolute dependence on a Divine Providence.
Columbus was silent. Emotions like his seldom find vent in words; but his heart was overflowing with gratitude and love. He believed himself to be in the further east, and to have reached that part of the world by sailing west; and it is natural to suppose that he expected the curtain of day would rise on some of those scenes of oriental magnificence which had been so eloquently described by the Polos and other travellers in those remote and little-known regions. That this or other islands were inhabited, the little he had seen sufficiently proved; but, as yet, all the rest was conjecture of the wildest and most uncertain character. The fragrance of the land, however, was very perceptible in the vessels, thus affording an opportunity to two of the senses to unite in establishing their success.
At length the long wished-for day approached, and the eastern sky began to assume the tints that precede the appearance of the sun. As the light diffused itself athwart the dark blue ocean, and reached the island, the outlines of the latter became more and more distinct; then objects became visible on its surface, trees, glades, rocks, and irregularities, starting out of the gloom, until the whole picture was drawn in the gray, solemn colors of morning. Presently the direct rays of the sun touched it, gilding its prominent points, and throwing others into shadow. It then became apparent that the discovery was that of an island of no great extent, well wooded, and of a verdant and pleasant aspect. The land was low, but possessed an outline sufficiently graceful to cause it to seem a paradise in the eyes of men who had seriously doubted whether they were ever to look on solid ground again. The view of his mother earth is always pleasant to the mariner who has long gazed on nothing but water and sky; but thrice beautiful did it now seem to men who not only saw in it their despair cured, but their most brilliant hopes revived. From the position of the land near him, Columbus did not doubt that he had passed another island, on which the light had been seen, and, from his known course, this conjecture has since been rendered almost certain.
The sun had scarcely risen, when living beings were seen rushing out of the woods, to gaze in astonishment at the sudden appearance of machines, that were at first mistaken by the untutored islanders, for messengers from heaven. Shortly after, Columbus anchored his little fleet, and landed to take possession in the name of the two sovereigns.
As much state was observed on this occasion as the limited means of the adventurers would allow. Each vessel sent a boat, with her commander. The admiral, attired in scarlet, and carrying the royal standard, proceeded in advance, while Martin Alonzo, and Vicente Yañez Pinzon, followed, holding banners bearing crosses, the symbol of the expedition, with letters representing the initials of the two sovereigns, or F. and Y., for Fernando and Ysabel.
The forms usual to such occasions were observed on reaching the shore. Columbus took possession, rendered thanks to God for the success of the expedition, and then began to look about him in order to form some estimate of the value of his discovery. [3] [Footnote 3: It is a singular fact that the position and name of the precise island that was first fallen in with, on this celebrated voyage, remain to this day, if not a matter of doubt, at least a matter of discussion. By most persons, some of the best authorities included, it is believed that the adventurers made Cat Island, as the place is now called, though the admiral gave it the appellation of San Salvador; while others contend for what is now termed Turk's Island. The reason given for the latter opinion is the position of the island, and the course subsequently steered in order to reach Cuba. Muñoz is of opinion that it was Watling's Island, which lies due east of Cat Island, at the distance of a degree of longitude, or a few hours' run. As respects Turk's Island, the facts do not sustain the theory. The course steered, after quitting the island, was not west, but south-west; and we find Columbus anxious to get south to reach the island of Cuba, which was described to him by the natives, and which he believed to be Cipango. No reason is given by Muñoz for his opinion; but Watling's Island does not answer the description of the great navigator, while it is so placed as to have lain quite near his course, and was doubtless passed unseen in the darkness. It is thought the light so often observed by Columbus was on this island.]
No sooner were the ceremonies observed, than the people crowded round the admiral, and began to pour out their congratulations for his success, with their contrition for their own distrust and disaffection. The scene has often been described as a proof of the waywardness and inconstancy of human judgments; the being who had so lately been scowled on as a reckless and selfish adventurer, being now regarded as little less than a God. The admiral was no more elated by this adulation, than he had been intimidated by the previous dissatisfaction, maintaining his calmness of exterior and gravity of demeanor, with those who pressed around him, though a close observer might have detected the gleaming of triumph in his eye, and the glow of inward rapture on his cheek.
"These honest people are as inconstant in their apprehensions, as they are extreme in their rejoicings," said Columbus to Luis, when liberated a little from the throng; "yesterday they would have cast me into the sea, and to-day they are much disposed to forget God, himself, in his unworthy creature. Dost not see, that the men who gave us most concern, on account of their discontent, are now the loudest in their applause?"
"This is but nature, Señor; fear flying from panic to exultation. These knaves fancy they are praising you, when they are, in truth, rejoicing in their own escape from some unknown but dreaded evil. Our friends Sancho and Pepe seem not to be thus overwhelmed, for while the last is gathering flowers from this shore of India, the first seems to be looking about him with commendable coolness, as if he might be calculating the latitude and longitude of the Great Khan's doblas."
Columbus smiled, and, accompanied by Luis, he drew nearer to the two men mentioned, who were a little apart from the rest of the group. Sancho was standing with his hands thrust into the bosom of his doublet, regarding the scene with the coolness of a philosopher, and toward him the admiral first directed his steps.
"How is this, Sancho of the ship-yard-gate?" said the great navigator; "thou lookest on this glorious scene as coolly as thou wouldst regard a street in Moguer, or a field in Andalusia?"
"Señor Don Almirante, the same hand made both. This is not the first island on which I have landed; nor are yonder naked savages the first men I have seen who were not dressed in scarlet doublets."
"But hast thou no feeling for success--no gratitude to God for this vast discovery? Reflect, my friend, we are on the confines of Asia, and yet have we come here by holding a western course."
"That the last is true, Señor, I will swear myself, having held the tiller in mine own hands no small part of the way. Do you think, Señor Don Almirante, that we have come far enough in this direction to have got to the back side of the earth, or to stand, as it might be, under the very feet of Spain?"
"By no means. The realms of the Great Khan will scarcely occupy the position you mean."
"Then, Señor, what will there be to prevent the doblas of that country from falling off into the air, leaving us our journey for our pains?"
"The same power that will prevent our caravels from dropping out of the sea, and the water itself from following. These things depend on natural laws, my friend, and nature is a legislator that will be respected."
"It is all Moorish to me," returned Sancho, rubbing his eye-brows. "Here we are, of a verity, if not actually beneath the feet of Spain, standing, as it might be, on the side of the house; and yet I find no more difficulty in keeping on an even keel, than I did in Moguer--by Santa Clara! less, in some particulars, good solid Xeres wine being far less plenty here than there."
"Thou art no Moor, Sancho, although thy father's name be a secret. And thou, Pepe, what dost thou find in those flowers to draw thy attention so early from all these wonders?"
"Señor, I gather them for Monica. A female hath a more delicate feeling than a man, and she will be glad to see with what sort of ornaments God hath adorned the Indies."
"Dost thou fancy, Pepe, that thy love can keep those flowers in bloom, until the good caravel shall recross the Atlantic?" demanded Luis, laughing.
"Who knoweth, Señor Gutierrez? A warm heart maketh a thriving nursery. You would do well, too, if you prefer any Castilian lady to all others, to bethink you of her beauty, and gather some of these rare plants to deck her hair."
Columbus now turned away, the natives seeming disposed to approach the strangers, while Luis remained near the young sailor, who still continued to collect the plants of the tropics. In a minute our hero was similarly employed; and long ere the admiral and the wondering islanders had commenced their first parley, he had arranged a gorgeous _bouquet_, which he already fancied in the glossy dark hair of Mercedes.
The events of a public nature that followed, are too familiar to every intelligent reader to need repetition here. After passing a short time at San Salvador, Columbus proceeded to other islands, led on by curiosity, and guided by real or fancied reports of the natives, until the 28th, when he reached that of Cuba. Here he imagined, for a time, that he had found the continent, and he continued coasting it, first in a north-westerly, and then in a south-easterly direction, for near a month. Familiarity with the novel scenes that offered soon lessened their influence, and the inbred feelings of avarice and ambition began to resume their sway in the bosoms of several of those who had been foremost in manifesting their submission to the admiral, when the discovery of land so triumphantly proved the justice of his theories, and the weakness of their own misgivings. Among others who thus came under the influence of their nature, was Martin Alonzo Pinzon, who, finding himself almost entirely excluded from the society of the young Count of Llera, in whose eyes he perceived he filled but a very subordinate place, fell back on his own local importance, and began to envy Columbus a glory that he now fancied he might have secured for himself. Hot words had passed between the admiral and himself, on more than one occasion, before the land was made, and every day something new occurred to increase the coldness between them.
It forms no part of this work to dwell on the events that followed, as the adventurers proceeded from island to island, port to port, and river to river. It was soon apparent that very important discoveries had been made; and the adventurers were led on day by day, pursuing their investigations, and following directions that were ill comprehended, but which, it was fancied, pointed to mines of gold. Everywhere they met with a gorgeous and bountiful nature, scenery that fascinated the eye, and a climate that soothed the senses; but, as yet, man was found living in the simplest condition of the savage state. The delusion of being in the Indies was general, and every intimation that fell from those untutored beings, whether by word or sign, was supposed to have some reference to the riches of the east. All believed that, if not absolutely within the kingdom of the Great Khan, they were at least on its confines. Under such circumstances, when each day actually produced new scenes, promising still greater novelties, few bethought them of Spain, unless it were in connection with the glory of returning to her, successful and triumphant. Even Luis dwelt less intently in his thoughts on Mercedes, suffering her image, beautiful as it was, to be momentarily supplanted by the unusual spectacles that arose before his physical sight in such constant and unwearied succession. Little substantial, beyond the fertile soil and genial climate, offered, it is true, in the way of realizing all the bright expectations of the adventurers in connection with pecuniary advantages; but each moment was fraught with hope, and no one knew what a day would bring forth.
Two agents were at length sent into the interior to make discoveries, and Columbus profited by the occasion to careen his vessels. About the time this mission was expected to return, Luis sallied forth with a party of armed men to meet it, Sancho making one of his escort. The ambassadors were met on their way back at a short day's march from the vessels, accompanied by a few of the natives, who were following with intense curiosity, expecting at each moment to see their unknown visitors take their flight toward heaven. A short halt was made for the purpose of refreshing themselves, after the two parties had joined; and Sancho, as reckless of danger on the land as on the ocean, stalked into a village that lay near the halting place. Here he endeavored to make himself as agreeable to the inhabitants as one of his appearance very well could, by means of signs. Sancho figured in this little hamlet under some such advantages as those that are enjoyed in the country by a great man from town; the spectators not being, as yet, sufficiently sophisticated to distinguish between the cut of a doublet and the manner of wearing it, as between a clown and a noble. He had not been many minutes playing the grandee among these simple beings, when they seemed desirous of offering to him some mark of particular distinction. Presently, a man appeared, holding certain dark-looking and dried leaves, which he held out to the hero of the moment in a deferential manner, as a Turk would offer his dried sweet-meats, or an American his cake. Sancho was about to accept the present, though he would greatly have preferred a dobla, of which he had not seen any since the last received from the admiral, when a forward movement was made by most of the Cubans, who humbly, and with emphasis, uttered the word "tobacco"--"tobacco." On this hint, the person who held forth the offering drew back, repeated the same word in an apologizing manner, and set about making what, it was now plain was termed a "tobacco," in the language of that country. This was soon effected, by rolling up the leaves in the form of a rude segar, when a "tobacco," duly manufactured, was offered to the seaman. Sancho took the present, nodded his head condescendingly, repeated the words himself, in the best manner he could, and thrust the "tobacco" into his pocket. This movement evidently excited some surprise among the spectators, but, after a little consultation, one of them lighted an end of a roll, applied the other to his mouth, and began to puff forth volumes of a fragrant light smoke, not only to his own infinite satisfaction, but seemingly to that of all around him. Sancho attempted an imitation, which resulted, as is common with the tyro in this accomplishment, in his reeling back to his party with the pallid countenance of an opium-chewer, and a nausea that he had not experienced since the day he first ventured beyond the bar of Saltes, to issue on the troubled surface of the Atlantic.
This little scene might be termed the introduction of the well-known American weed into civilized society, the misapprehension of the Spaniards, touching the appellation, transferring the name of the roll to the plant itself. Thus did Sancho, of the ship-yard-gate, become the first Christian tobacco smoker, an accomplishment in which he was so soon afterward rivalled by some of the greatest men of his age, and which has extended down to our own times.
On the return of his agents, Columbus again sailed, pushing his way along the north shore of Cuba. While struggling against the trades, with a view to get to the eastward, he found the wind too fresh, and determined to bear up for a favorite haven in the island of Cuba, that he had named Puerto del Principe. With this view a signal was made to call the Pinta down, that vessel being far to windward; and, as night was near, lights were carried in order to enable Martin Alonzo to close with his commander. The next morning, at the dawn of day, when Columbus came on deck, he cast a glance around him, and beheld the Niña, hove-to under his lee, but no signs of the other caravel.
"Have none seen the Pinta?" demanded the admiral, hastily, of Sancho, who stood at the helm.
"Señor, _I_ did, as long as eyes could see a vessel that was striving to get out of view. Master Martin Alonzo hath disappeared in the eastern board, while we have been lying-to, here, in waiting for him to come down."
Columbus now perceived that he was deserted by the very man who had once shown so much zeal in his behalf, and who had given, in the act, new proof of the manner in which friendship vanishes before self-interest and cupidity. There had been among the adventurers many reports of the existence of gold mines, obtained from the descriptions of the natives; and the admiral made no doubt that his insubordinate follower had profited by the superior sailing of his caravel, to keep the wind, in the expectation to be the first to reach the Eldorado of their wishes. As the weather still continued unfavorable, however, the Santa Maria and the Niña returned to port, where they waited for a change. This separation occurred on the 21st of November, at which moment the expedition had not advanced beyond the north coast of Cuba.
From this time until the sixth of the following month, Columbus continued his examination of this noble island, when he crossed what has since been termed the "windward passage," and first touched on the shores of Hayti. All this time, there had been as much communication as circumstances would allow, with the aborigines, the Spaniards making friends wherever they went, as a consequence of the humane and prudent measures of the admiral. It is true that violence had been done, in a few instances, by seizing half a dozen individuals in order to carry them to Spain, as offerings to Doña Isabella; but this act was easily reconcilable to usage in that age, equally on account of the deference that was paid to the kingly authority, and on the ground that the seizures were for the good of the captives' souls.
The adventurers were more delighted with the bold, and yet winning aspect of Hayti, than they had been with even the adjacent island of Cuba. The inhabitants were found to be handsomer and more civilized than any they had yet seen, while they retained the gentleness and docility that had proved so pleasing to the admiral. Gold, also, was seen among them in considerable quantities; and the Spaniards set on foot a trade of some extent, in which the usual incentive of civilized man was the great aim of one side, and hawk's-bells appear to have been the principal desideratum with the other.
In this manner, and in making hazardous advances along the coast, the admiral was occupied until the 20th of the month, when he reached a point that was said to be in the vicinity of the residence of the Great Cacique of all that portion of the island. This prince, whose name, as spelt by the Spaniards, was Guacanagari, had many tributary caciques, and was understood, from the half-intelligible descriptions of his subjects, to be a monarch that was much beloved. On the 22d, while still lying in the Bay of Acúl, where the vessels had anchored two days previously, a large canoe was seen entering the haven. It was shortly after announced to the admiral that this boat contained an ambassador from the Great Cacique, who brought presents from his master, with a request that the vessels would move a league or two further east, and anchor off the town inhabited by the prince himself. The wind preventing an immediate compliance, a messenger was despatched with a suitable answer, and the ambassador returned. Fatigued with idleness, anxious to see more of the interior, and impelled by a constitutional love of adventure, Luis, who had struck up a hasty friendship with a young man called Mattinao, who attended the ambassador, asked permission to accompany him, taking his passage in the canoe. Columbus gave his consent to this proposal with a good deal of reluctance, the rank and importance of our hero inducing him to avoid the consequences of any treachery or accident. The importunity of Luis finally prevailed, however, and he departed with many injunctions to be discreet, being frequently admonished of the censure that would await the admiral in the event of any thing serious occurring. As a precaution, too, Sancho Mundo was directed to accompany the young man, in this chivalrous adventure, in the capacity of an esquire.
No weapon more formidable than a blunt arrow having yet been seen in the hands of the natives, the young Count de Llera declined taking his mail, going armed only with a trusty sword, the temper of which had been tried on many a Moorish corslet and helm, in his foot encounters, and protected by a light buckler. An arquebuse had been put into his hand, but he refused it, as a weapon unsuited to knightly hands, and as betraying a distrust that was not merited by the previous conduct of the natives. Sancho, however, was less scrupulous, and accepted the weapon. In order, moreover, to divert the attention of his followers from a concession that the admiral felt to be a departure from his own rigid laws, Luis and his companions landed, and entered the canoe at a point concealed from the vessels, in order that their absence might not be known. It is owing to these circumstances, as well as to the general mystery that was thrown about the connection of the young grandee with the expedition, that the occurrences we are about to relate were never entered by the admiral in his journal, and have consequently escaped the prying eyes of the various historians who have subsequently collected so much from that pregnant document.
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"Thou seemest to fancy's eye An animated blossom born in air; Which breathes and bourgeons in the golden sky, And sheds its odors there."
Sutermeister.
Notwithstanding his native resolution, and an indifference to danger that amounted to recklessness, Luis did not find himself alone with the Haytians without, at least, a lively consciousness of the novelty of his situation. Still, nothing occurred to excite uneasiness, and he continued his imperfect communications with his new friends, occasionally throwing in a remark to Sancho, in Spanish, who merely wanted encouragement to discourse by the hour. Instead of following the boat of the Santa Maria, on board which the ambassador had embarked, the canoe pushed on several leagues further east, it being understood that Luis was not to present himself in the town of Guacanagari, until after the arrival of the ships, when he was to rejoin his comrades stealthily, or in a way not to attract attention.
Our hero would not have been a true lover, had he remained indifferent to the glories of the natural scenery that lay spread before his eyes, as he thus coasted the shores of Española. The boldness of the landscape, as in the Mediterranean, was relieved by the softness of a low latitude, which throws some such witchery around rocks and promontories, as a sunny smile lends to female beauty. More than once did he burst out into exclamations of delight, and as often did Sancho respond in the same temper, if not exactly in the same language; the latter conceiving it to be a sort of duty to echo all that the young noble said, in the way of poetry.
"I take it, Señor Conde," observed the seaman, when they had reached a spot several leagues beyond that where the launch of the ship had put to shore; "I take it for granted, Señor Conde, that your Excellency knoweth whither these naked gentry are paddling, all this time. They seem in a hurry, and have a port in their minds, if it be not in view."
"Art thou uneasy, friend Sancho, that thou puttest thy question thus earnestly?"
"If I am, Don Luis, it is altogether on account of the family of Bobadilla, which would lose its head, did any mishap befall your Excellency. What is it to Sancho, of the ship-yard-gate, whether he is married to some princess in Cipango, and gets to be adopted by the Great Khan, or whether he is an indifferent mariner out of Moguer? It is very much as if one should offer him the choice between wearing a doublet and eating garlic, and going naked on sweet fruits and a full stomach. I take it, Señor, your Excellency would not willingly exchange the castle of Llera for the palace of this Great Cacique?"
"Thou art right, Sancho; even rank must depend on the state of society in which we live. A Castilian noble cannot envy a Haytian sovereign."
"More especially, since my lord, the Señor Don Almirante, hath publicly proclaimed that our gracious lady, the Doña Isabella, is henceforth and forever to be queen over him," returned Sancho, with a knowing glance of the eye. "Little do these worthy people understand the honor that is in store for them, and least of all, his Highness, King Guacanagari!"
"Hush, Sancho, and keep thy unpleasant intimations in thine own breast. Our friends turn the head of the canoe toward yonder river's mouth, and seem bent on landing."
By this time, indeed, the natives had coasted as far as they intended, and were turning in toward the entrance of a small stream, which, taking its rise among the noble mountains that were grouped inland, found its way through a smiling valley to the ocean. This stream was neither broad nor deep, but it contained far more than water sufficient for any craft used by the natives. Its banks were fringed with bushes; and as they glided up it, Luis saw fifty sites where he thought he could be content to pass his life, provided, always, that it might possess the advantage of Mercedes' presence. It is scarcely necessary to add, too, that in all these scenes he fancied his mistress attired in the velvets and laces that were then so much used by high-born dames, and that he saw her natural grace, embellished by the courtly ease and polished accessories of one who lived daily, if not hourly, in the presence of her royal mistress.
As the canoe shut in the coast, by entering between the two points that formed the river's mouth, Sancho pointed out to the young noble a small fleet of canoes, that was coming down before the wind from the eastward, apparently bound, like so many more they had seen that day, to the Bay of Acúl, on a visit to the wonderful strangers. The natives in the canoe also beheld this little flotilla, which was driving before the wind under cotton sails, and by their smiles and signs showed that they gave it the same destination. About this time, too, or just as they entered the mouth of the stream, Mattinao drew from under a light cotton robe, that he occasionally wore, a thin circlet of pure gold, which he placed upon his head, in the manner of a coronet. This, Luis knew, was a token that he was a cacique, one of those who were tributary to Guacanagari, and he arose to salute him at this evidence of his rank, an act that was imitated by all of the Haytians also. From this assumption of state, Luis rightly imagined that Mattinao had now entered within the limits of a territory that acknowledged his will. From the moment that the young cacique threw aside his incognito, he ceased to paddle, but, assuming an air of authority and dignity, he attempted to converse with his guest in the best manner their imperfect means of communication would allow. He often pronounced the word, Ozema, and Luis inferred from the manner in which he used it, that it was the name of a favorite wife, it having been already ascertained by the Spaniards, or at least it was thought to be ascertained, that the caciques indulged in polygamy, while they rigidly restricted their subjects to one wife.
The canoe ascended the river several miles, until it reached one of those tropical valleys in which nature seems to expend her means of rendering this earth inviting. While the scenery had much of the freedom of a wilderness, the presence of man for centuries had deprived it of all its ruder and more savage features. Like those who tenanted it, the spot possessed the perfection of native grace, unfettered and uninvaded by any of the more elaborate devices of human expedients. The dwellings were not without beauty, though simple as the wants of their owners; the flowers bloomed in midwinter, and the generous branches still groaned with the weight of their nutritious and palatable fruits.
Mattinao was received by his people with an eager curiosity, blended with profound respect. His mild subjects crowded around Luis and Sancho, with some such wonder as a civilized man would gaze at one of the prophets, were he to return to earth in the flesh. They had heard of the arrival of the ships, but they did not the less regard their inmates as visitors from heaven. This, probably, was not the opinion of the more elevated in rank, for, even in the savage state, the vulgar mind is far from being that of the favored few. Whether it was owing to this greater facility of character, and to habits that more easily adapted themselves to the untutored notions of the Indians, or to their sense of propriety, Sancho soon became the favorite with the multitude; leaving the Count of Llera more especially to the care of Mattinao, and the principal men of his tribe. Owing to this circumstance, the two Spaniards were soon separated, Sancho being led away by the _oi polloi_ to a sort of square in the centre of the village, leaving Don Luis in the habitation of the cacique.
No sooner did Mattinao find himself in the company of our hero, and that of two of his confidential chiefs, than the name of Ozema was repeated eagerly among the Indians. A rapid conversation followed, a messenger was despatched, Luis knew not whither, and then the chiefs took their departure, leaving the young Castilian alone with the cacique. Laying aside his golden band, and placing a cotton robe about his person, which had hitherto been nearly naked, Mattinao made a sign for his companion to follow him, and left the building. Throwing the buckler over his shoulder, and adjusting the belt of his sword in a way that the weapon should not incommode him in walking, Luis obeyed with as much confidence as he would have followed a friend along the streets of Seville.
Mattinao led the way through a wilderness of sweets, where tropical plants luxuriated beneath the branches of trees loaded with luscious fruits, holding his course by a foot-path which lay on the banks of a torrent that flowed from a ravine, and poured its waters into the river below. The distance he went might have been half a mile. Here he reached a cluster of rustic dwellings that occupied a lovely terrace on a hill-side, where they overlooked the larger town below the river, and commanded a view of the distant ocean. Luis saw at a glance that this sweet retreat was devoted to the uses of the gentler sex, and he doubted not that it formed a species of seraglio, set apart for the wives of the young cacique. He was led into one of the principal dwellings, where the simple but grateful refreshments used by the natives, were again offered to him.
The intercourse of a month had not sufficed to render either party very familiar with the language of the other. A few of the commoner words of the Indians had been caught by the Spaniards, and perhaps Luis was one of the most ready in their use; still, it is highly probable, he was oftener wrong than right, even when he felt the most confident of his success. But the language of friendship is not easily mistaken, and our hero had not entertained a feeling of distrust from the time he left the ships, down to the present moment.
Mattinao had despatched a messenger to an adjacent dwelling when he entered that in which Luis was now entertained, and when sufficient time had been given for the last to refresh himself, the cacique arose, and by a courteous gesture, such as might have become a master of ceremonies in the court of Isabella, he again invited the young grandee to follow. They took their way along the terrace, to a house larger than common, and which evidently contained several subdivisions, as they entered into a sort of anteroom. Here they remained but a minute; the cacique, after a short parley with a female, removing a curtain ingeniously made of sea-weed, and leading the way to an inner apartment. It had but a single occupant, whose character Luis fancied to be announced in the use of the single word "Ozema," that the cacique uttered in a low, affectionate tone, as they entered. Luis bowed to this Indian beauty, as profoundly as he could have made his reverence to a high-born damsel of Spain; then, recovering himself, he fastened one long, steady look of admiration on the face of the curious but half-frightened young creature who stood before him, and exclaimed, in such tones as only indicate rapture, admiration, and astonishment mingled-- "Mercedes!"
The young cacique repeated this name in the best manner he could, evidently mistaking it for a Spanish term to express admiration, or satisfaction; while the trembling young thing, who was the subject of all this wonder, shrunk back a step, blushed, laughed, and muttered in her soft, low, musical voice, "Mercedes," as the innocent take up and renew any source of their harmless pleasures. She then stood, with her arms folded meekly on her bosom, resembling a statue of wonder. But it may be necessary to explain why, at a moment so peculiar, the thoughts and tongue of Luis had so suddenly resorted to his mistress. In order to do this, we shall first attempt a short description of the person and appearance of Ozema, as was, in fact, the name of the Indian beauty.
All the accounts agree in describing the aborigines of the West Indies as being singularly well formed, and of a natural grace in their movements, that extorted a common admiration among the Spaniards. Their color was not unpleasant, and the inhabitants of Hayti, in particular, were said to be very little darker than the people of Spain. Those who were but little exposed to the bright sun of that climate, and who dwelt habitually beneath the shades of groves, or in the retirement of their dwellings, like persons of similar habits in Europe, might, by comparison, have even been termed fair. Such was the fact with Ozema, who, instead of being the wife of the young cacique, was his only sister. According to the laws of Hayti, the authority of a cacique was transmitted through females, and a son of Ozema was looked forward to, as the heir of his uncle. Owing to this fact, and to the circumstance that the true royal line, if a term so dignified can be applied to a state of society so simple, was reduced to these two individuals, Ozema had been more than usually fostered by the tribe, leaving her free from care, and as little exposed to hardships, as at all comported with the condition of her people. She had reached her eighteenth year, without having experienced any of those troubles and exposures which are more or less the inevitable companions of savage life; though it was remarked by the Spaniards, that all the Indians they had yet seen seemed more than usually free from evils of this character. They owed this exception to the generous quality of the soil, the genial warmth of the climate, and the salubrity of the air. In a word, Ozema, in her person, possessed just those advantages that freedom from restraint, native graces, and wild luxuriance, might be supposed to lend the female form, under the advantages of a mild climate, a healthful and simple diet, and perfect exemption from exposure, care, or toil. It would not have been difficult to fancy Eve such a creature, when she first appeared to Adam, fresh from the hands of her divine Creator, modest, artless, timid, and perfect.
The Haytians used a scanty dress, though it shocked none of their opinions to go forth in the garb of nature. Still, few of rank were seen without some pretensions to attire, which was worn rather as an ornament, or a mark of distinction, than as necessary either to usage or comfort. Ozema, herself, formed no exception to the general rule. A cincture of Indian cloth, woven in gay colors, circled her slender waist, and fell nearly as low as her knees; a robe of spotless cotton, inartificially made, but white as the driven snow, and of a texture so fine that it might have shamed many of the manufactures of our own days, fell like a scarf across a shoulder, and was loosely united at the opposite side, dropping in folds nearly to the ground. Sandals, of great ingenuity and beauty, protected the soles of feet that a queen might have envied; and a large plate of pure gold, rudely wrought, was suspended from her neck by a string of small, but gorgeous shells. Bracelets of the latter were on her pretty wrists, and two light bands of gold encircled ankles that were as faultless as those of the Venus of Naples. In that region, the fineness of the hair was thought the test of birth, with better reason than many imagine the feet and hands to be, in civilized life. As power and rank had passed from female to female in her family, for several centuries, the hair of Ozema was silken, soft, waving, exuberant, and black as jet. It covered her shoulders, like a glorious mantle, and fell as low as her simple cincture. So light and silken was this natural veil, that its ends waved in the gentle current of air that was rather breathing than blowing through the apartment.
Although this extraordinary creature was much the loveliest specimen of young-womanhood that Luis had seen among the wild beauties of the islands, it was not so much her graceful and well-rounded form, or even the charms of face and expression, that surprised him, as a decided and accidental resemblance to the being he had left in Spain, and who had so long been the idol of his heart. This resemblance alone had caused him to utter the name of his mistress, in the manner related. Could the two have been placed together, it would have been easy to detect marked points of difference between them, without being reduced to compare the intellectual and thoughtful expression of our heroine's countenance, with the wondering, doubting, half-startled look of Ozema: but still the general likeness was so strong, that no person who was familiar with the face of one could fail to note it on meeting with the other. Side by side, it would have been discovered that the face of Mercedes had the advantage in finesse and delicacy; that her features and brow were nobler; her eye more illuminated by the intelligence within; her smile more radiant with thought and the feelings of a cultivated woman; her blush more sensitive, betraying most of the consciousness of conventional habits; and that the expression generally was much more highly cultivated, than that which sprung from the artless impulses and limited ideas of the young Haytian. Nevertheless, in mere beauty, in youth, and tint, and outline, the disparity was scarcely perceptible, while the resemblance was striking; and, on the score of animation, native frankness, ingenuousness, and all that witchery which ardent and undisguised feeling lends to woman, many might have preferred the confiding _abandon_ of the beautiful young Indian, to the more trained and dignified reserve of the Castilian heiress. What in the latter was earnest, high-souled, native, but religious enthusiasm, in the other was merely the outpourings of unguided impulses, which, however feminine in their origin, were but little regulated in their indulgence.
"Mercedes!" exclaimed our hero, when this vision of Indian loveliness unexpectedly broke on his sight. "Mercedes!" repeated Mattinao; "Mercedes!" murmured Ozema, recoiling a step, blushing, laughing, and then resuming her innocent confidence, as she several times uttered the same word, which she also mistook for an expression of admiration, in her own low, melodious voice.
Conversation being out of the question, there remained nothing for the parties but to express their feelings by signs and acts of amity. Luis had not come on his little expedition unprovided with presents. Anticipating an interview with the wife of the cacique, he had brought up from the village below, several articles that he supposed might suit her untutored fancy. But the moment he beheld the vision that actually stood before him, they all seemed unworthy of such a being. In one of his onsets against the Moors, he had brought off a turban of rich but light cloth, and he had kept it as a trophy, occasionally wearing it, in his visits to the shore, out of pure caprice, and as a sort of ornament that might well impose on the simple-minded natives. These vagaries excited no remarks, as mariners are apt to indulge their whims in this manner, when far from the observations of those to whom they habitually defer. This turban was on his head at the moment he entered the apartment of Ozema, and, overcome with the delight of finding so unexpected a resemblance, and, possibly, excited by so unlooked-for an exhibition of feminine loveliness, he gallantly unrolled it, threw out the folds of rich cloth, and cast it over the shoulders of the beautiful Ozema as a mantle.
The expressions of gratitude and delight that escaped this unsophisticated young creature, were warm, sincere, and undisguised. She cast the ample robe on the ground before her, repeated the word "Mercedes," again and again, and manifested her pleasure with all the warmth of a generous and ingenuous nature. If we were to say that this display of Ozema was altogether free from the child-like rapture that was, perhaps, inseparable from her ignorance, it would be attributing to her benighted condition the experience and regulated feelings of advanced civilization; but, notwithstanding the guileless simplicity with which she betrayed her emotions, her delight was not without much of the dignity and tone that usually mark the conduct of the superior classes all over the world. Luis fancied it as graceful as it was _naive_ and charming. He endeavored to imagine the manner in which the Lady of Valverde might receive an offering of precious stones from the gracious hands of Doña Isabella, and he even thought it very possible that the artless grace of Ozema was not far behind what he knew would be the meek self-respect, mingled with grateful pleasure, that Mercedes could not fail to exhibit.
While thoughts like these were passing through his mind, the Indian girl laid aside her own less enticing robe, without a thought of shame, and then she folded her faultless form in the cloth of the turban. This was no sooner done, with a grace and freedom peculiar to her unfettered mind, than she drew the necklace of shells from her person, and, advancing a step or two toward our hero, extended the offering with a half-averted face, though the laughing and willing eyes more than supplied the place of language. Luis accepted the gift with suitable eagerness, nor did he refrain from using the Castilian gallantry of kissing the pretty hand from which he took the bauble.
The cacique, who had been a pleased spectator of all that passed, now signed for the count to follow him, leading the way toward another dwelling. Here Don Luis was introduced to other young females, and to two or three children, the former of whom, he soon discovered, were the wives of Mattinao, and the latter his offspring. By dint of gestures, a few words, and such other means of explanation as were resorted to between the Spaniards and the natives, he now succeeded in ascertaining the real affinity which existed between the cacique and Ozema. Our hero felt a sensation like pleasure when he discovered that the Indian beauty was not married; and he was fain to refer the feeling, perhaps justly, to a sort of jealous sensitiveness that grew out of her resemblance to Mercedes.
The remainder of that, and the whole of the three following days, were passed by Luis with his friend, the cacique, in this, the favorite and sacred residence of the latter. Of course our hero was, if any thing, a subject of greater interest to all his hosts, than they could possibly be to him. They took a thousand innocent liberties with his person: examining his dress, and the ornaments he wore, not failing to compare the whiteness of his skin with the redder tint of that of Mattinao. On these occasions Ozema was the most reserved and shy, though her look followed every movement, and her pleased countenance denoted the interest she felt in all that concerned the stranger. Hours at a time, did Luis lie stretched on fragrant mats near this artless and lovely creature, studying the wayward expression of her features, in the fond hope of seeing stronger and stronger resemblances to Mercedes, and sometimes losing himself in that which was peculiarly her own. In the course of the time passed in these dwellings, efforts were made by the count to obtain some useful information of the island; and whether it was owing to her superior rank, or to a native superiority of mind, or to a charm of manner, he soon fancied that the cacique's beautiful sister succeeded better in making him understand her meaning, than either of the wives of Mattinao, or the cacique himself. To Ozema, then, Luis put most of his questions; and ere the day had passed, this quick-witted and attentive girl had made greater progress in opening an intelligible understanding between the adventurers and her countrymen, than had been accomplished by the communications of the two previous months. She caught the Spanish words with a readiness that seemed instinctive, pronouncing them with an accent that only rendered them prettier and softer to the ear.
Luis de Bobadilla was just as good a Catholic as a rigid education, a wandering life, and the habits of the camp would be apt to make one of his rank, years, and temperament. Still, that was an age in which most laymen had a deep reverence for religion; whether they actually submitted to its purifying influence or not. If there were any free-thinkers, at all, they existed principally among those who passed their lives in their closets, or were to be found among the churchmen, themselves; who often used the cowl as a hood to conceal their infidelity. His close association with Columbus, too, had contributed to strengthen our hero's tendency to believe in the constant supervision of Providence; and he now felt a strong inclination to fancy that this extraordinary facility of Ozema's in acquiring languages, was one of its semi-miraculous provisions, made with a view to further the introduction of the religion of the cross among her people. Often did he flatter himself, as he sat gazing into the sparkling, and yet mild eyes of the girl, listening to her earnest efforts to make him comprehend her meaning, that he was to be the instrument of bringing about this great good, through so young and charming an agent. The admiral had also enjoined on him the importance of ascertaining, if possible, the position of the mines, and he had actually succeeded in making Ozema comprehend his questions on a subject that was all-engrossing with most of the Spaniards. Her answers were less intelligible, but Luis thought they never could be sufficiently full; flattering himself, the whole time, that he was only laboring to comply with the wishes of Columbus.
The day after his arrival, our hero was treated to an exhibition of some of the Indian games. These sports have been too often described to need repetition here; but, in all their movements and exercises, which were altogether pacific, the young princess was conspicuous for grace and skill. Luis, too, was required to show his powers, and being exceedingly athletic and active, he easily bore away the palm from his friend Mattinao. The young cacique manifested neither jealousy nor disappointment at this result, while his sister laughed and clapped her hands with delight, when he was outdone, even at his own sports, by the greater strength or greater efforts of his guest. More than once, the wives of Mattinao seemed to utter gentle reproaches at this exuberance of feeling, but Ozema answered with smiling taunts, and Luis thought her, at such moments, more beautiful than even imagination could draw, and perhaps with justice; for her cheeks were flushed, her eyes became as brilliant as ornaments of jet, and the teeth that were visible between lips like cherries, resembled rows of ivory. We have said that the eyes of Ozema were black, differing, in this particular, from the deep-blue, melancholy orbs of the enthusiastic Mercedes; but still they were alike, so often uttering the same feelings, more especially touching matters in which Luis was concerned. More than once, during the trial of strength, did the young man fancy that the expression of the rapture which fairly danced in the eyes of Ozema, was the very counterpart of that of the deep-seated delight which had so often beamed on him, from the glances of Mercedes, in the tourney; and, at such times, it struck him that the resemblance between the two was so strong as, after some allowance had been made for dress, and other sufficiently striking circumstances, to render them almost identical.
The reader is not to suppose from this, that our hero was actually inconstant to big ancient love. Far from it. Mercedes was too deeply enshrined in his heart--and Luis, with all his faults, was as warm-hearted and true-hearted a cavalier as breathed--to be so easily dispossessed. But he was young, distant from her he had so long adored, and was, withal, not altogether insensible to admiration so artlessly and winningly betrayed by the Indian girl. Had there been the least immodest glance, any proof that art or design lay at the bottom of Ozema's conduct, he would at once have taken the alarm, and been completely disenthralled from his temporary delusion; but, on the contrary, all was so frank and natural with this artless girl; when she most betrayed the hold he had taken of her imagination, it was done with a simplicity so obvious, a _naïveté_ so irrepressible, and an ingenuousness so clearly the fruit of innocence, that it was impossible to suspect artifice. In a word, our hero merely showed that he was human, by yielding in a certain degree to a fascination that, under the circumstances, might well have made deeper inroads on the faith even of men who enjoyed much better reputations for stability of purpose.
In situations of so much novelty, time flies swiftly, and Luis himself was astonished when, on looking back, he remembered that he had now been several days with Mattinao, most of which period had actually been passed in what might not inaptly be termed the seraglio of the cacique. Sancho of the ship-yard-gate had not been in the least neglected all this time. He had been a hero, in his own circle, as well as the young noble, nor had he been at all forgetful of his duty on the subject of searching for gold. Though he had neither acquired a single word of the Haytian language, nor taught a syllable of Spanish to even one of the laughing nymphs who surrounded him, he had decorated the persons of many of them with hawk's-bells, and had contrived to abstract from them, in return, every ornament that resembled the precious metal, which they possessed. This transfer, no doubt, was honestly effected, however, having been made on that favorite principle of the free trade theorists, which maintains that trade is merely an exchange of equivalents; overlooking all the adverse circumstances which may happen, just at the moment, to determine the standard of value. Sancho had his notions of commerce as well as the modern philosophers, and, as he and Luis occasionally met during their sojourn with Mattinao, he revealed a few of his opinions on this interesting subject, in one of their interviews.
"I perceive thou hast not forgotten thy passion for doblas, friend Sancho," said Luis, laughing, as the old seaman exhibited the store of dust and golden plates he had collected; "there is sufficient of the metal in thy sack to coin a score of them, each having the royal countenances of our lord the King, and our lady the Queen!"
"Double that, Señor Conde; just double that; and all for the price of some seventeen hawk's-bells, that cost but a handful of maravedis. By the mass! this is a most just and holy trade, and such as it becomes us Christians to carry on. Here are these savages, they think no more of gold than your Excellency thinks of a dead Moor, and to be revenged on them, I hold a hawk's-bell just as cheap. Let them think as poorly as they please of their ornaments and yellow dust, they will find me just as willing to part with the twenty hawk's-bells that remain. Let them barter away, they will find me as ready as they possibly can be, to give nothing for nothing."
"Is this quite honest, Sancho, to rob an Indian of his gold, in exchange for a bauble that copper so easily purchaseth? Remember thou art a Castilian, and henceforth give _two_ hawk's-bells, where thou hast hitherto given but _one_."
"I never forget my birth, Señor, for happily the ship-yard of Moguer is in old Spain. Is not the value of a thing to be settled by what it will bring in the market? ask any of our traders and they will tell you this, which is clear as the sun in the heavens. When the Venetians lay before Candia, grapes, and figs, and Greek wine, could be had for the asking in that island, while western articles commanded any price. Oh, nothing is plainer than the fact that every thing hath its price, and it is real trade to give one worthless commodity for another."
"If it be honest to profit by the ignorance of another," answered Luis, who had a nobleman's contempt for commerce, "then it is just to deceive the child and the idiot."
"God forbid, and especially St. Andrew, my patron, that I should do any thing so wicked. Hawk's-bells are of more account than gold, in Hayti, Señor, and happening to know it, I am willing to part with the precious things for the dross. You see I am generous instead of being avaricious, for all parties are in Hayti, where the value of, the articles must be settled. It is true, that after running great risks at sea, and undergoing great pains and chances, by carrying this gold to Spain, I may be requited for my trouble, and get enough benefit to make an honest livelihood. I hope Doña Isabella will have so much feeling for these, her new subjects, as to prevent their ever going into the shipping business--a most laborious and dangerous calling, as we both well know."
"And why art thou so particular in desiring this favor in behalf of these poor islanders, and that, too, Sancho, at the expense of thine own bones?"
"Simply, Señor," answered the knave, with a cunning leer, "lest it unsettle trade, which ought to be as free and unencumbered as possible. Here, now, if we Spaniards come to Hayti, we sell-one hawk's-bell for a dobla in gold; whereas, were we to give these savages the trouble to come to Spain, a dobla of their gold would buy a hundred hawk's-bells! No--no--it is right as it is; and may a double allowance of purgatory be the lot of him who wishes to throw any difficulties in the way of a good, honest, free, and civilizing trade, say I." Sancho was thus occupied in explaining his notions of free trade--the great mystification of modern philanthropists--when there arose such a cry in the village of Mattinao, as is only heard in moments of extreme jeopardy and sudden terror. The conversation took place in the grove, about midway between the town and the private dwellings of the cacique; and so implicit had become the confidence the two Spaniards reposed in their friends, that neither had any other arms about his person, than those furnished by nature. Luis had left both sword and buckler, half an hour earlier, at the feet of Ozetna, who had been enacting a mimic hero, with his weapons, for their mutual diversion; while Sancho had found the arquebuse much too heavy to be carried about for a plaything. The last was deposited in the room where he had taken up his comfortable quarters.
"Can this mean treachery, Señor?" exclaimed Sancho. "Have these blackguards found out the true value of hawk's-bells, after all, and do they mean to demand the balance due them?"
"My life on it, Mattinao and all his people are true, Sancho. This uproar hath a different meaning--hark! is not that the cry of 'Caonabo!'"
"The very same, Señor! That is the name of the Carib cacique, who is the terror of all these tribes."
"Thy arquebuse, Sancho, if possible; then join me at the dwellings above. Ozema and the wives of our good friend must be defended, at every hazard!"
Luis had no sooner given these orders, than he and Sancho separated, the latter running toward the town, which, by this time, was a scene of wild tumult, while our hero, slowly and sullenly, retired toward the private dwellings of the cacique, occasionally looking back, as if he longed to plunge into the thickest of the fray. Twenty times did he wish for his favorite charger and a stout lance, when, indeed, it would not have been an extraordinary feat for a knight of his prowess to put to flight a thousand enemies like those who now menaced him. Often had he singly broken whole ranks of Christian foot-soldiers, and it is well known that solitary individuals, when mounted, subsequently drove hundreds of the natives before them.
The alarm reached the dwelling of Mattinao before our hero. When he entered the house of Ozema, he found its mistress surrounded by fifty females, some of whom had already ascended from the town below, each of whom was eagerly uttering the terrible name of "Caonabo." Ozema herself was the most collected of them all, though it was apparent that, from some cause, she was an object of particular solicitude from those around her. As Luis entered the apartment, the wives of Mattinao were pressing around the princess; and he soon gathered from their words and entreaties, that they urged her to fly, lest she should fall into the hands of the Carib chief. He even fancied, and he fancied it justly, that the rest of the females supposed the seizure of the cacique's beautiful sister to be the real object of the sudden attack. This conjecture in no manner lessened Luis' ardor in the defence. The moment Ozema caught sight of him, she flew to his side, clasping her hands, and uttering the name of "Caonabo," in a tone that would have melted a heart of stone. At the same time, her eyes spoke a language of hope, confidence, and petition that was not necessary to enlist our hero's resolution on her side. In a moment, the sword of the young cavalier was in his hand, and the buckler on his arm. He then assured the princess of his zeal, in the best manner he could, by placing the buckler before her throbbing breast, and waving the sword, as in defiance of her enemies: no sooner was this pledge given, than every other female disappeared, some flying to the rescue of their children, and all endeavoring to find places of concealment. By this singular and unexpected desertion, Luis found himself, for the first time since they had met, alone with Ozema.
To remain in the house would be to suffer the enemy to approach unseen, and the shrieks and cries sufficiently announced that, each moment, the danger grew nearer. Luis accordingly made a sign for the girl to follow him, first rolling the turban into a bundle and placing it on her arm, that it might serve her, at need, as a species of shield against the hostile arrows. While he was thus employed, Ozema's head fell upon his breast, and the excited girl burst into tears. This display of weakness, however, lasted but a moment, when she aroused herself, smiled through her tears, pressed the arm of Luis convulsively, and became the Indian heroine again. They then left the building together.
Luis soon perceived that his retreat from the house had not been made a moment too soon. The family of Mattinao had already disappeared, and a strong party of the invaders was in full view, rushing madly up the grove, silent, but evidently bent on seizing their prey. He felt Ozema, who clung to his arm, tremble violently, and then he heard her murmuring-- "Caonabo--no--no--no!"
The young Indian princess had caught the Spanish monosyllable of dissent, and Luis understood this exclamation to express her strong disinclination to become a wife of the Carib chief. His resolution to protect her or to die, was in no manner lessened by this involuntary betrayal of her feelings, which he could not but think might have some connection with himself; for, while our hero was both honorable and generous, he was human, and, consequently, well disposed to take a favorable view of his own powers of pleasing. It was only in connection with Mercedes, that Luis de Bobadilla was humble.
A soldier almost from childhood, the young count looked hastily around him for a position that would favor his means of defence, and which would render his arms the most available. Luckily, one offered so near him, that it required but a minute to occupy it. The terrace lay against a precipice of rocks, and a hundred feet from the house, was a spot where the face of this precipice was angular, throwing forward a wall on each side to some distance, while the cliff above overhung the base sufficiently to remove all danger from falling stones. In the angle were several large fragments of rock that would afford shelter against arrows, and, there being a sufficient space of greensward before them, on which a knight might well display his prowess when in possession of this position, our hero felt himself strong, if not impregnable, since he could be assailed only in front. Ozema was stationed behind one of the fragments of the fallen rocks, her person only half concealed, however, concern for Luis, and curiosity as related to her enemies, equally inducing her to expose her head and beautiful bust.
Luis was scarcely in possession of this post, ere a dozen Indians were drawn up in a line at the distance of fifty yards in his front. They were armed with bows, war-clubs, and spears. Being without other defensive armor than his buckler, the young man would have thought his situation sufficiently critical, did he not know that the archery of the natives was any thing but formidable. Their arrows would kill, certainly, when shot at short distances, and against the naked skin, but it might be questioned if they would penetrate the stout velvet in which Luis was encased, and fifty yards was not near enough to excite undue alarm. The young man did not dare to retreat to the rocks, as a clear space was indispensable for the free use of his good sword, and to that weapon alone he looked for his eventual triumph.
It was, perhaps, fortunate for our hero that Caonabo himself was not with the party which beleaguered him. That redoubtable chieftain, who had been led to a distance in pursuit of the flying females, under a belief that she he sought was among them, would doubtless have brought the matter to an immediate issue by a desperate charge, when numbers might have prevailed against courage and skill. The actual assailants chose a different course, and began to poise their bows. One of the most skilful among them drew an arrow to the head, and let it fly. The missile glanced from the buckler of the knight, and struck the hill behind him, as lightly as if the parties had been at their idle sports. Another followed, and Luis turned it aside with his sword, disdaining to raise his shield against such a trifle. This cool manner of receiving their assaults caused the Indians to raise a shout, whether in admiration or rage, Luis could not tell.
The next attack was more judicious, being made on a principle that Napoleon is said to have adopted in directing discharges of his artillery. All those who had bows, some six or eight, drew their arrows together, and the weapons came rattling on the buckler of the assailed in a single flight. It was not easy to escape altogether from such a combined assault, and our hero received one or two bruises from glancing arrows, though no blood followed the blows. A second attempt of the same nature was about to be made, when the alarmed girl rushed from her place of concealment, and, like the Pocahontas of our own history, threw herself before Luis, with her arms meekly placed on her bosom. As soon as she appeared, there was a cry of "Ozema"--"Ozema," among the assailants, who were not Caribs, as all will understand who are familiar with the island history, but milder Haytians, governed by a Carib chief.
In vain Luis endeavored to persuade the devoted girl to withdraw. She thought his life in danger, and no language, had he been able to exert his eloquence on the occasion, could have induced her to leave him exposed to such a danger. As the Indians were endeavoring to obtain chances at the person of Luis without killing the princess, he saw there remained no alternative but a retreat behind the fragment of rock. Just as he obtained this temporary security, a fierce-looking warrior joined the assailants, who immediately commenced a vociferous explanation of the actual state of the attack.
"Caonabo?" demanded Luis, of Ozema, pointing toward the new-comer.
The girl shook her head, after taking an anxious look at the stranger's face, at the same time clinging to our hero's arm, with seductive dependence.
"No--no--no--" she said, eagerly. "No Caonabo--no--no--no."
Luis understood the first part of this answer to mean that the stranger was not the Carib chief; and the last to signify Ozema's strong and settled aversion to becoming his wife.
The consultation among the assailants was soon ended. Six of them then poised their war-clubs and spears, and made a rush for the citadel of the besieged. When they were within twenty feet of his cover, our hero sprang lightly forward on the sward to meet his foes. Two of the spears he received on his buckler, severing both shafts with a single blow of his keen and highly-tempered sword. As he recovered from the effort, with an upward cut he met the raised arm of the club-man most in advance. Hand and club fell at his feet with the skilful touch. Making a sweep with the weapon in his front, its point seamed the breasts of the two astonished spears-men, whose distance alone saved them from more serious injuries.
This rapid and unlooked-for execution struck the assailants with awe and dread. Never before had they witnessed the power of metal as used in war; and the sudden amputation of the arm struck them as something miraculous. Even the ferocious Carib fell back in dismay, and Luis felt hopes of victory. This was the first occasion on which the Spaniards had come to blows with the mild inhabitants of the islands they had discovered, though it is usual with the historians to refer to an incident of still latter occurrence, as the commencement of strife, the severe privacy which has ever been thrown over the connection of Don Luis with the expedition, having completely baffled their slight and superficial researches. Of course, the efficiency of a weapon like that used by our hero, was as novel to the Haytians as it was terrific.
At this instant a shout among the assailants, and the appearance of a fresh body of the invaders, with a tall and commanding chief at their head, announced the arrival of Caonabo in person. This warlike cacique was soon made acquainted with the state of affairs, and it was evident that the prowess of our hero struck him as much with admiration as with wonder. After a few minutes, he directed his followers to fall back to a greater distance, and, laying aside his club, he advanced fearlessly toward Luis, making signs of amity.
When the two adversaries met, it was with mutual respect and confidence. The Carib made a short and vehement speech, in which the only word that was intelligible to our hero, was the name of the beautiful young Indian. By this time Ozema had also advanced, as if eager to speak, and her rude suitor turned to her, with an appeal that was passionate, if not eloquent. He laid his hand frequently on his heart, and his voice became soft and persuasive. Ozema replied earnestly, and in the quick manner of one whose resolution was settled. At the close of her speech, the color mounted to the temples of the ardent girl, and, as if purposely to make her meaning understood by our hero, she ended by saying, in Spanish-- "Caonabo--no--no--no! --Luis--Luis!"
The aspect of the hurricane of the tropics is not darker, or more menacing, than the scowl with which the Carib chief heard this unequivocal rejection of his suit, accompanied, as it was, by so plain a demonstration in favor of the stranger. Waving his hand in defiance, he strode back to his people, and issued orders for a fresh assault.
This time, a tempest of arrows preceded the rush, and Luis was fain to seek his former cover behind the rocks. Indeed, this was the only manner in which he could save the life of Ozema; the devoted girl resolutely persevering in standing before his body, in the hope it would shield him from his enemies. There had been some words of reproach from Caonabo to the Carib chief who had retreated from the first attack, and the air was yet filled with arrows, as this man rushed forward, singly, to redeem his name. Luis met him, firm as the rock behind him. The shock was violent, and the blow that fell on the buckler would have crushed an arm less inured to such rude encounters; but it glanced obliquely from the shield, and the club struck the earth with the weight of a beetle. Our hero saw that all now depended on a deep impression. His sword flashed in the bright sun, and the head of the Carib tumbled by the side of his club, actually leaving the body erect for an instant, so keen was the weapon, and so dexterous had been the blow.
Twenty savages were on the spring, but they stopped like men transfixed, at this unexpected sight. Caonabo, however, undaunted even when most surprised, roared out his orders like a maddened bull, and the wavering crowd was again about to advance, when the loud report of an arquebuse was heard, followed by the whistling of its deadly missives. A second Haytian fell dead in his tracks. It exceeded the powers of savage endurance to resist this assault, which, to their uninstructed minds, appeared to come from heaven. In two minutes, neither Caonabo nor any of his followers were visible. As they rushed down the hill, Sancho appeared from a cover, carrying the arquebuse, which he had taken the precaution to reload.
The circumstances did not admit of delay. Not a being of Mattinao's tribe was to be seen in any direction; and Luis made no doubt that they had all fled. Determined to save Ozema at every hazard, he now took his way to the river, in order to escape in one of the canoes. In passing through the town, it was seen that not a house had been plundered; and the circumstance was commented on by the Spaniards, Luis pointing it out to his companion.
"Caonabo--no--no--no--Ozema! --Ozema!" was the answer of the girl, who well knew the real object of the inroad.
A dozen canoes lay at the landing, and five minutes sufficed for the fugitives to enter one and to commence their retreat. The current flowed toward the sea, and in a couple of hours they were on the ocean. As the wind blew constantly from the eastward, Sancho soon rigged an apology for a sail, and an hour before the sun set, the party landed on a point that concealed them from the bay; Luis being mindful of the admiral's injunction, to conceal his excursion, lest others might claim a similar favor.
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"Three score and ten I can remember well, Within the volume of which time I have seen Hours dreadful, and things strange, but this sore sight Hath trifled former knowings."
Macbeth.
A sight that struck our hero with a terror and awe, almost as great as those experienced by the ignorant Haytians at the report and effect of the arquebuse, awaited him, as he came in view of the anchorage. The Santa Maria, that vessel of the admiral, which he had left only four days before in her gallant array and pride, lay a stranded wreck on the sands, with fallen masts, broken sides, and all the other signs of nautical destruction. The Niña was anchored in safety, it is true, at no great distance, but a sense of loneliness and desertion came over the young man, as he gazed at this small craft, which was little more than a felucca, raised to the rank of a ship for the purposes of the voyage. The beach was covered with stores, and it was evident that the Spaniards and the people of Guacanagari toiled in company, at the construction of a sort of fortress; an omen that some great change had come over the expedition. Ozema was immediately left in the house of a native, and the two adventurers hurried forward to join their friends, and to ask an explanation of what they had seen.
Columbus received his young friend kindly, but in deep affliction. The manner in which the ship was lost has been often told, and Luis learned that the Niña being too small to carry all away, a colony was to be left in the fortress, while the remainder of the adventurers hastened back to Spain. Guacanagari had shown himself full of sympathy, and was kindness itself, while every one had been too much occupied with the shipwreck to miss our hero, or to hearken to rumors of an event as common as an inroad from a Carib chief, to carry off an Indian beauty. Perhaps, the latter event was still too recent to have reached the shores.
The week that succeeded the return of Luis was one of active exertion. The Santa Maria was wrecked on the morning of Christmas day, 1492, and on that of the 4th of January following, the Niña was ready to depart on her return voyage. During this interval, Luis had seen Ozema but once, and then he had found her sorrowing, mute, and resembling a withered flower, that retained its beauty even while it drooped. On the evening of the third, however, while lingering near the new-finished fortress, he was summoned by Sancho to another interview. To the surprise of our hero, he found the young cacique with his sister.
Although language was wanting, on this occasion, the parties easily understood each other. Ozema was no longer sorrowful, and borne down with grief: the smile and the laugh came easily from her young and buoyant spirits, and Luis thought he had never seen her so winning and lovely. She had arranged her scanty toilet with Indian coquetry, and the bright, warm color of her cheeks added new lustre to her brilliant eyes. Her light, agile form, a model of artless grace, seemed so ethereal as scarce to touch the earth. The secret of this sudden change was not long hid from Luis. The brother and sister, after discussing all their dangers and escapes, and passing in review the character and known determination of Caonabo, had come to the conclusion that there was no refuge for Ozema but in flight. What most determined the brother to consent that his sister should accompany the strangers to their distant home, it would be useless to inquire; but the motive of Ozema herself, can be no secret to the reader. It was known that the admiral was desirous of carrying to Spain a party of natives; and three females, one of whom was of Ozema's rank, had already consented to go. This chieftain's wife was not only known to Ozema, but she was a kinswoman. Every thing seemed propitious to the undertaking; and as a voyage to Spain was still a mystery to the natives, who regarded it as something like an extended passage from one of their islands to another, no formidable difficulties presented themselves to the imagination of either the cacique or his sister.
This proposition took our hero by surprise. He was both flattered and pleased at the self-devotion of Ozema, even while it troubled him. Perhaps there were moments when he a little distrusted himself. Still Mercedes reigned in his heart, and he shook off the feeling as a suspicion that a true knight could not entertain without offering an insult to his own honor. On second thoughts, there were fewer objections to the scheme than he at first fancied; and, after an hour's discussion, he left the place to go and consult the admiral.
Columbus was still at the fortress, and he heard our hero gravely and with interest. Once or twice Luis' eyes dropped under the searching glance of his superior; but, on the whole, he acquitted himself of the task he had undertaken, with credit.
"The sister of a cacique, thou say'st, Don Luis," returned the admiral, thoughtfully. "The virgin sister of a cacique!"
"Even so, Don Christopher; and of a grace, birth, and beauty, that will give our Lady, the Queen, a most exalted idea of the merits of our discovery."
"Thou wilt remember, Señor Conde, that naught but purity may be offered to purity. Doña Isabella is a model for all queens, and mothers, and wives; and I trust nothing to offend her angelic mind can ever come from her favored servants. There has been no deception practised on this wild girl, to lead her into sin and misery?"
"Don Christopher, you can scarce think this of me. Doña Mercedes herself is not more innocent than the girl I mean, nor could her brother feel more solicitude in her fortunes, than I feel. When the king and queen have satisfied their curiosity, and dismissed her, I propose to place her under the care of the Lady of Valverde."
"The rarer the specimens that we take, the better, Luis. This will gratify the sovereigns, and cause them to think favorably of our discoveries, as thou say'st. It might be done without inconvenience. The Niña is small, of a verity, but we gain much in leaving this large party behind us. I have given up the principal cabin to the other females, since thou and I can fare rudely for a few weeks. Let the girl come, and see thou to her comfort and convenience."
This settled the matter. Early next morning Ozema embarked, carrying with her the simple wealth of an Indian princess, among which the turban was carefully preserved. Her relative had an attendant, who sufficed for both. Luis paid great attention to the accommodations, in which both comfort and privacy were duly respected. The parting with Mattinao was touchingly tender, for the domestic affections appear to have been much cultivated among these simple-minded and gentle people; but the separation, it was supposed, would be short, and Ozema had, again and again, assured her brother that her repugnance to Caonabo, powerful cacique as he might be, was unconquerable. Each hour increased it, strengthening her resolution never to become his wife. The alternative was to secrete herself in the island, or to make this voyage to Spain; and there was glory as well as security in the latter. With this consolation, the brother and sister parted.
Columbus had intended to push his discoveries much further, before he returned to Europe; but the loss of the Santa Maria, and the desertion of the Pinta, reduced him to the necessity of bringing the expedition to a close, lest, by some untoward accident, all that had actually been achieved should be forever lost to the world. Accordingly, in the course of the 4th of January, 1493, he made sail to the eastward, holding his course along the shores of Hayti. His great object now was to get back to Spain before his remaining little bark should fail him, when his own name would perish with the knowledge of his discoveries. Fortunately, however, on the 6th, the Pinta was seen coming down before the wind, Martin Alonzo Pinzon having effected one of the purposes for which he had parted company, that of securing a quantity of gold, but failed in discovering any mines, which is believed to have been his principal motive.
It is not important to the narrative to relate the details of the meeting that followed. Columbus received the offending Pinzon with prudent reserve, and, hearing his explanations, he directed him to prepare the Pinta for the return passage. After wooding and watering accordingly, in a bay favorable to such objects, the two vessels proceeded to the eastward in company; still following the north shore of Hayti, Española, or Little Spain, as the island had been named by Columbus. [4] [Footnote 4: The fortunes of this beautiful island furnish a remarkable proof of the manner in which abusse are made, by the providence of God, to produce their own punishments. This island, which is about two-thirds the size of the state of New York, was the seat of Spanish authority, in the New World, for many years. The mild aborigines, who were numerous and happy when discovered, were literally exterminated by the cruelties of their new masters; and it was found necessary to import negroes from Africa, to toil in the cane-fields. Toward the middle of the sixteenth century, it is said that two hundred of the aborigines were not to be found in the island, although Ovando had decoyed no less than forty thousand from the Bahamas, to supply the places of the dead, as early as 1518! At a later day, Española passed into the hands of the French, and all know the terrible events by which it has gone into the exclusive possession of the descendants of the children of Africa. All that has been said of the influence of the white population of this country, as connected with our own Indians, sinks into insignificance, as compared with these astounding facts.]
It was the 16th of the month, ere the adventurers finally took their leave of this beautiful spot. They had scarcely got clear of the land, steering a north-easterly course, when the favorable winds deserted them, and they were again met by the trades. The weather was moderate, however, and by keeping the two vessels on the best tack, by the 10th of February, the admiral, making sundry deviations from a straight course, however, had stretched across the track of ocean in which these constant breezes prevailed, and reached a parallel of latitude as high as Palos, his port. In making this long slant, the Niña, contrary to former experience, was much detained by the dull sailing of the Pinta, which vessel, having sprung her after-mast, was unable to bear a press of sail. The light breeze also favored the first, which had ever been deemed a fast craft in smooth water and gentle gales.
Most of the phenomena of the outward passage were observed on the homeward; but the tunny-fish no longer excited hopes, nor did the sea-weed awaken fears. These familiar objects were successfully, but slowly passed, and the variable winds were happily struck again in the first fortnight. Here the traverses necessarily became more and more complicated, until the pilots, unused to so long and difficult a navigation, in which they received no aids from either land or water, got confused in their reckonings, disputing hotly among themselves concerning their true position.
"Thou hast heard to-day, Luis," said the admiral, smiling, in one of his renewed conferences with our hero, "the contentions of Vicente Yañez, with his brother, Martin Alonzo, and the other pilots, touching our distance from Spain. These constant shifts of wind have perplexed the honest mariners, and they fancy themselves in any part of the Atlantic, but that in which they really are!"
"Much depends on you, Señor; not only our safety, but the knowledge of our great discoveries."
"Thou say'st true, Don Luis. Vicente Yañez, Sancho Ruiz, Pedro Alonzo Niño, and Bartolemeo Roldan, to say nothing of the profound calculators in the Pinta, place the vessels in the neighborhood of Madeira, which is nearer to Spain, by a hundred and fifty leagues, than the truth would show. These honest people have followed their wishes, rather than their knowledge of the ocean and the heavens."
"And you, Don Christopher, where do you place the caravels, since there is no motive to conceal the truth?"
"We are south of Flores, young Count, fully twelve degrees west of the Canaries, and in the latitude of Nafé, in Africa. But I would that they should be bewildered, until the right of possession to our discoveries be made a matter of certainty. Not one of these men now doubts his ability to do all I have done, and yet neither is able to grope his way back again, after crossing this track of water to Asia!"
Luis understood the admiral, and the size of the vessels rendering the communication of secrets hazardous, the conversation changed.
Up to this time, though the winds were often variable, the weather had been good. A few squalls had occurred, as commonly happens at sea, but they had proved to be neither long nor severe. All this was extremely grateful to Columbus, who, now he had effected the great purpose for which he might have been said to live, felt some such concern lest the important secret should be lost to the rest of mankind, as one who carries a precious object through scenes of danger experiences for the safety of his charge. A change, however, was at hand, and at the very moment when the great navigator began to hope the best, he was fated to experience the severest of all his trials.
As the vessels advanced north, the weather became cooler, as a matter of course, and the winds stronger. During the night of the 11th of February, the caravels made a great run on their course, gaining more than a hundred miles between sunset and sunrise. The next morning many birds were in sight, from which fact Columbus believed himself quite near the Azores, while the pilots fancied they were in the immediate vicinity of Madeira. The following day the wind was less favorable, though strong, and a heavy sea had got up. The properties of the little Niña now showed themselves to advantage, for, ere the turn of the day, she had to contend with such a struggle of the elements, as few in her had ever before witnessed. Fortunately, all that consummate seamanship could devise to render her safe and comfortable had been done, and she was in as perfect a state of preparation for a tempest, as circumstances would allow. The only essential defect was her unusual lightness, since, most of her stores as well as her water being nearly exhausted, her draught of water was materially less than it should have been. The caravel was so small, that this circumstance, which is of little consequence to the safety of large vessels, got to be one of consideration in a craft whose means of endurance did not place her above the perils of squalls. The reader will understand the distinction better when he is told that ships of size can only lose their spars by sudden gusts of wind, seldom being thrown on their beam ends, as it is termed, unless by the power of the waves; whereas, smaller craft incur the risk of being capsized, when the spread of their canvas is disproportioned to their stability. Although the seamen of the Niña perceived this defect in their caravel, which, in a great measure, proceeded from the consumption of the fresh water, they hoped so soon to gain a haven, that no means had been taken to remedy the evil.
Such was the state of things, as the sun set on the night of the 12th of February, 1493. As usual, Columbus was on the poop, vessels of all sizes then carrying these clumsy excrescences, though this of the Niña was so small as scarcely to deserve the name. Luis was at his side, and both watched the aspect of the heavens and the ocean in grave silence. Never before had our hero seen the elements in so great commotion, and the admiral had just remarked that even he had not viewed many nights as threatening. There is a solemnity about a sunset at sea, when the clouds appear threatening, and the omens of a storm are brooding, that is never to be met with on the land. The loneliness of a ship, struggling through a waste of dreary-looking water, contributes to the influence of the feelings that are awakened, as there appears to be but one object on which the wild efforts of the storm can expend themselves. All else seem to be in unison to aid the general strife; ocean, heavens, and the air, being alike accessories in the murky picture. When the wintry frowns of February are thrown around all, the gloomy hues of the scene are deepened to their darkest tints.
"This is a brooding nightfall, Don Luis," Columbus remarked, just as the last rays that the sun cast upward on the stormy-looking clouds disappeared from their ragged outlines--"I have rarely seen another as menacing."
"One has a double confidence in the care of God, while sailing under your guidance, Señor; first in his goodness, and next in the knowledge of his agent's skilfulness."
"The power of the Almighty is sufficient to endue the feeblest mortal with all fitting skill, when it is his divine will to spare; or to rob the most experienced of their knowledge, when his anger can only be appeased by the worldly destruction of his creatures."
"You look upon the night as portentous, Don Christopher!"
"I _have_ seen omens as ill, though very seldom. Had not the caravel this burdensome freight, I might view our situation less anxiously."
"You surprise me, sir Admiral! the pilots have regretted that our bark is so light."
"True, as to material substance; but it beareth a cargo of knowledge, Luis, that it would be grievous to see wasted on these vacant waters. Dost thou not perceive how fast and gloomily the curtain of night gathereth about us, and the manner in which the Niña is rapidly getting to be our whole world? Even the Pinta is barely distinguishable, like a shapeless shadow on the foaming billows, serving rather as a beacon to warn us of our own desolation, than as a consort to cheer us with her presence and companionship."
"I have never known you thus moody, excellent Señor, on account of the aspect of the weather!" " 'Tis not usual with me, young lord; but my heart is loaded with its glorious secret. Behold! --dost thou remark that further sign of the warring of the elements?"
The admiral, as he spoke, was standing with his face toward Spain, while his companion's gaze was fastened on the portentous-looking horizon of the west, around which still lingered sufficient light to render its frowns as chilling as they were visible. He had not seen the change that drew the remark from Columbus, but, turning quickly, he asked an explanation. Notwithstanding the season, the horizon at the north-east had been suddenly illuminated by a flash of lightning, and even while the admiral was relating the fact, and pointing out the quarter of the heavens in which the phenomenon had appeared, two more flashes followed each other in quick succession.
"Señor Vicente"--called out Columbus, leaning forward in a way to overlook a group of dusky figures that was collected on the half-deck beneath him--"Is Señor Vicente Yañez of your number?"
"I am here, Don Christopher, and note the omen. It is the sign of even more wind."
"We shall be visited with a tempest, worthy Vicente; and it will come from that quarter of the heavens, or its opposite. Have we made all sure in the caravel?"
"I know not what else is to be done, Señor Almirante. Our canvas is at the lowest, every thing is well lashed, and we carry as little aloft as can be spared. Sancho Ruiz, look you to the tarpaulings, lest we ship more water than will be safe."
"Look well to our light, too, that our consort may not part from us in the darkness. This is no time for sleep, Vicente--place your most trusty men at the tiller."
"Señor, they are selected with care. Sancho Mundo, and young Pepe of Moguer, do that duty, at present; others as skilled await to relieve them, when their watch ends." " 'Tis well, good Pinzon--neither you nor I can close an eye to-night."
The precautions of Columbus were not uncalled-for. About an hour after the unnatural flashes of lightning had been seen, the wind rose from the south-west, favorably as to direction, but fearfully as to force. Notwithstanding his strong desire to reach port, the admiral found it prudent to order the solitary sail that was set, to be taken in; and most of the night the two caravels drove before the gale, under bare poles, heading to the north-east. We say both, for Martin Alonzo, practised as he was in stormy seas, and disposed as he was to act only for himself, now the great problem was solved, kept the Pinta so near the Niña, that few minutes passed without her being seen careering on the summit of a foaming sea, or settling bodily into the troughs, as she drove headlong before the tempest; keeping side by side with her consort, however, as man clings to man in moments of dependency and peril.
Thus passed the night of the 13th, the day bringing with it a more vivid picture of the whole scene, though it was thought that the wind somewhat abated in its force as the sun arose. Perhaps this change existed only in the imaginations of the mariners, the light usually lessening the appearance of danger, by enabling men to face it. Each caravel, however, set a little canvas, and both went foaming ahead, hurrying toward Spain with their unlooked-for tidings. As the day advanced, the fury of the gale sensibly lessened; but as night drew on again, it returned with renewed force, more adverse, and compelling the adventurers to take in every rag of sail they had ventured to spread. Nor was this the worst. The caravels, by this time, had driven up into a tract of ocean where a heavy cross-sea was raging, the effects of some other gale that had recently blown from a different quarter. Both vessels struggled manfully to lay up to their course, under these adverse circumstances; but they began to labor in a way to excite uneasiness in those who comprehended the fullest powers of the machines, and who knew whence the real sources of danger were derived. As night approached, Columbus perceived that the Pinta could not maintain her ground, the strain on her after-mast proving too severe to be borne, even without an inch of canvas spread. Reluctantly did he order the Niña to edge away toward her consort, separation, at such a moment, being the evil next to positive destruction.
In this manner the night of the 14th drew around our lone and sea-girt adventurers. What had been merely menace and omens the previous night, were now a dread reality. Columbus, himself, declared he had never known a bark to buffet a more furious tempest, nor did he affect to conceal from Luis the extent of his apprehensions. With the pilots, and before the crew, he was serene, and even cheerful; but when alone with our hero, he became frank and humble. Still was the celebrated navigator always calm and firm. No unmanly complaint escaped him, though his very soul was saddened at the danger his great discoveries ran of being forever lost.
Such was the state of feeling that prevailed with the admiral, as he sat in his narrow cabin, in the first hours of that appalling night, watching for any change, relieving or disastrous, that might occur. The howling of the winds, which fairly scooped up, from the surface of the raging Atlantic, the brine in sheets, was barely audible amid the roar and rush of the waters. At times, indeed, when the caravel sunk helplessly between two huge waves, the fragment of sail she still carried would flap, and the air seemed hushed and still; and then, again, as the buoyant machine struggled upward, like a drowning man who gains the surface by frantic efforts, it would seem as if the columns of air were about to bear her off before them, as lightly as the driving spray. Even Luis, albeit little apt to take alarm, felt that their situation was critical, and his constitutional buoyancy of spirits had settled down in a thoughtful gravity, that was unusual with him. Had a column of a thousand hostile Moors stood before our hero, he would have thought rather of the means of overturning it than of escape; but this warring of the elements admitted of no such relief. It appeared actually like contending with the Almighty. In such scenes, indeed, the bravest find no means of falling back on their resolution and intrepidity; for the efforts of man seem insignificant and bootless as opposed to the will and power of God. " 'Tis a wild night, Señor," our hero observed calmly, preserving an exterior of more unconcern than he really felt. "To me this surpasseth all I have yet witnessed of the fury of a tempest."
Columbus sighed heavily; then he removed his hands from his face, and glanced about him, as if in search of the implements he wanted.
"Count of Llera," he answered, with dignity, "there remaineth a solemn duty to perform. There is parchment in the draw on your side of this table, and here are the instruments for writing. Let us acquit ourselves of this important trust while time is yet mercifully given us, God alone knowing how long we have to live."
Luis did not blanch at these portentous words, but he looked earnest and grave. Opening the draw, he took out the parchment and laid it upon the table. The admiral now seized a pen, beckoning to his companion to take another, and both commenced writing as well as the incessant motion of the light caravel would allow. The task was arduous, but it was clearly executed. As Columbus wrote a sentence, he repeated it to Luis, who copied it word for word, on his own piece of parchment. The substance of this record was the fact of the discoveries made, the latitude and longitude of Española, with the relative positions of the other islands, and a brief account of what he had seen. The letter was directed to Ferdinand and Isabella. As soon as each had completed his account, the admiral carefully enveloped his missive in a covering of waxed cloth, Luis imitating him in all things. Each then took a large cake of wax, and scooping a hole in it, the packet was carefully secured in the interior, when it was covered with the substance that had been removed. Columbus now sent for the cooper of the vessel, who was directed to inclose each cake in a separate barrel. These vessels abound in ships; and, ere many minutes, the two letters were securely inclosed in the empty casks. Each taking a barrel, the admiral and our hero now appeared again on the half-deck. So terrific was the night that no one slept, and most of the people of the Niña, men as well as officers, were crowded together on the gratings near the main-mast, where alone, with the exception of the still more privileged places, they considered themselves safe from being swept overboard. Indeed, even here they were constantly covered with the wash of the sea, the poop itself not being protected from rude visits of this nature.
As soon as the admiral was seen again, his followers crowded round him, solicitous to hear his opinion, and anxious to learn his present object. To have told the truth would have been to introduce despair where hope had already nearly ceased; and, merely intimating that he performed a religious vow, Columbus, with his own hands, cast his barrel into the hissing ocean. That of Luis was placed upon the poop, in the expectation that it would float, should the caravel sink.
Three centuries and a half have rolled by since Columbus took this wise precaution, and no tidings have ever been obtained of that cask. Its buoyancy was such that it might continue to float for ages. Covered with barnacles, it may still be drifting about the waste of waters, pregnant with its mighty revelations. It is possible, it may have been repeatedly rolled upon some sandy beach, and as frequently swept off again; and it may have been passed unheeded on a thousand occasions, by different vessels, confounded with its vulgar fellows that are so often seen drifting about the ocean. Had it been found, it would have been opened; and had it been opened by any civilized man, it is next to impossible that an occurrence of so much interest should have been totally lost.
This duty discharged, the admiral had leisure to look about him. The darkness was now so great, that, but for the little light that was disengaged from the troubled water, it would have been difficult to distinguish objects at the length of the caravel. No one, who has merely been at sea in a tall ship, can form any just idea of the situation of the Niña. This vessel, little more than a large felucca, had actually sailed from Spain with the latine rig, that is so common to the light coasters of southern Europe; a rig that had only been altered in the Canaries. As she floated in a bay, or a river, her height above the water could not have exceeded four or five feet, and now that she was struggling with a tempest, in a cross sea, and precisely in that part of the Atlantic where the rake of the winds is the widest, and the tumult of the waters the greatest, it seemed as if she were merely some aquatic animal, that occasionally rose to the surface to breathe. There were moments when the caravel appeared to be irretrievably sinking into the abyss of the ocean; huge black mounds of water rising around her in all directions, the confusion in the waves having destroyed all the ordinary symmetry of the rolling billows. Although so much figurative language has been used, in speaking of mountainous waves, it would not be exceeding the literal truth to add, that the Niña's yards were often below the summits of the adjacent seas, which were tossed upward in so precipitous a manner, as to create a constant apprehension of their falling in cataracts on her gratings; for mid-ship-deck, strictly speaking, she had none. This, indeed, formed the great source of danger; since one falling wave might have filled the little vessel, and carried her, with all in her, hopelessly to the bottom. As it was, the crests of seas were constantly tumbling inboard, or shooting athwart the hull of the caravel, in sheets of glittering foam, though happily, never with sufficient power to overwhelm the buoyant fabric. At such perilous instants, the safety of the craft depended on the frail tarpaulings. Had these light coverings given way, two or three successive waves would infallibly have so far filled the hold, as to render the hull water-logged; when the loss of the vessel would have followed as an inevitable consequence.
The admiral had ordered Vicente Yañez to carry the foresail close reefed, in the hope of dragging the caravel through this chaos of waters, to a part of the ocean where the waves ran more regularly. The general direction of the seas, too, so far as they could be said to have a general direction at all, had been respected, and the Niña had struggled onward--it might be better to say, waded onward--some five or six leagues, since the disappearance of the day, and found no change. It was getting to be near midnight, and still the surface of the ocean presented the same wild aspect of chaotic confusion. Vicente Yañez approached the admiral, and declared that the bark could no longer bear the rag of sail she carried.
"The jerk, as we rise on the sea, goes near to pull the stern out of the craft," he said; "and the backward flap, as we settle into the troughs, is almost as menacing. The Niña will bear the canvas no longer, with safety."
"Who has seen aught of Martin Alonzo within the hour?" demanded Columbus, looking anxiously in the direction in which the Pinta ought to be visible. "Thou hast lowered the lantern, Vicente Yañez."
"It would stand the hurricane no longer. From time to time it hath been shown, and each signal hath been answered by my brother."
"Let it be shown once more. This is a moment when the presence of a friend gladdens the soul, even though he be helpless as ourselves."
The lantern was hoisted, and, after a steady gaze, a faint and distant light was seen glimmering in the rack of the tempest. The experiment was repeated, at short intervals, and as often was the signal answered, at increasing distances, until the light of their consort was finally lost altogether.
"The Pinta's mast is too feeble to bear even its gear, in such a gale," observed Vicente Yañez; "and my brother hath found it impossible to keep as near the wind as we have done. He goes off more to leeward."
"Let the foresail be secured," answered Columbus, "as thou say'st. Our feeble craft can no longer bear these violent surges."
Vicente Yañez now mustered a few of his ablest men, and went forward himself to see this order executed. At the same moment the helm was righted, and the caravel slowly fell off, until she got dead before the gale. The task of gathering in the canvas was comparatively easy, the yard being but a few feet above the deck, and little besides the clews being exposed. Still it required men of the firmest nerve and the readiest hands to venture aloft at such an instant. Sancho took one side of the mast and Pepe the other, both manifesting such qualities as mark the perfect seaman only.
The caravel was now drifting at the mercy of the winds and waves, the term scudding being scarcely applicable to the motion of a vessel so low, and which was so perfectly sheltered from the action of the wind by the height of the billows. Had the latter possessed their ordinary regularity, the low vessel must have been pooped; but, in a measure, her exemption from this calamity was owing to an irregularity that was only the source of a new danger. Still, the Niña drove ahead, and that swiftly, though not with the velocity necessary to outstrip the chasing water, had the waves followed with their customary order and regularity. The cross seas defeated this; wave meeting wave, actually sending those crests, which otherwise would have rolled over in combing foam, upward in terrific _jets d'eau_.
This was the crisis of the danger. There was an hour when the caravel careered amid the chaotic darkness with a sort of headlong fury, not unfrequently dashing forward with her broadside to the sea, as if the impatient stern was bent on overtaking the stem, and exposing all to the extreme jeopardy of receiving a flood of water on the beam. This imminent risk was only averted by the activity of the man at the helm, where Sancho toiled with all his skill and energy, until the sweat rolled from his brow, as if exposed again to the sun of the tropics. At length the alarm became so great and general, that a common demand was made to the admiral to promise the customary religious oblations. For this purpose, all but the men at the helm assembled aft, and preparations were made to cast lots for the penance.
"Ye are in the hands of God, my friends," said Columbus, "and it is meet that ye all confess your dependence on his goodness, placing your security on his blessings and favor alone. In this cap which ye see in the hands of the Señor de Muños, are the same number of peas that we are of persons. One of these peas bears the mark of the Holy Cross, and he who shall draw forth this blessed emblem, stands pledged to make a pilgrimage to Santa Maria de Guadalupe, bearing a waxen taper of five pounds weight. As the chiefest sinner among you, no less than as your admiral, the first trial shall be mine."
Here Columbus put his hand into the cap, and on drawing forth a pea, and holding it to the lantern, it was found to bear on its surface the mark he had mentioned.
"This is well, Señor," said one of the pilots; "but replace the pea, and let the chance be renewed for a still heavier penance, and that at a shrine which is most in request with all good Christians; I mean that of our Lady of Loretto. One pilgrimage to that shrine is worth two to any other."
In moments of emergency, the religious sentiment is apt to be strong; and this proposition was seconded with warmth. The admiral cheerfully consented; and when all had drawn, the marked pea was found in the hands of a common seaman, of the name of Pedro de Villa; one who bore no very good name for either piety or knowledge. " 'Tis a weary and costly journey," grumbled the chosen penitent, "and cannot cheaply be made."
"Heed it not, friend Pedro," answered Columbus; "the bodily pains shall limit thy sufferings, for the cost of the journey shall be mine. This night groweth more and more terrific, good Bartolemeo Roldan."
"That doth it, Señor Admiral, and I am little content with such a pilgrim as Pedro here, although it may seem as if heaven itself directed the choice. A mass in Santa Clara de Moguer, with a watcher all night in that chapel, will be of more account than your distant journeys made by such an one as he."
This opinion wanted not for supporters among the seamen of Moguer, and a third trial was made to determine the person. Again the pea was withdrawn from the cap by the admiral. Still the danger did not diminish, the caravel actually threatening to roll over amid the turbulence of the waves.
"We are too light, Vicente Yañez," said Columbus, "and, desperate as the undertaking seemeth, we must make an effort to fill our empty casks with sea-water. Let hose be carefully introduced beneath the tarpaulings, and send careful hands below to make sure that the water does not get into the hold instead of the casks."
This order was obeyed, and several hours passed in efforts to execute this duty. The great difficulty was in protecting the men who raised the water from the sea, for, while the whole element was raging in such confusion around them, it was no easy matter to secure a single drop in a useful manner. Patience and perseverance, however, prevailed in the end, and, ere the light returned, so many empty casks had been filled, as evidently to aid the steadiness of the vessel. Toward morning it rained in torrents, and the wind shifted from south to west, losing but little of its force, however. At this juncture the foresail was again got on the bark, and she was dragged by it, through a tremendous sea, a few miles to the eastward.
When the day dawned, the scene was changed for the better. The Pinta was nowhere to be seen, and most in the Niña believed she had gone to the bottom. But the clouds had opened a little, and a sort of mystical brightness rested on the ocean, which was white with foam, and still hissing with fury. The waves, however, were gradually getting to be more regular, and the seamen no longer found it necessary to lash themselves to the vessel, in order to prevent being washed overboard. Additional sail was got on the caravel, and, as her motion ahead increased, she became steadier, and more certain in all her movements.
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"For now, from sight of land diverted clear, They drove uncertain o'er the pathless deep; Nor gave the adverse gale due course to steer, Nor durst they the design'd direction keep: The gathering tempest quickly raged so high, The wave-encompass'd boat but faintly reach'd my eye."
Vision of Patience.
Such was the state of things on the morning of the 15th, and shortly after the sun arose, the joyful cry of land was heard from aloft. It is worthy of being mentioned that this land was made directly ahead, so accurate were all the admiral's calculations, and so certain did he feel of his position on the chart. A dozen opinions, however, prevailed among the pilots and people concerning this welcome sight; some fancying it the continent of Europe, while others believed it to be Madeira. Columbus, himself, publicly announced it to be one of the Azores.
Each hour was lessening the distance between this welcome spot of earth and the adventurers, when the gale chopped directly round, bringing the island dead to windward. Throughout a long and weary day the little bark kept turning up against the storm, in order to reach this much-desired haven, but the heaviness of the swell and the foul wind made their progress both slow and painful. The sun set in wintry gloom, again, and the land still lay in the wrong quarter, and apparently at a distance that was unattainable. Hour after hour passed, and still, in the darkness, the Niña was struggling to get nearer to the spot where the land had been seen. Columbus never left his post throughout all these anxious scenes, for to him it seemed as if the fortunes of his discoveries were now suspended, as it might be, by a hair. Our hero was less watchful, but even he began to feel more anxiety in the result, as the moment approached when the fate of the expedition was to be decided.
As the sun arose, every eye turned inquiringly around the watery view, and, to the common disappointment, no land was visible. Some fancied all had been illusion, but the admiral believed they had passed the island in the darkness, and he hove about, with a view to stand further south. This change in the course had not been made more than an hour or two, when land was again dimly seen astern, and in a quarter where it could not have been previously perceived. For this island the caravel tacked, and until dark she was beating up for it, against a strong gale and a heavy sea. Night again drew around her, and the land once more vanished in the gloom.
At the usual hour of the previous night, the people of the Niña had assembled to chant the _salve fac_, _regina_, or the evening hymn to the Virgin, for it is one of the touching incidents of this extraordinary voyage, that these rude sailors first carried with them into the unknown wastes of the Atlantic the songs of their religion, and the Christian's prayers. While thus employed, a light had been made to leeward, which was supposed to be on the island first seen, thus encouraging the admiral in his belief that he was in the centre of a group, and that by keeping well to windward, he would certainly find himself in a situation to reach a port in the morning. That morning, however, had produced no other change than the one noted, and he was now preparing to pass another night, or that of the 17th, in uncertainty, when the cry of land ahead suddenly cheered the spirits of all in the vessel.
The Niña stood boldly in, and before midnight she was near enough to the shore to let go an anchor; so heavy were both wind and sea, however, that the cable parted, thus rejecting them, as it were, from the regions to which they properly belonged. Sail was made, and the effort to get to windward renewed, and by daylight the caravel was enabled to run in and get an anchorage on the north side of the island. Here the wearied and almost exhausted mariners learned that Columbus was right, as usual, and that they had reached the island of St. Mary, one of the Azores.
It does not belong to this tale to record all the incidents that occurred while the Niña lay at this port. They embraced an attempt to seize the caravel, on the part of the Portuguese, who, as they had been the last to harass the admiral on his departure from the old world, were the first to beset him on his return. All their machinations failed, however, and after having the best portion of his crew in their power, and actually having once sailed from the island without the men, the admiral finally arranged the matter, and took his departure for Spain, with all his people on board, on the 24th of the month.
Providence seemed to favor the passage of the adventurers, for the first few days; the wind being favorable and the sea smooth. Between the morning of the 24th and the evening of the 26th, the caravel had made nearly a hundred leagues directly on her course to Palos, when she was met by a foul wind and another heavy sea. The gale now became violent again, though sufficiently favorable to allow them to steer east, a little northerly, occasionally hauling more ahead. The weather was rough, but as the admiral knew he was drawing in with the continent of Europe, he did not complain, cheering his people with the hopes of a speedy arrival. In this manner the time passed until the turn of the day, Saturday, March 2d, when Columbus believed himself to be within a hundred miles of the coast of Portugal, the long continuance of the scant southerly winds having set him thus far north.
The night commenced favorably, the caravel struggling ahead through a tremendous sea that was sweeping down from the south, having the wind abeam, blowing so fresh as to cause the sails to be reduced within manageable size. The Niña was an excellent craft, as had been thoroughly proved, and she was now steadier than when first assailed by the tempests, her pilots having filled still more of the casks than they had been able to do during the late storm.
"Thou hast lived at the helm, Sancho Mundo, since the late gales commenced," said the admiral, cheerfully, as, about the last hour of the first watch, he passed near the post of the old mariner. "It is no small honor to hold that station in the cruel gales we have been fated to endure."
"I so consider it, Señor Don Almirante; and I hope their illustrious and most excellent Highnesses, the two sovereigns, will look upon it with the same eyes, so far as the weight of the duty is concerned."
"And why not as respects the honor, friend Sancho?" put in Luis, who had become a sworn friend of the seaman, since the rescue of the rocks.
"Honor, Señor Master Pedro, is cold food, and sits ill on a poor man's stomach. One dobla is worth two dukedoms to such a man as I am, since the dobla would help to gain me respect, whereas the dukedoms would only draw down ridicule upon my head. No, no--Master Pedro, your worship, give me a pocket full of gold, and leave honors to such as have a fancy for them. If a man must be raised in the world, begin at the beginning, or lay a solid foundation; after which he may be made a knight of St. James, if the sovereigns have need of his name to make out their list."
"Thou art too garrulous for a helmsman, Sancho, though so excellent otherwise," observed the admiral, gravely. "Look to thy course; doblas will not be wanting, when the voyage is ended."
"Many thanks, Señor Almirante; and, as a proof that my eyes are not shut, even though the tongue wags, I will just desire your Excellency, and the pilots, to study that rag of a cloud that is gathering up here, at the south-west, and ask yourselves if it means evil or good."
"By the mass! the man is right, Don Christopher!" exclaimed Bartolemeo Roldan, who was standing near; "that is a most sinister-looking cloud, and is not unlike those that give birth to the white squalls of Africa."
"See to it--see to it--good Bartolemeo," returned Columbus, hastily. "We have, indeed, counted too much on our good fortune, and have culpably overlooked the aspect of the heavens. Let Vicente Yañez and all our people be called; we may have need of them."
Columbus now ascended to the poop, where he got a wider and a better view of the ocean and the skies. The signs were, indeed, as portentous as they had been sudden in their appearance. The atmosphere was filled with a white mist, that resembled a light smoke, and the admiral had barely time to look about him, when a roar that resembled the trampling of a thousand horses passing a bridge at full speed, came rushing down with the wind. The ocean was heard hissing, as is usual at such moments, and the tempest burst upon the little bark, as if envious demons were determined she should never reach Spain with the glorious tidings she bore.
A report like that of a heavy discharge of musketry, was the first signal that the squall had struck the Niña. It came from the rent canvas, every sail having given way at the same instant. The caravel heeled until the water reached her masts, and there was a breathless instant, when the oldest seaman feared that she would be forced over entirely upon her side. Had not the sails split, this calamity might truly have occurred. Sancho, too, had borne the tiller up in season, and when the Niña recovered from the shock, she almost flew out of the water as she drove before the blast.
This was the commencement of a new gale, which even surpassed in violence that from which they had so recently escaped. For the first hour, awe and disappointment almost paralyzed the crew, as nothing was or could be done to relieve them from the peril they were in. The vessel was already scudding--the last resource of seamen--and even the rags of the canvas were torn, piece by piece, from the spars, sparing the men the efforts that would have been necessary to secure them. In this crisis, again the penitent people resorted to their religious rites; and again it fell to the lot of the admiral to make a visit to some favorite shrine. In addition, the whole crew made a vow to fast on bread and water, the first Saturday after they should arrive.
"It is remarkable, Don Christopher," said Luis, when the two were again alone on the poop; "it is remarkable that these lots should fall so often on you. Thrice have you been selected by Providence to be an instrument of thankfulness and penitence. This cometh of your exceeding faith!"
"Say, rather, Luis, that it cometh of my exceeding sins. My pride, alone, should draw down upon me stronger rebukes than these. I fear me, I had forgotten that I was merely an agent chosen by God, to work his own great ends, and was falling into the snares of Satan, by fancying that I, of my own wisdom and philosophy, had done this great exploit, which cometh so truly of God."
"Do you believe us in danger, Señor?"
"Greater hazard besets us now, Don Luis, than hath befallen us since we left Palos. We are driving toward the continent, which cannot be thirty leagues distant; and, as thou seest, the ocean is becoming more troubled every hour. Happily, the night is far advanced, and with the light we may find the means of safety."
The day did reappear as usual; for whatever disturbances occur on its surface, the earth continues its daily revolutions in the sublimity of its vastness, affording, at each change, to the mites on its surface, the indubitable proofs that an omnipotent power reigns over all its movements. The light, however, brought no change in the aspects of the ocean and sky. The wind blew furiously, and the Niña struggled along amid the chaos of waters, driving nearer and nearer to the continent that lay before her.
About the middle of the afternoon, signs of land became quite apparent, and no one doubted the vicinity of the vessel to the shores of Europe. Nevertheless, naught was visible but the raging ocean, the murky sky, and the sort of supernatural light with which the atmosphere is so often charged in a tempest. The spot where the sun set, though known by means of the compass, could not be traced by the eye; and again night closed on the wild, wintry scene, as if the little caravel was abandoned by hope as well as by day. To add to the apprehensions of the people, a high cross sea was running; and, as ever happens with vessels so small, in such circumstances, tons' weight of water were constantly falling inboard, threatening destruction to the gratings and their frail coverings of tarred cloth.
"This is the most terrible night of all, son Luis," said Columbus, about an hour after the darkness had drawn around them. "If we escape this night, well may we deem ourselves favored of God!"
"And yet you speak calmly, Señor; as calmly as if your heart was filled with hope."
"The seaman that cannot command his nerves and voice, even in the utmost peril, hath mistaken his calling. But I _feel_ calm, Luis, as well as _seem_ calm. God hath us in his keeping, and will do that which most advanceth his own holy will. My boys--my two poor boys trouble me sorely; but even the fatherless are not forgotten!"
"If we perish, Señor, the Portuguese will remain masters of our secret: to them only is it now known, ourselves excepted, since, for Martin Alonzo, I should think, there is little hope."
"This is another source of grief; yet have I taken such steps as will probably put their Highnesses on the maintenance of their rights. The rest must be trusted to heaven."
At that moment was heard the startling cry of "land." This word, which so lately would have been the cause of sudden bursts of joy, was now the source of new uneasiness. Although the night was dark, there were moments when the gloom opened, as it might be, for a mile or two around the vessel, and when objects as prominent as a coast could be seen with sufficient distinctness. Both Columbus and our hero hastened to the forward part of the caravel, at this cry, though even this common movement was perilous, in order to obtain the best possible view of the shore. It was, indeed, so near, that all on board heard, or fancied they heard, the roar of the surf against the rocks. That it was Portugal, none doubted, and to stand on in the present uncertainty of their precise position, or without a haven to enter, would be inevitable destruction. There remained only the alternative to ware with the caravel's head off shore, and endeavor to keep an offing until morning. Columbus had no sooner mentioned this necessity, than Vicente Yañez set about its execution in the best manner circumstances would allow.
Hitherto the wind had been kept a little on the starboard quarter, the caravel steering east, a point or two north, and it was now the aim to lay her head so far round as to permit her to steer north, a point or two west. By the manner in which the coast appeared to trend, it was thought that this variation in the direction might keep them, for a few hours, at a sufficient distance from the shore. But this manoeuvre could not be effected without the aid of canvas, and an order was issued to set the foresail. The first flap of the canvas, as it was loosened to the gale, was tremendous, the jerk threatening to tear the fore-mast from its step, and then all was still as death forward, the hull sinking so low behind a barrier of water, as actually to becalm the sail. Sancho and his associate seized the favorable moment to secure the clews, and, as the little bark struggled upward again, the canvas filled with some such shock as is felt at the sudden checking of a cable. From this moment the Niña drew slowly off to sea again, though her path lay through such a scene of turbulent water, as threatened, at each instant, to overwhelm her.
"Luis!" said a soft voice, at our hero's elbow, as the latter stood clinging to the side of the door of the cabin appropriated to the females--"Luis--Hayti better--Mattinao better--much bad, Luis!"
It was Ozema, who had risen from her pallet to look out upon the appalling view of the ocean. During the mild weather of the first part of the passage, the intercourse between Luis and the natives on board had been constant and cheerful. Though slightly incommoded by her situation, Ozema had always received his visits with guileless delight, and her progress in Spanish had been such as to astonish even her teacher. Nor were the means of communication confined altogether to the advance of Ozema, since Luis, in his endeavors to instruct her, had acquired nearly as many words of her native tongue, as he had taught her of his own. In this manner they conversed, resorting to both dialects for terms, as necessity dictated. We shall give a free translation of what was said, endeavoring, at the same time, to render the dialogue characteristic and graphic.
"Poor Ozema!" returned our hero, drawing her gently to a position where he could support her against the effects of the violent motion of the caravel--"thou must regret Hayti, indeed, and the peaceful security of thy groves!"
"Caonabo there, Luis."
"True, innocent girl; but even Caonabo is not as terrible as this anger of the elements."
"No--no--no--Caonabo much bad. Break Ozema's heart. No Caonabo--no Hayti."
"Thy dread of the Carib chief, dear Ozema, hath upset thy reason, in part. Thou hast a God, as well as we Christians, and, like us, must put thy trust in him; he alone can now protect thee."
"What protect?"
"Care for thee, Ozema. See that thou dost not come to harm. Look to thy safety and welfare."
"Luis protect Ozema. So promise Mattinao--so promise Ozema--so promise heart."
"Dear girl, so will I, to the extent of my means. But what can I do against this tempest?"
"What Luis do against Caonabo? --Kill him--cut Indians--make him run away!"
"This was easy to a Christian knight, who carried a good sword and buckler, but it is impossible against a tempest. We have only one hope, and that is to trust in the Spaniard's God."
"Spaniards great--have great God."
"There is but one God, Ozema, and he ruleth all, whether in Hayti or in Spain. Thou rememberest what I have told thee of his love, and of the manner of his death, that we might all be saved, and thou didst then promise to worship him, and to be baptized when we should reach my country."
"God! --Ozema do, what Ozema say. Love Luis' God already."
"Thou hast seen the holy cross, Ozema, and hast promised me to kiss it, and bless it."
"Where cross? See no cross--up in heaven? --or where? Show Ozema cross, now--Luis' cross--cross Luis love."
The young man wore the parting gift of Mercedes near his heart, and raising a hand he withdrew the small jewel, pressed it to his own lips with pious fervor, and then offered it to the Indian girl.
"See"--he said--"this is a cross; we Spaniards revere and bless it. It is our pledge of happiness."
"That Luis' God?" enquired Ozema, in a little surprise.
"Not so, my poor benighted girl"-- "What benighted?" interrupted the quick-witted Haytian, eagerly, for no term that the young man could or did apply to her, fell unheeded on her vigilant and attentive ear.
"Benighted means those who have never heard of the cross, or of its endless mercies."
"Ozema no benighted now," exclaimed the other, pressing the bauble to her bosom. "Got cross--keep cross--no benighted again, never. Cross, Mercedes"--for, by one of those mistakes that are not unfrequent in the commencement of all communications between those who speak different tongues, the young Indian had caught the notion, from many of Luis' involuntary exclamations, that "Mercedes" meant all that was excellent.
"I would, indeed, that she of whom thou speakest had thee in her gentle care, that she might lead thy pure soul to a just knowledge of thy Creator! That cross cometh of Mercedes, if it be not Mercedes herself, and thou dost well in loving it, and in blessing it. Place the chain around thy neck, Ozema, for the precious emblem may help in preserving thee, should the gale throw us on the coast, ere morning. _That cross is a sign of undying love. _" The girl understood enough of this, especially as the direction was seconded by a little gentle aid, on the part of our hero, to comply, and the chain was soon thrown around her neck, with the holy emblem resting on her bosom. The change in the temperature, as well as a sense of propriety, had induced the admiral to cause ample robes of cotton to be furnished all the females, and Ozema's beautiful form was now closely enveloped in one, and beneath its folds she had hidden the jewel, which she fondly hugged to her heart, as a gift of Luis. Not so did the young man himself view the matter. He had merely meant to lend, in a moment of extreme peril, that which the superstitious feeling of the age seriously induced him to fancy might prove a substantial safeguard. As Ozema was by no means expert in managing the encumbrance of a dress to which she was unaccustomed, even while native taste had taught her to throw it around her person gracefully, the young man had half unconsciously assisted in placing the cross in its new position, when a violent roll of the vessel compelled him to sustain the girl by encircling her waist with an arm. Partly yielding to the motion of the caravel, which was constantly jerking even the mariners from their feet, and probably as much seduced by the tenderness of her own heart, Ozema did not rebuke this liberty--the first our hero had ever offered, but stood, in confiding innocence, upheld by the arm that, of all others, it was most grateful to her feelings to believe destined to perform that office for life. In another moment, her head rested on his bosom, and her face was turned upward, with the eyes fastened on the countenance of the young noble.
"Thou art less alarmed at this terrific storm, Ozema, than I could have hoped. Apprehension for thee has made me more miserable than I could have thought possible, and yet thou seemest not to be disturbed."
"Ozema no unhappy--no want Hayti--no want Mattinao--no want any thing--Ozema happy now. Got cross."
"Sweet, guileless innocent, may'st thou never know any other feelings! --confide in thy cross."
"Cross, Mercedes--Luis, Mercedes. Luis and Ozema keep cross forever."
It was, perhaps, fortunate for this high-prized happiness of the girl, that the Niña now took a plunge that unavoidably compelled our hero to release his hold of her person, or to drag her with him headlong toward the place where Columbus stood, sheltering his weather-beaten form from a portion of the violence of the tempest. When he recovered his feet, he perceived that the door of the cabin was closed, and that Ozema was no longer to be seen.
"Dost thou find our female friends terrified by this appalling scene, son Luis?" Columbus quietly demanded, for, though his own thoughts had been much occupied by the situation of the caravel, he had noted all that had just passed so near him. "They are stout of heart, but even an amazon might quail at this tempest."
"They heed it not, Señor, for I think they understand it not. The civilized man is so much their superior, that both men and women appear to have every confidence in our means of safety. I have just given Ozema a cross, and bade her place her greatest reliance on that."
"Thou hast done well; it is now the surest protector of us all. Keep the head of the caravel as near to the wind as may be, Sancho, when it lulls, every inch off shore being so much gained in the way of security."
The usual reply was made, and then the conversation ceased; the raging of the elements, and the fearful manner in which the Niña was compelled to struggle literally to keep on the surface of the ocean, affording ample matter for the reflections of all who witnessed the scene.
In this manner passed the night. When the day broke, it opened on a scene of wintry violence. The sun was not visible that day, the dark vapor driving so low before the tempest, as to lessen the apparent altitude of the vault of heaven one-half, but the ocean was an undulating sheet of foam. High land soon became visible nearly abeam of the caravel, and all the elder mariners immediately pronounced it to be the rock of Lisbon. As soon as this important fact was ascertained, the admiral wore with the head of the caravel in-shore, and laid his course for the mouth of the Tagus. The distance was not great, some twenty miles perhaps; but the necessity of facing the tempest, and of making sail, on a wind, in such a storm, rendered the situation of the caravel more critical than it had been in all her previous trials. At that moment, the policy of the Portuguese was forgotten, or held to be entirely a secondary consideration, a port or shipwreck appearing to be the alternative. Every inch of their weatherly position became of importance to the navigators, and Vicente Yañez placed himself near the helm to watch its play with the vigilance of experience and authority. No sail but the lowest could be carried, and these were reefed as closely as their construction would allow.
In this manner the tempest-tossed little bark struggled forward, now sinking so low in the troughs that land, ocean, and all but the frowning billows, with the clouds above their heads, were lost to view; and now rising, as it might be, from the calm of a sombre cavern, into the roaring, hissing, and turbulence of a tempest. These latter moments were the most critical. When the light hull reached the summit of a wave, falling over to windward by the yielding of the element beneath her, it seemed as if the next billow must inevitably overwhelm her; and yet, so vigilant was the eye of Vicente Yañez, and so ready the hand of Sancho, that she ever escaped the calamity. To keep the wash of the sea entirely out, was, however, impossible; and it often swept athwart the deck, forward, like the sheets of a cataract, that part of the vessel being completely abandoned by the crew.
"All now depends on our canvas," said the admiral, with a sigh; "if that stand, we are safer than when scudding, and I think God is with us. To me it seemeth as if the wind was a little less violent than in the night."
"Perhaps it is, Señor. I believe we gain on the place you pointed out to me."
"It is yon rocky point. _That_ weathered, and we are safe. That not weathered, and we see our common grave."
"The caravel behaveth nobly, and I will still hope."
An hour later, and the land was so near that human beings were seen moving on it. There are moments when life and death may be said to be equally presented to the seaman's sight. On one side is destruction; on the other security. As the vessel drew slowly in toward the shore, not only was the thunder of the surf upon the rocks audible, but the frightful manner in which the water was tossed upward in spray, gave additional horrors to the view. On such occasions, it is no uncommon thing to see _jets d'eau_ hundreds of feet in height, and the driving spray is often carried to a great distance inland, before the wind. Lisbon has the whole rake of the Atlantic before it, unbroken by island or headland; and the entire coast of Portugal is one of the most exposed of Europe. The south-west gales, in particular, drive across twelve hundred leagues of ocean, and the billows they send in upon its shores, are truly appalling. Nor was the storm we are endeavoring to describe, one of common occurrence. The season had been tempestuous, seldom leaving the Atlantic any peace; and the surges produced by one gale had not time to subside, ere another drove up the water in a new direction, giving rise to that irregularity of motion which most distresses a vessel, and which is particularly hazardous to small ones.
"She looks up better, Don Christopher!" exclaimed Luis, as they got within musket-shot of the desired point; "another ten minutes of as favorable a slant, and we do it!"
"Thou art right, son," answered the admiral, calmly. "Were any calamity to throw us ashore on yonder rocks, two planks of the Niña would not hold together five minutes. Ease her--good Vicente Yañez--ease her, quite a point, and let her go through the water. All depends on the canvas, and we can spare that point. She moves, Luis! Regard the land, and thou wilt now see our motion."
"True, Señor, but the caravel is drawing frightfully near the point!"
"Fear not; a bold course is often the safest. It is a deep shore, and we need but little water."
No one now spoke. The caravel was dashing in toward the point with appalling speed, and every minute brought her perceptibly nearer to the cauldron of water that was foaming around it. Without absolutely entering within this vortex, the Niña flew along its edge, and, in five minutes more, she had a direct course up the Tagus open before her. The mainsail was now taken in, and the mariners stood fearlessly on, certain of a haven and security.
Thus, virtually, ended the greatest marine exploit the world has ever witnessed. It is true that a run round to Palos was subsequently made, but it was insignificant in distance, and not fruitful in incidents. Columbus had effected his vast purpose, and his success was no longer a secret. His reception in Portugal is known, as well as all the leading occurrences that took place at Lisbon. He anchored in the Tagus on the 4th of March, and left it again on the 13th. On the morning of the 14th, the Niña was off Cape St. Vincent, when she hauled in to the eastward, with a light air from the north. At sunrise on the 15th she was again off the bar of Saltes, after an absence of only two hundred and twenty-four days.
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"One evening-tide, as with her crones she sate, Making sweet solace of some scandal new, A boisterous noise came thund'ring at the gate, And soon a sturdie boy approached in view; With gold far glitter and were his vestments blue, And pye-shaped hat, and of the silver sheen An huge broad buckle glaunst in either shoe, And round his necke an Indian kerchiefe clean, And in his hand a switch;--a jolly wight I ween."
Mickle.
Notwithstanding the noble conceptions that lay at the bottom of the voyage we have just related, the perseverance and self-devotion that were necessary to its accomplishment, and the magnificence of the consequences that were dependent on its success, it attracted very little attention, amid the stirring incidents and active selfishness of the age, until the result was known. Only a month before the arrangement was made with Columbus, the memorable edict of the two sovereigns, for the expulsion of the Jews, had been signed; and this uprooting of so large a portion of the Spanish nation was, of itself, an event likely to draw off the eyes of the people from an enterprise deemed as doubtful, and which was sustained by means so insignificant, as that of the great navigator. The close of the month of July had been set as the latest period for the departure of these persecuted religionists; and thus, at the very time, almost on the very day, when Columbus sailed from Palos, was the attention of the nation directed toward what might be termed a great national calamity. The departure was like the setting forth from Egypt, the highways being thronged with the moving masses, many of which were wandering they knew not whither.
The king and queen had left Granada in May, and after remaining two months in Castile, they passed into Aragon, about the commencement of August, in which kingdom they happened to be when the expedition sailed. Here they remained throughout the rest of the season, settling affairs of importance, and, quite probably, disposed to avoid the spectacle of the misery their Jewish edict had inflicted, Castile having contained much the greater portion of that class of their subjects. In October, a visit was paid to the turbulent Catalans; the court passing the entire winter in Barcelona. Nor did momentous events cease to occupy them while in this part of their territories. On the 7th of December an attempt was made on the life of Ferdinand; the assassin inflicting a severe, though not a fatal wound, by a blow on the neck. During the critical weeks in which the life of the king was deemed to be in danger, Isabella watched at his bed-side, with the untiring affection of a devoted wife; and her thoughts dwelt more on her affections than on any worldly aggrandisement. Then followed the investigation into the motives of the criminal; conspiracies ever being distrusted in such cases, although history would probably show that much the greater part of these wicked attempts on the lives of sovereigns, are more the results of individual fanaticism, than of any combined plans to destroy.
Isabella, whose gentle spirit grieved over the misery her religious submission had induced her to inflict on the Jews, was spared the additional sorrow of mourning for a husband, taken away by means so violent. Ferdinand gradually recovered. All these occurrences, together with the general cares of the state, had served to divide the thoughts of even the queen from the voyage; while the politic Ferdinand, in his mind, had long since set down the gold expended in the outfit as so much money lost.
The balmy spring of the south opened as usual, and the fertile province of Catalonia had already become delightful with the fresh verdure of the close of March. The king had, for some weeks, resumed his usual occupations, and Isabella, relieved from her conjugal fears, had again fallen into the quiet current of her duties and her usual acts of beneficence. Indisposed to the gorgeousness of her station by the recent events, and ever pining for the indulgence of the domestic affections, this estimable woman, notwithstanding the strong natural disposition she had always felt for that sort of life, had lived more among her children and confidants, of late, than had been even her wont. Her earliest friend, the Marchioness of Moya, as a matter of course, was ever near her person, and Mercedes passed most of her time either in the immediate presence of her royal mistress, or in that of her children.
There had been a small reception one evening, near the close of the month; and Isabella, glad to escape from such scenes, had withdrawn to her private apartments, to indulge in conversation in the circle she so much loved. It was near the hour of midnight, the king being at work, as usual, in an adjoining closet. There were present, besides the members of the royal family and Doña Beatriz with her lovely niece, the Archbishop of Granada, Luis de St. Angel, and Alonzo de Quintanilla, the two last of whom had been summoned by the prelate, to discuss some question of clerical finance before their illustrious mistress. All business, however, was over, and Isabella was rendering the circle agreeable, with the condescension of a princess and the gentle grace of a woman.
"Are there fresh tidings from the unfortunate and deluded Hebrews, Lord Archbishop?" demanded Isabella, whose kind feelings ever led her to regret the severity which religious dependence on her confessors had induced her to sanction. "Our prayers should surely attend them, notwithstanding our policy and duty have demanded their expulsion."
"Señora," answered Fernando de Talavera, "they are doubtless serving Mammon among the Moors and Turks, as they served him in Spain. Let not your Highness' gracious mind be disturbed on account of these descendants of the enemies and crucifiers of Christ, who, if they suffer at all, do but suffer justly, for the unutterable sin of their forefathers. Let us rather inquire, my gracious mistress, of the Señores St. Angel and Quintanilla here, what hath become of their favorite Colon, the Genoese; and when they look for his return, dragging the Great Khan, a captive, by the beard!"
"We know naught of him, holy prelate," put in de St. Angel, briskly, "since his departure from the Canaries."
"The Canaries!" interrupted the queen, in a little surprise. "Hath aught been received, that cometh from that quarter?"
"By report only, Señora. Letters have not reached any in Spain, that I can learn, but there is a rumor from Portugal, that the admiral touched at Gomera and the Grand Canary, where it would seem he had his difficulties, and whence he shortly after departed, holding a western course; since which time no tidings have been received from either of the caravels."
"By which fact, Lord Archbishop," added Quintanilla, "we can perceive that trifles are not likely to turn the adventurers back."
"I'll warrant ye, Señores, that a Genoese adventurer who holdeth their Highnesses' commission as an admiral, will be in no unseemly haste to get rid of the dignity!" rejoined the prelate, laughing, without much deference to his mistress' concessions in Columbus' favor. "One does not see rank, authority, and emolument, carelessly thrown aside, when they may be retained by keeping aloof from the power whence they spring."
"Thou art unjust to the Genoese, holy sir, and judgest him harshly," observed the queen. "Truly, I did not know of these tidings from the Canaries, and I rejoice to hear that Colon hath got thus far in safety. Hath not the past been esteemed a most boisterous winter among mariners, Señor de St. Angel?"
"So much so, your Highness, that I have heard the seamen here, in Barcelona, swear that, within the memory of man, there hath not been another like it. Should ill-luck wait upon Colon, I trust this circumstance may be remembered as his excuse; though I doubt if he be very near any of our tempests and storms."
"Not he!" exclaimed the bishop, triumphantly. "It will be seen that he hath been safely harbored in some river of Africa; and we shall have some question yet to settle about him with Don John of Portugal."
"Here is the king to give us his opinion," interposed Isabella. "It is long since I have heard him mention the name of Colon. Have you entirely forgotten our Genoese admiral, Don Fernando?"
"Before I am questioned on subjects so remote," returned the king, smiling, "let me inquire into matters nearer home. How long is it that your Highness holdeth court, and giveth receptions, past the hour of midnight?"
"Call you this a court, Señor? Here are but our own dear children, Beatriz and her niece, with the good archbishop, and those two faithful servants of your own."
"True; but you overlook the ante-chambers, and those who await your pleasure without."
"None can await without at this unusual hour; surely you jest, my lord."
"Then your own page, Diego de Ballesteros, hath reported falsely. Unwilling to disturb your privacy, at this unseasonable hour, he hath come to me, saying that one of strange conduct and guise is in the palace, insisting on an interview with the queen, let it be late or early. The accounts of this man's deportment are so singular, that I have ordered him to be admitted, and have come myself to witness the interview. The page telleth me that he swears all hours are alike, and that night and day are equally made for our uses."
"Dearest Don Fernando, there may be treason in this!"
"Fear not, Isabella; assassins are not so bold, and the trusty rapiers of these gentlemen will prove sufficient for our protection--Hist! there are footsteps, and we must appear calm, even though we apprehend a tumult."
The door opened, and Sancho Mundo stood in the royal presence. The air and appearance of so singular a being excited both astonishment and amusement, and every eye was fastened on him in wonder; and this so much the more, because he had decked his person with sundry ornaments from the imaginary Indies, among which were one or two bands of gold. Mercedes alone detected his profession by his air and attire, and she rose involuntarily, clasping her hands with energy, and suffering a slight exclamation to escape her. The queen perceived this little pantomime, and it at once gave a right direction to her own thoughts.
"I am Isabella, the queen," she said, prising, without any further suspicion of danger; "and thou art a messenger from Colon, the Genoese?"
Sancho, who had found great difficulty in gaining admittance, now that his end was obtained, took matters with his native coolness. His first act was to fall on his knees, as he had been particularly enjoined by Columbus to do. He had caught the habit of using the weed of Hayti and Cuba, from the natives, and was, in fact, the first seaman who ever chewed tobacco. The practice had already got to be confirmed with him, and before he answered, or as soon as he had taken this, for him, novel position, he saw fit to fill a corner of his mouth with the attractive plant. Then, giving his wardrobe a shake, for all the decent clothes he owned were on his person, he disposed himself to make a suitable reply.
"Señora--Doña--your Highness," he answered, "any one might have seen that at a glance. I am Sancho Mundo, of the ship-yard-gate; one of your Highness' Excellency's most faithful subjects and mariners, being a native and resident of Moguer."
"Thou comest from Colon, I say?"
"Señora, I do; many thanks to your Royal Grace for the information. Don Christopher hath sent me across the country from Lisbon, seeing that the wily Portuguese would be less likely to distrust a simple mariner, like myself, than one of your every-day-booted couriers. 'Tis a weary road, and there is not a mule between the stables of Lisbon and the palace of Barcelona, fit for a Christian to bestride."
"Then, hast thou letters? One like thee can scarcely bear aught else."
"Therein, your Grace's Highness, Doña Reyña, is mistaken; though I am far from bearing half the number of doblas I had at starting. Mass! the innkeepers took me for a grandee, by the manner in which they charged!"
"Give the man gold, good Alonzo--he is one that liketh his reward ere he will speak."
Sancho coolly counted the pieces that were put into his hand, and, finding them greatly to exceed his hopes, he had no longer any motive for prevarication.
"Speak, fellow!" cried the king. "Thou triflest where thou owest thy duty and obedience."
The sharp, quick voice of Ferdinand had much more effect on the ear of Sancho, than the gentler tones of Isabella, notwithstanding his rude nature had been impressed with the matronly beauty and grace of the latter.
"If your Highness would condescend to let me know what you wish to hear, I will speak in all gladness."
"Where is Colon?" demanded the queen.
"At Lisbon, lately, Señora, though I think now at Palos de Moguer, or in that neighborhood."
"Whither hath he been?"
"To Cipango, and the territories of the Great Khan; forty days' sail from Gomera, and a country of marvellous beauty and excellence!"
"Thou canst not--darest not trifle with me! Can we put credit in thy words?"
"If your Highness only knew Sancho Mundo, you would not feel this doubt. I tell you, Señora, and all these noble cavaliers and dames, that Don Christopher Colon hath discovered the other side of the earth, which we now know to be round, by having circled it; and that he hath found out that the north star journeyeth about in the heavens, like a gossip spreading her news; and that he hath taken possession of islands as large as Spain, in which gold groweth, and where the holy church may employ itself in making Christians to the end of time."
"The letter--Sancho--give me the letter. Colon would scarce send thee as a verbal expositor."
The fellow now undid sundry coverings of cloth and paper, until he reached the missive of Columbus, when, without rising from his knees, he held it out toward the queen, giving her the trouble to move forward several paces to receive it. So unexpected and astounding were the tidings, and so novel the whole scene, that no one interfered, leaving Isabella to be the sole actor, as she was, virtually, the sole speaker. Sancho having thus successfully acquitted himself of a task that had been expressly confided to him on account of his character and appearance, which, it was thought, would prove his security from arrest and plunder, settled down quietly on his heels, for he had been directed not to rise until ordered; and drawing forth the gold he had received, he began coolly to count it anew. So absorbing was the attention all gave to the queen, that no one heeded the mariner or his movements. Isabella opened the letter, which her looks devoured, as they followed line after line. As was usual with Columbus, the missive was long, and it required many minutes to read it. All this time not an individual moved, every eye being fastened on the speaking countenance of the queen. There, were seen the heightening flush of pleasure and surprise, the glow of delight and wonder, and the look of holy rapture. When the letter was ended, Isabella turned her eyes upward to heaven, clasped her hands with energy, and exclaimed-- "Not unto us, O Lord, but to Thee, be all the honor of this wonderful discovery, all the benefits of this great proof of thy goodness and power!"
Thus saying, she sunk into a seat and dissolved in tears. Ferdinand uttered a slight ejaculation at the words of his royal consort; and then he gently took the letter from her unresisting hand, and read it with great deliberation and care. It was not often that the wary King of Aragon was as much affected, in appearance at least, as on this occasion. The expression of his face, at first, was that of wonder; eagerness, not to say avidity, followed; and when he had finished reading, his grave countenance was unequivocally illuminated by exultation and joy.
"Good Luis de St. Angel!" he cried, "and thou, honest Alonzo de Quintanilla, these must be grateful tidings to you both. Even thou, holy prelate, wilt rejoice that the church is like to have acquisitions so glorious--albeit no favorer of the Genoese of old. Far more than all our expectations are realized, for Colon hath truly discovered the Indies; increasing our dominions, and otherwise advancing our authority in a most unheard-of manner."
It was unusual to see Don Ferdinand so excited, and he seemed conscious himself that he was making an extraordinary exhibition, for he immediately advanced to the queen, and, taking her hand, he led her toward his own cabinet. In passing out of the saloon, he indicated to the three nobles that they might follow to the council. The king made this sudden movement more from habitual wariness than any settled object, his mind being disturbed in a way to which he was unaccustomed, while caution formed a part of his religion, as well as of his policy. It is not surprising, therefore, that when he and the party he invited to follow him had left the room, there remained only the princesses, the Marchioness of Moya, and Mercedes. No sooner had the king and queen disappeared, than the royal children retired to their own apartments, leaving our heroine, her guardian, and Sancho, the sole occupants of the saloon. The latter still remained on his knees, scarce heeding what had passed, so intently was he occupied with his own situation, and his own particular sources of satisfaction.
"Thou canst rise, friend," observed Doña Beatriz; "their Highnesses are no longer present."
At this intelligence, Sancho quitted his humble posture, brushed his knees with some care, and looked about him with the composure that he was wont to exhibit in studying the heavens at sea.
"Thou wert of Colon's company, friend, by the manner in which thou hast spoken, and the circumstance that the admiral hath employed thee as his courier?"
"You may well believe that, Señora, your Excellency, for most of my time was passed at the helm, which was within three fathoms of the very spot that Don Christopher and the Señor de Muños loved so well that they never quitted it, except to sleep, and not always then."
"Hadst thou a Señor de Muños of thy party?" resumed the Marchioness, making a sign to her ward to control her feelings.
"That had we, Señora, and a Señor Gutierrez, and a certain Don Somebody Else, and they all three did not occupy more room than one common man. Prithee, honorable and agreeable Señora, is there one Doña Beatriz de Cabrera, the Marchioness of Moya, a lady of the illustrious house of Bobadilla, anywhere about the court of our gracious queen?"
"I am she, and thou hast a message for me, from this very Señor de Muños, of whom thou hast spoken."
"I no longer wonder that there are great lords with their beautiful ladies, and poor sailors with wives that no one envies! Scarce can I open my mouth, but it is known what I wish to say, which is knowledge to make one party great and the other party little! Mass! --Don Christopher, himself, will need all his wit, if he journeyeth as far as Barcelona!"
"Tell us of this Pedro de Muños; for thy message is to me."
"Then, Señora, I will tell you of your own brave nephew, the Conde de Llera, who goeth by two other names in the caravel, one of which is supposed to be a sham, while the other is still the greatest deception of the two."
"Is it, then, known who my nephew really is? Are many persons acquainted with his secret?"
"Certainly, Señora; it is known, firstly, to himself; secondly, to Don Christopher; thirdly, to me; fourthly, to Master Alonzo Pinzon, if he be still in the flesh, as most probably he is not. Then it is known to your ladyship; and this beautiful Señorita must have some suspicions of the matter."
"Enough--I see the secret is not public; though, how one of thy class came to be of it, I cannot explain. Tell me of my nephew:--did he, too, write? if so, let me, at once, peruse his letter."
"Señora, my departure took Don Luis by surprise, and he had no time to write. The admiral had given the princes and princesses, that we brought from Española, in charge to the Conde, and he had too much to do to be scribbling letters, else would he have written sheets to an aunt as respectable as yourself."
"Princes and princesses! --What mean you, friend, by such high-sounding terms?"
"Only that we have brought several of these great personages to Spain, to pay their respects to their Highnesses. We deal with none of the common fry, Señora, but with the loftiest princes, and the most beautiful princesses of the east."
"And dost thou really mean that persons of this high rank have returned with the admiral?"
"Out of all question, lady, and one of a beauty so rare, that the fairest dames of Castile need look to it, if they wish not to be outdone. She, in particular, is Don Luis' friend and favorite."
"Of whom speakest thou?" demanded Doña Beatriz, in the lofty manner in which she was wont to insist on being answered directly. "What is the name of this princess, and whence doth she come?"
"Her name, your Excellency, is Doña Ozema de Hayti, of a part of which country her brother, Don Mattinao, is cacique or king, Señora Ozema being the heiress, or next of kin. Don Luis and your humble servant paid that court a visit"-- "Thy tale is most improbable, fellow--art thou one whom Don Luis would be likely to select as a companion on such an occasion?"
"Look at it as you will, Señora, it is as true as that this is the court of Don Ferdinand and Doña Isabella. You must know, illustrious Marchioness, that the young count is a little given to roving about among us sailors, and on one occasion, a certain Sancho Mundo, of Moguer, happened to be of the same voyage; and thus we became known to each other. I kept the noble's secret, and he got to be Sancho's friend. When Don Luis went to pay a visit to Don Mattinao, the cacique, which word meaneth 'your Highness,' in the eastern tongue, Sancho must go with him, and Sancho went. When King Caonabo came down from the mountains to carry off the Princess Doña Ozema for a wife, and the princess was unwilling to go, why there remained nothing to be done, but for the Conde de Llera and his friend Sancho of the ship-yard-gate, to fight the whole army in her defence, which we did, gaining as great a victory as Don Fernando, our sovereign master, ever gained over the Moors."
"Carrying off the princess yourselves, as would seem! Friend Sancho, of the ship-yard-gate, if that be thy appellation, this tale of thine is ingenious, but it lacketh probability. Were I to deal justly by thee, honest Sancho, it would be to order thee the stripes thou merietst so well, as a reward for this trifling."
"The man speaketh as he hath been taught," observed Mercedes, in a low, unsteady voice; "I fear, Señora, there is too much truth in his tale!"
"You need fear nothing, beautiful Señorita," put in Sancho, altogether unmoved at the menace implied by the words of the Marchioness, "since the battle hath been fought, the victory hath been gained, and both the heroes escaped uninjured. This illustrious Señora, to whom I can forgive any thing, as the aunt of the best friend I have on earth--any thing _spoken_, I mean--will remember that the Haytians know nothing of arquebuses, by means of which we defeated Caonabo, and also, that many is the column of Moors that Don Luis hath broken singly, and by means of his own good lance."
"Ay, fellow," answered Doña Beatriz, "but that hath been in the saddle, behind plaits of steel, and with a weapon that hath overturned even Alonzo de Ojeda!"
"Hast thou truly brought away with thee the princess thou hast named?" asked Mercedes, earnestly.
"I swear to it, Señora and Señorita, illustrious ladies both, by the holy mass, and all the saints in the calendar! A princess, moreover, surpassing in beauty the daughters of our own blessed queen, if the fair ladies who passed out of this room, even now, are they, as I suspect."
"Out upon thee, knave!" cried the indignant Beatriz--"I will no more of this, and marvel that my nephew should have employed one of so loose a tongue, on any of his errands. Go to, and learn discretion ere the morning, or the favor of even thy admiral will not save thy bones. Mercedes, we will seek our rest--the hour is late."
Sancho was immediately left alone, and in a minute a page appeared to show him to the place where he was to pass the night. The old mariner had grumbled a little to himself, concerning the spirit of Don Luis' aunt, counted anew his gold, and was about to take possession of his pallet, when the same page reappeared to summon him to another interview. Sancho, who knew little distinction between night and day, made no objections, especially when he was told that his presence was required by the lovely Señorita, whose gentle, tremulous voice had so much interested him, in the late interview. Mercedes received her rude guest in a small saloon of her own, after having parted from her guardian for the night. As he entered, her face was flushed, her eye bright, and her whole demeanor, to one more expert in detecting female emotions, would have betrayed intense anxiety.
"Thou hast had a long and weary journey, Sancho," said our heroine, when alone with the seaman, "and, I pray thee, accept this gold, as a small proof of the interest with which I have heard the great tidings of which thou hast been the bearer."
"Señorita!" exclaimed Sancho, affecting indifference to the doblas that fell into his hand--"I hope you do not think me mercenary! the honor of being the messenger, and of being admitted to converse with such illustrious ladies, more than pays me for any thing I could do."
"Still, thou may'st need money for thy wants, and wilt not refuse that which a lady offereth."
"On that ground, I would accept it, Doña Señorita, even were it twice as much."
So saying, Sancho placed the money, with a suitable resignation, by the side of that which he had previously received by order of the queen. Mercedes now found herself in the situation that they who task their powers too much, are often fated to endure; in other words, now she had at command the means of satisfying her own doubts, she hesitated about using them.
"Sancho," Mercedes at length commenced, "thou hast been with the Señor Colon, throughout this great and extraordinary voyage, and must know much that it will be curious for us, who have lived quietly in Spain, to hear. Is all thou hast said about the princes and princesses true?"
"As true, Señorita, as such things need be for a history. Mass! --Any one who hath been in a battle, or seen any other great adventure, and then cometh to hear it read of, afterward, will soon learn to understand the difference between the thing itself, and the history that may be given of it. Now, I was"-- "Never mind thy other adventures, good Sancho; tell me only of this. Are there really a Prince Mattinao, and a Princess Ozema his sister, and have both accompanied the admiral to Spain?"
"I said not that, beautiful Señorita, for Don Mattinao remained behind to rule his people. It is only his handsome sister, who hath followed Don Christopher and Don Luis to Palos."
"Followed! --Do the admiral and the Conde de Llera possess such influence over royal ladies, as to induce them to abandon their native country and to _follow_ them to a foreign land?"
"Ay, Señorita, that might seem out of rule in Castile, or Portugal, or even in France. But Hayti is not yet a Christian country, and a princess there may not be more than a noble lady in Castile, and, in the way of wardrobe, perhaps, not even as much. Still, a princess is a princess, and a handsome princess is a handsome princess. Doña Ozema, here, is a wonderful creature, and beginneth already to prattle your pure Castilian, and she had been brought up at Toledo, or Burgos. But Don Luis is a most encouraging master, and no doubt made great head-way, during the time he was living in her palace, as it might be alone with her, before that incarnate devil Don Caonabo came down with his followers to seize the lady."
"Is this lady a Christian princess, Sancho?"
"Heaven bless your own pure soul, Doña Señorita, she can boast of but little in that way; still, she hath made something of a beginning, as I see she now weareth a cross--one small in size, it is true, but precious in material, as, indeed it ought to be, seeing that it is a present from one as noble and rich as the Count of Llera."
"A cross, say'st thou, Sancho!" interrupted Mercedes, almost gasping for breath, yet so far subduing her feelings as to prevent the old seaman from detecting them; "hath Don Luis succeeded in inducing her to accept of a cross?"
"That hath he, Señorita--one of precious stones, that he once wore at his own neck."
"Knowest thou the stones? --was it of turquoise, embellished with the finest gold?"
"For the gold I can answer, lady, though my learning hath never reached as high as the precious stones. The heavens of Hayti, however, are not bluer than the stones of that cross. Doña Ozema calls it 'Mercedes,' by which I understand that she looketh for the mercies of the crucifixion to help her benighted soul."
"Is this cross, then, held so common, that it hath gotten to be the subject of discourse even for men of thy class?"
"Hearkee, Señorita; a man like me is more valued, on board a caravel, in a tossing sea, than he is likely to be here, in Barcelona, on solid ground. We went to Cipango to set up crosses, and to make Christians; so that all hath been in character. As for the Lady Ozema, she taketh more notice of me than of another, as I was in the battle that rescued her from Caonabo, and so she showed me the cross the day we anchored in the Tagus, or just before the admiral ordered me to bring his letter to her Highness. Then it was that she kissed the cross, and held it to her heart, and said it was 'Mercedes.'"
"This is most strange, Sancho! Hath this princess attendants befitting her rank and dignity?"
"You forget, Señorita, that the Niña is but a small craft, as her name signifieth, and there would be no room for a large train of lords and ladies. Don Christopher and Don Luis are honorable enough to attend on any princess; and for the rest, the Doña Ozema must wait until our gracious queen can command her a retinue befitting her birth. Besides, my lady, these Haytian dames are simpler than our Spanish nobles, half of them thinking clothes of no great use in that mild climate."
Mercedes looked offended and incredulous; but her curiosity and interest were too active, to permit her to send the man away without further question.
"And Don Luis de Bobadilla was ever with the admiral?" she said; "ever ready to support him, and foremost in all hazards?"
"Señorita, you describe the count as faithfully as if you had been present from first to last. Had you but seen him dealing out his blows upon Caonabo's followers, and the manner in which he kept them all at bay, with the Doña Ozema near him, behind the rocks, it would have drawn tears of admiration from your own lovely eyes."
"The Doña Ozema near him--behind rocks--and assailants held at bay!"
"Si, Señora; you repeat it all like a book. It was much as you say, though the Lady Ozema did not content herself with being behind the rocks, for, when the arrows came thickest, she rushed before the count, compelling the enemy to withhold, lest they should slay the very prize they were battling for; thereby saving the life of her knight."
"Saving his life! --the life of Luis--of Don Luis de Bobadilla--an Indian princess?"
"It is just as you say, and a most noble girl she is, asking pardon for speaking so light of one of her high rank. Time and again, since that day, hath the young count told me, that the arrows came in such clouds, that his honor might have been tarnished by a retreat, or his life been lost, but for the timely resolution of the Doña Ozema. She is a rare creature, Señorita, and you will love her as a sister, when you come to see and know her."
"Sancho," said our heroine, blushing like the dawn, "thou saidst that the Conde de Llera bade thee speak of him to his aunt; did he mention no one else?"
"No one, Señorita."
"Art certain, Sancho? Bethink thee well--did he mention no other name to thee?"
"Not that I can swear. It is true, that either he or old Diego, the helmsman, spoke of one Clara that keepeth an _hosteria_, here in Barcelona, as a place famous for its wine; but I think it more likely to have been Diego than the count, as one thinketh much of these matters, and the other would not be apt to know aught of Clara."
"Thou canst retire, Sancho," said Mercedes, in a faint voice. "We will say more to thee in the morning."
Sancho was not sorry to be dismissed, and he gladly returned to his pallet, little dreaming of the mischief he had done by the mixture of truth and exaggeration that he had been recounting.
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"Mac-Homer, too, in prose or song, By the state-papers of Buffon, To deep researches led; A Gallo-Celtic scheme may botch, To prove the Ourang race were Scotch, Who from the Highlands fled."
Lord John Townshend.
The intelligence of the return of Columbus, and of the important discoveries he had made, spread through Europe like wild-fire. It soon got to be, in the general estimation, the great event of the age. For several years afterward, or until the discovery of the Pacific by Balboa, it was believed that the Indies had been reached by the western passage; and, of course, the problem of the earth's spherical shape was held to be solved by actual experiment. The transactions of the voyage, the wonders seen, the fertility of the soil of the east, the softness of its climate, its treasures in gold, spices, and pearls, and the curious things that the admiral had brought as proofs of his success, were all the themes of the hour. Men never wearied in discussing the subjects. For many centuries had the Spaniards been endeavoring to expel the Moors from the peninsula; but as that much-desired event had been the result of time and a protracted struggle, even its complete success seemed tame and insignificant compared with the sudden brilliancy that shone around the western discoveries. In a word, the pious rejoiced in the hope of spreading the gospel; the avaricious feasted their imaginations on untold hoards of gold; the politic calculated the increase of the power of Spain; the scientific exulted in the triumph of mind over prejudice and ignorance, while they hoped for still greater accessions of knowledge; and the enemies of Spain wondered, and deferred, even while they envied.
The first few days that succeeded the arrival of Columbus' courier, were days of delight and curiosity. Answers were sent soliciting his early presence, high honors were proffered to him, and his name filled all mouths, as his glory was in the heart of every true Spaniard. Orders were issued to make the necessary outfits for a new voyage, and little was talked of but the discovery and its consequences. In this manner passed a month, when the admiral arrived at Barcelona, attended by most of the Indians he had brought with him from the islands. His honors were of the noblest kind, the sovereigns receiving him on a throne placed in a public hall, rising at his approach, and insisting on his being seated himself, a distinction of the highest nature, and usually granted only to princes of royal blood. Here the admiral related the history of his voyage, exhibited the curiosities he had brought with him, and dwelt on his hopes of future benefits. When the tale was told, all present knelt, and _Te Deum_ was chanted by the usual choir of the court; even Ferdinand's stern nature dissolving into tears of grateful joy, at this unlooked-for and magnificent behest of heaven.
For a long time, Columbus was the mark of every eye; nor did his honors and consideration cease untill he left Spain, in command of the second expedition to the east, as the voyage was then termed.
A few days previously to the arrival of the admiral at court, Don Luis de Bobadilla suddenly appeared in Barcelona. On ordinary occasions, the movements of one of the rank and peculiarities of the young grandee would have afforded a topic for the courtiers, that would not soon have been exhausted, but the all-engrossing theme of the great voyage afforded him a screen. His presence, however, could not escape notice; and it was whispered, with the usual smiles and shrugs, that he had entered the port in a caravel, coming from the Levant; and it was one of the received pleasantries of the hour to say, in an undertone, that the young Conde de Llera had also made the _eastern_ voyage. All this gave our hero little concern, and he was soon pursuing his ordinary life, when near the persons of the sovereigns. The day that Columbus was received in state, he was present in the hall, attired in the richest vestments, and no noble of Spain did more credit to his lineage, or his condition, than Don Luis, by his mien and carriage. It was remarked that Isabella smiled on him, during the pageant; but the head of more than one wary observer was shaken, as its owner remarked how grave the queen's favorite appeared, for an occasion so joyous; a fact that was attributed to the unworthy pursuits of her truant nephew. No one, that day, gazed at Luis with more delight than Sancho, who lingered at Barcelona to share in the honors of his chief, and who, in virtue of his services, was permitted to take his place among the courtiers themselves. Not a little admiration was excited by the manner in which he used the novel weed, called tobacco; and some fifteen or twenty of his neighbors were nauseated by their efforts to emulate his indulgence and satisfaction. One of his exploits was of a character so unusual, and so well illustrates the feeling of the hour, that it may be well to record it in detail.
The reception was over, and Sancho was quitting the hall with the rest of the crowd, when he was accosted by a man apparently of forty, well attired, and of agreeable manner, who desired the honor of his presence at a slight entertainment, of which several had been prepared for the admiral and his friends. Sancho, nothing loth, the delights of distinction being yet so novel, cheerfully complied, and he was quickly led to a room of the palace, where he found a party of some twenty young nobles assembled to do him honor; for happy was he that day in Barcelona who could get even one of the meanest of Columbus' followers to accept of his homage. No sooner did the two enter the room, than the young Castilian lords crowded around them, covering Sancho with protestations of admiration, and addressing eager questions, a dozen at a time, to his companion, whom they styled "Señor Pedro," "Señor Matir," and occasionally "Señor Pedro Matir." It is scarcely necessary to add, that this person was the historian who has become known to us of these latter days as "Peter Martyr," an Italian, to whose care and instruction Isabella had entrusted most of the young nobles of the court. The present interview had been got up to indulge the natural curiosity of the youthful lords, and Sancho had been chosen for the occasion, on the principle that when the best is denied us, we must be content to accept information of an inferior quality.
"Congratulate me, Señores," cried Peter Martyr, as soon as he could find an opportunity to speak, "since my success surpasseth our own hopes. As for the Liguirian, himself, and all of high condition about him, they are in the hands of the most illustrious of Spain, for this day; but here is a most worthy pilot, no doubt the second in authority on board one of the caravels, who consenteth to do us honor, and to partake of our homely cheer. I drew him from a crowd of applicants, and have not yet had an opportunity to inquire his name, which he is about to give us of his own accord."
Sancho never wanted for self-possession, and had far too much mother-wit to be either clownish or offensively vulgar, though the reader is not now to be told that he was neither qualified to be an academician, nor had the most profound notions of natural philosophy. He assumed an air of suitable dignity, therefore, and, somewhat practised in his new vocation by the thousand interrogatories he had answered in the last month, he disposed himself to do credit to the information of a man who had visited the Indies.
"I am called Sancho Mundo, Señores, at your service--sometimes Sancho of the ship-yard-gate, though I would prefer now to be called Sancho of the Indies, unless, indeed, it should suit his Excellency Don Christopher to take that appellation--his claim being somewhat better than mine."
Here several protested that his claims were of the highest order; and then followed sundry introductions to Sancho of the ship-yard-gate, of several young men of the first families in Castile; for, though the Spaniards have not the same mania for this species of politeness as the Americans, the occasion was one in which native feeling got the ascendency of conventional reserve. After this ceremony, and the Mendozas, Guzmans, Cerdas, and Toledos, present, felt honored in knowing this humble seaman, the whole party repaired to the banqueting-room, where a table was spread that did credit to the cooks of Barcelona. During the repast, although the curiosity of the young men made some inroads on their breeding in this particular, no question could induce Sancho to break in upon the duty of the moment, for which he entertained a sort of religious veneration. Once, when pushed a little more closely than common, he laid down his knife and fork, and made the following solemn reply: "Señores," he said, "I look upon food as a gift from God to man, and hold it to be irreverent to converse much, when the bounties of the table invite us to do homage to this great dispenser. Don Christopher is of this way of thinking, I know, and all his followers imitate their beloved and venerated chief. As soon as I am ready to converse, Señores Don Hidalgos, you shall be told of it, and then God help the ignorant and silly!"
After this admonition, there remained nothing to be said until Sancho's appetite was satisfied, when he drew a little back from the table, and announced his readiness to proceed.
"I profess to very little learning, Señor Pedro Martir," he said; "but what I have seen I have seen, and that which is known, is as well known by a mariner, as by a doctor of Salamanca. Ask your questions, then, o' heaven's sake, and expect such answers as a poor but honest man can give."
The learned Peter Martyr was fain to make the best of his subject, for at that moment, any information that came from what might be termed first hands, was greedily received; he proceeded, therefore, to his inquiries, as simply and as directly as he had been invited to do.
"Well, Señor," commenced the man of learning, "we are willing to obtain knowledge on any terms. Prithee, tell us, at once, which of all the wonderful things that you witnessed on this voyage, hath made the deepest impression on your mind, and striketh you as the most remarkable!"
"I know nothing to compare with the whiffling of the north star," said Sancho, promptly. "That star hath always been esteemed among us seamen, as being immovable as the cathedral of Seville; but, in this voyage, it hath been seen to change its place, with the inconstancy of the winds."
"That is, indeed, miraculous!" exclaimed Peter Martyr, who scarcely knew how to take the intelligence; "perhaps there is some mistake, Master Sancho, and you are not accustomed to sidereal investigations."
"Ask Don Christopher; when the phernomerthon, as the admiral called it, was first observed, we talked the matter over together, and came to the conclusion, that nothing in this world was as permanent as it seemed to be. Depend on it, Señor Don Pedro, the north star flits about like a weathercock."
"I shall inquire into this of the illustrious admiral; but, next to this star, Master Sancho, what deem you most worthy of observation? I speak now of ordinary things, leaving science to future discussion."
This was too grave a question to be lightly answered, and while Sancho was cogitating the matter, the door opened, and Luis de Bobadilla entered the room, in a blaze of manly grace and rich attire. A dozen voices uttered his name, and Peter Martyr rose to receive him, with a manner in which kindness of feeling was blended with reproof.
"I asked this honor, Señor Conde," he said, "though you have now been beyond my counsel and control some time, for it appeared to me that one fond of voyages as yourself, might find a useful lesson, as well as enjoy a high satisfaction, in listening to the wonders of an expedition as glorious as this of Colon's. This worthy seaman, a pilot, no doubt, much confided in by the admiral, hath consented to share in our poor hospitalities on this memorable day, and is about to give us many interesting facts and incidents of the great adventure. Master Sancho Mundo, this is Don Luis de Bobadilla, Conde de Llera, a grandee of high lineage, and one that is not unknown to the seas, having often traversed them in his own person."
"It is quite unnecessary to tell me that, Señor Pedro," answered Sancho, returning Luis' gay and graceful salutation, with profound, but awkward respect, "since I see it at a glance. His Excellency hath been in the east, as well as Don Christopher and myself, though we went different ways, and neither party went as far as Cathay. I am honored in your acquaintance, Don Luis, and shall just say that the noble admiral will bring navigation more in fashion than it hath been of late years. If you travel in the neighborhood of Moguer, I beg you will not pass the door of Sancho Mundo without stopping to inquire if he be within."
"That I most cheerfully promise, worthy master," said Luis, laughing, and taking a seat, "even though it lead me to the ship-yard-gate. And now, Señor Pedro, let me not interrupt the discourse, which I discovered was most interesting as I entered."
"I have been thinking of this matter, Señores," resumed Sancho, gravely, "and the fact that appears most curious to me, next to the whiffling of the north star, is the circumstance that there are no doblas in Cipango. Gold is not wanting, and it seemeth passing singular that a people should possess gold, and not bethink them of the convenience of striking doblas, or some similar coin."
Peter Martyr and his young pupils laughed at this sally, and then the subject was pushed in another form.
"Passing by this question, which belongeth rather to the policy of states than to natural phenomena," continued Peter Martyr, "what most struck you as remarkable, in the way of human nature?"
"In that particular, Señor, I think the island of the women may be set down as the most extraordinary of all the phernomerthons we fell in with. I have known women shut themselves up in convents; and men, too; but never did I hear, before this voyage, of either shutting themselves up in islands!"
"And is this true?" inquired a dozen voices--"did you really meet with such an island, Señor!"
"I believe we saw it at a distance, Señores; and I hold it to be lucky that we went no nearer, for I find the gossips of Moguer troublesome enough, without meeting a whole island of them. Then there is the bread that grows like a root--what think _you_ of that, Señor Don Luis? Is it not a most curious dish to taste of?"
"Nay, Master Sancho, that is a question of your own putting, and it must be one of your own answering. What know I of the wonders of Cipango, since Candia lieth in an opposite course? Answer these matters for thyself, friend."
"True, illustrious Conde, and I humbly crave your pardon. It is, indeed, the duty of him that seeth to relate, as it is the duty of him that seeth not to believe. I hope all here will perform their several duties."
"Do these Indians eat flesh as remarkable as their bread?" inquired a Cerda.
"That do they, noble sir, seeing that they eat each other. Neither I nor Don Christopher was invited to any of their feasts of this sort; for, I suppose, they were well convinced we would not go; but we had much information touching them, and by the nearest calculation I could make, the consumption of men in the island of Bohio must be about equal to that of beeves in Spain."
The speaker was interrupted by twenty exclamations of disgust, and Peter Martyr shook his head like one who distrusted the truth of the account. Still, as he had not expected any very profound philosophy or deep learning in one of Sancho's character, he pursued the conversation.
"Know you any thing of the rare birds the admiral exhibited to their Highnesses to-day?" he asked.
"Señor, I am well acquainted with several, more particularly with the parrots. They are sensible birds, and, I doubt not, might answer some of the questions that are put to me by many here, in Barcelona, to their perfect satisfaction."
"Thou art a wag, I see, Señor Sancho, and lovest thy joke," answered the man of learning, with a smile. "Give way to thy fancy, and if thou canst not improve us with thy science, at least amuse us with thy conceits."
"San Pedro knows that I would do any thing to oblige you, Señores; but I was born with such a love of truth in my heart, that I know not how to embellish. What I see I believe, and having been in the Indies, I cannot shut my eyes to their wonders. There was the sea of weeds, which was no every-day miracle, since I make no doubt that the devils piled all these plants on the water to prevent us from carrying the cross to the poor heathens who dwell on the other side of them. We got through that sea more by our prayers, than by means of the winds."
The young men looked at Peter Martyr, to ascertain how he received this theory, and Peter Martyr, if tinctured with the superstition of the age, was not disposed to swallow all that it pleased Sancho to assert, even though the latter had made a voyage to the Indies.
"Since you manifest so much curiosity, Señores, on the subject of Colon, now Admiral of the Ocean Sea, by their Highnesses' honorable appointment, I will, in a measure, relieve your minds on the subject, by recounting what I know," said Luis, speaking calmly, but with dignity. "Ye know that I was much with Don Christopher before he sailed, and that I had some little connection with bringing him back to Santa Fé, even when he had left the place, as was supposed for the last time. This intimacy hath been renewed since the arrival of the great Genoese at Barcelona, and hours have we passed together in private, discoursing on the events of the last few months. What I have thus learned I am ready to impart, if ye will do me the grace to listen."
The whole company giving an eager assent, Luis now commenced a general narrative of the voyage, detailing all the leading circumstances of interest, and giving the reasons that were most in favor at the time, concerning the different phenomena that had perplexed the adventurers. He spoke more than an hour; proceeding consecutively from island to island, and dilating on their productions, imaginary and real. Much that he related, proceeded from the misconceptions of the admiral, and misinterpretations of the signs and language of the Indians, as a matter of course; but it was all told clearly, in elegant, if not in eloquent language, and with a singular air of truth. In short, our hero palmed upon his audience the results of his own observation, as the narrative of the admiral, and more than once was he interrupted by bursts of admiration at the vividness and graphic beauties of his descriptions. Even Sancho listened with delight, and when the young man concluded, he rose from his chair, and exclaimed heartily-- "Señores, you may take all this as so much gospel! Had the noble Señor witnessed, himself, that which he hath so well described, it could not have been truer, and I look on myself to be particularly fortunate to have heard this history of the voyage, which henceforth shall be my history, word for word; for as my patron saint shall remember me, naught else will I tell to the gossips of Moguer, when I get back to that blessed town of my childhood."
Sancho's influence was much impaired by the effects of Luis' narrative, which Peter Martyr pronounced to be one that would have done credit to a scholar who had accompanied the expedition. A few appeals were made to the old seaman, to see if he would corroborate the statements he had just heard, but his protestations became so much the louder in behalf of the accuracy of the account.
It was wonderful how much reputation the Conde de Llera obtained by this little deception. To be able to repeat, with accuracy and effect, language that was supposed to have fallen from the lips of Columbus, was a sort of illustration; and Peter Martyr, who justly enjoyed a high reputation for intelligence, was heard sounding the praises of our hero in all places, his young pupils echoing his words with the ardor and imitation of youth! Such, indeed, was the vast reputation obtained by the Genoese, that one gained a species of reflected renown by being thought to live in his confidence, and a thousand follies of the Count of Llera, real or imaginary, were forgotten in the fact that the admiral had deemed him worthy of being the repository of facts and feelings such as he had related. As Luis, moreover, was seen to be much in the company of Don Christopher, the world was very willing to give the young man credit for qualities, that, by some unexplained circumstance, had hitherto escaped its notice. In this manner did Luis de Bobadilla reap some advantages, of a public character, from his resolution and enterprise, although vastly less than would have attended an open admission of all that occurred. How far, and in what manner, these qualities availed him in his suit with Mercedes, will appear in our subsequent pages.
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"Each look, each motion, waked a new-born grace, That o'er her form its transient glory cast: Some lovelier wonder soon usurp'd the place, Chased by a charm still lovelier than the last."
Mason.
The day of the reception of Columbus at Barcelona, had been one of tumultuous feelings and of sincere delight, with the ingenuous and pure-minded Queen of Castile. She had been the moving spirit of the enterprise, as it was connected with authority and means, and never was a sovereign more amply rewarded, by a consciousness of the magnitude of the results that followed her well-meant and zealous efforts.
When the excitement and bustle of the day were over, Isabella retired to her closet, and there, as was usual with her on all great occasions, she poured out her thankfulness on her knees, entreating the Divine Providence to sustain her under the new responsibilities she felt, and to direct her steps aright, equally as a sovereign and as a Christian woman. She had left the attitude of prayer but a few minutes, and was seated with her head leaning on her hand, in deep meditation, when a slight knock at the door called her attention. There was but one person in Spain who would be likely to take even this liberty, guarded and modest as was the tap; rising, she turned the key and admitted the king.
Isabella was still beautiful. Her form, always of admirable perfection, still retained its grace. Her eyes had lost but little of their lustre, and her smile, ever sweet and beneficent, failed not to reflect the pure and womanly impulses of her heart. In a word, her youthful beauty had been but little impaired by the usual transition to the matronly attractions of a wife and a mother; but this night, all her youthful charms seemed to be suddenly renewed. Her cheek was flushed with holy enthusiasm; her figure dilated with the sublimity of the thoughts in which she had been indulging; and her eyes beamed with the ennobling hopes of religious enthusiasm. Ferdinand was struck with this little change, and he stood admiring her, for a minute, in silence, after he had closed the door.
"Is not this a most wonderful reward, for efforts so small, my husband and love?" exclaimed the queen, who fancied the king's thoughts similar to her own; "a new empire thus cheaply purchased, with riches that the imagination cannot tell, and millions of souls to be redeemed from eternal woe, by means of a grace that must be as unexpected to themselves, as the knowledge of their existence hath been to us!"
"Ever thinking, Isabella, of the welfare of souls! But thou art right; for what are the pomps and glories of the world to the hopes of salvation, and the delights of heaven! I confess Colon hath much exceeded all my hopes, and raised such a future for Spain, that the mind scarce knoweth where to place the limits to its pictures."
"Think of the millions of poor Indians that may live to bless our sway, and to feel the influence and consolations of holy church!"
"I trust that our kinsman and neighbor, Dom Joao, will not give us trouble in this matter. Your Portuguese have so keen an appetite for discoveries, that they little relish the success of other powers; and, it is said, many dangerous and wicked proposals were made to the king, even while our caravels lay in the Tagus."
"Colon assureth me, Fernando, that he doubteth if these Indians have now any religious creed, so that our ministers will have no prejudices to encounter, in presenting to their simple minds the sublime truths of the gospel!"
"No doubt the admiral hath fully weighed these matters. It is his opinion, that the island he hath called Española wanteth but little of being of the full dimensions of Castile, Leon, Aragon, Granada, and, indeed, of all our possessions within the peninsula!"
"Didst thou attend to what he said, touching the gentleness and mildness of the inhabitants? And wert thou not struck with the simple, confiding aspects of those he hath brought with him? Such a people may readily be brought, first, as is due, to worship the one true and living God, and next, to regard their sovereigns as kind and benignant parents."
"Authority can ever make itself respected; and Don Christopher hath assured me, in a private conference, that a thousand tried lances would overrun all that eastern region. We must make early application to the Holy Father to settle such limits between us and Don John, as may prevent disputes, hereafter, touching our several interests. I have already spoken to the cardinal on this subject, and he flattereth me with the hope of having the ear of Alexander."
"I trust that the means of disseminating the faith of the cross will not be overlooked in the negotiation; for it paineth me to find churchmen treating of worldly things, to the utter neglect of those of their Great Master."
Don Ferdinand regarded his wife intently for an instant, without making any reply. He perceived, as often happened in questions of policy, that their feelings were not exactly attuned, and he had recourse to an allusion that seldom failed to draw the thoughts of Isabella from their loftier aspirations to considerations more worldly, when rightly applied.
"Thy children, Doña Isabella, will reap a goodly heritage by the success of this, our latest and greatest stroke of policy! Thy dominions and mine will henceforth descend in common to the same heir; then this marriage in Portugal may open the way to new accessions of territory; Granada is already secured to thine, by our united arms; and here hath Providence opened the way to an empire in the east, that promiseth to outdo all that hath yet been performed in Europe."
"Are not my children thine, Fernando? Can good happen to one, without its equally befalling the other? I trust they will learn to understand why so many new subjects and such wide territories are added to their possessions, and will ever remain true to their highest and first duty, that of spreading the gospel, that the sway of the one Catholic church may the more speedily be accomplished."
"Still it may be necessary to secure advantages that are offered in a worldly shape, by worldly means."
"Thou say'st true, my lord; and it is the proper care of loving parents to look well to the interest of their offspring in this, as in all other particulars."
Isabella now lent a more willing ear to the politic suggestions of her consort, and they passed an hour in discussing some of the important measures that it was thought their joint interests required should be immediately attended to. After this, Ferdinand saluted his wife affectionately, and withdrew to his own cabinet, to labor, as usual, until his frame demanded rest.
Isabella sat musing for a few minutes after the king had retired, and then she took a light and proceeded through certain private passages, with which she was familiar, to the apartment of her daughters. Here she spent an hour, indulging in the affections and discharging the duties of a careful mother, when, embracing each in turn, she gave her blessings, and left the place in the same simple manner as she had entered. Instead, however, of returning to her own part of the palace, she pursued her way in an opposite direction, until, reaching a private door, she gently tapped. A voice within bade her enter, and complying, the Queen of Castile found herself alone with her old and tried friend, the Marchioness of Moya. A quiet gesture forbade all the usual testimonials of respect, and knowing her mistress' wishes in this particular, the hostess received her illustrious guest, much as she would have received an intimate of her own rank in life.
"We have had so busy and joyful a day, Daughter-Marchioness," the queen commenced, quietly setting down the little silver lamp she carried, "that I had near forgotten a duty which ought not to be overlooked. Thy nephew, the Count de Llera, hath returned to court, bearing himself as modestly and as prudently, as if he had no share in the glory of this great success of Colon's!"
"Señora, Luis is here, but whether prudent or modest, I leave for others, who may be less partial, to say."
"To me such seemeth to be his deportment, and a young mind might be pardoned some exultation at such a result. But I have come to speak of Don Luis and thy ward. Now that thy nephew hath given me this high proof of his perseverance and courage, there can remain no longer any reason for forbidding their union. Thou know'st that I hold the pledged word of Doña Mercedes, not to marry without my consent, and this night will I make her happy as I feel myself, by leaving her mistress of her own wishes; nay, by letting her know that I desire to see her Countess of Llera, and that right speedily."
"Your Highness is all goodness to me and mine," returned the Marchioness, coldly. "Mercedes ought to feel deeply grateful that her royal mistress hath a thought for her welfare, when her mind hath so many greater concerns to occupy it."
"It is that, my friend, that hath brought me hither at this late hour. My soul is truly burdened with gratitude, and ere I sleep, were it possible, I would fain make all as blessed as I feel myself. Where is thy ward?"
"She left me for the night, but as your Highness entered. I will summon her to hear your pleasure."
"We will go to her, Beatriz; tidings such as I bring, should not linger on weary feet."
"It is her duty, and it would be her pleasure to pay all respect, Señora."
"I know that well, Marchioness, but it is my pleasure to bear this news myself," interrupted the queen, leading the way to the door. "Show thou the way, which is better known to thee than to another. We go with little state and ceremony, as thou seest, like Colon going forth to explore his unknown seas, and we go bearers of tidings as grateful to thy ward, as those the Genoese bore to the benighted natives of Cipango. These corridors are our trackless seas, and all these intricate passages, the hidden ways we are to explore."
"Heaven grant your Highness make not some discovery as astounding as that which the Genoese hath just divulged. For myself, I scarce know whether to believe all things, or to grant faith to none."
"I wonder not at thy surprise; it is a feeling that hath overcome all others, through the late extraordinary events," answered the queen, evidently misconceiving the meaning of her friend's words. "But we have still another pleasure in store: that of witnessing the joy of a pure female heart which hath had its trials, and which hath borne them as became a Christian maiden."
Doña Beatriz sighed heavily, but she made no answer. By this time they were crossing the little saloon in which Mercedes was permitted to receive her female acquaintances, and were near the door of her chamber. Here they met a maid, who hastened onward to inform her mistress of the visit she was about to receive. Isabella was accustomed to use a mother's liberties with those she loved, and, opening the door, without ceremony, she stood before our heroine, ere the latter could advance to meet her.
"Daughter," commenced the queen, seating herself, and smiling benignantly on the startled girl, "I have come to discharge a solemn duty. Kneel thou here, at my feet, and listen to thy sovereign as thou wouldst listen to a mother."
Mercedes gladly obeyed, for, at that moment, any thing was preferable to being required to speak. When she had knelt, the queen passed an arm affectionately round her neck, and drew her closer to her person, until, by a little gentle violence, the face of Mercedes was hid in the folds of Isabella's robe.
"I have all reason to extol thy faith and duty, child," said the queen, as soon as this little arrangement to favor the feelings of Mercedes, had been considerately made; "thou hast not forgotten thy promise, in aught; and my object, now, is to leave thee mistress of thine own inclinations, and to remove all impediments to their exercise. Thou hast no longer any pledge with thy sovereign; for one who hath manifested so much discretion and delicacy, may be surely trusted with her own happiness."
Mercedes continued silent, though Isabella fancied that she felt a slight shudder passing convulsively through her delicate frame.
"No answer, daughter? Is it more preferable to leave another arbitress of thy fate, than to exercise that office for thyself? Well, then, as thy sovereign and parent, I will substitute command for consent, and tell thee it is my wish and desire that thou becomest, as speedily as shall comport with propriety and thy high station, the wedded wife of Don Luis de Bobadilla, Conde de Llera."
"No--no--no--Señora--never--never"--murmured Mercedes, her voice equally stifled by her emotions, and by the manner in which she had buried her face in the dress of the queen.
Isabella looked at the Marchioness of Moya in wonder. Her countenance did not express either displeasure or resentment, for she too well knew the character of our heroine to suspect caprice, or any weak prevarication in a matter that so deeply touched the feelings; and the concern she felt was merely overshadowed at the suddenness of the intelligence, by a feeling of ungovernable surprise.
"Canst thou explain this, Beatriz?" the queen at length inquired. "Have I done harm, where I most intended good? I am truly unfortunate, for I appear to have deeply wounded the heart of this child, at the very moment I fancied I was conferring supreme happiness!"
"No--no--no--Señora," again murmured Mercedes, clinging convulsively to the queen's knees. "Your Highness hath wounded no one--_would_ wound no one--_can_ wound no one--you are all gracious goodness and thoughtfulness."
"Beatriz, I look to thee for the explanation! Hath aught justifiable occurred to warrant this change of feeling?"
"I fear, dearest Señora, that the feelings continue too much as formerly, and that the change is not in this young and unpractised heart, but in the fickle inclinations of man."
A flash of womanly indignation darted from the usually serene eyes of the queen, and her form assumed all of its native majesty.
"Can this be true?" she exclaimed. "Would a subject of Castile _dare_ thus to trifle with his sovereign--thus to trifle with one sweet and pure as this girl--thus to trifle with his faith with God! If the reckless Conde thinketh to do these acts of wrongfulness with impunity, let him look to it! Shall I punish him that merely depriveth his neighbor of some paltry piece of silver, and let him escape who woundeth the soul? I wonder at thy calmness, Daughter-Marchioness; thou, who art so wont to let an honest indignation speak out in the just language of a fearless and honest spirit!"
"Alas! Señora, my beloved mistress, my feelings have had vent already, and nature will no more. This boy, moreover, is my brother's son, and when I would fain arouse a resentment against him, such as befitteth his offence, the image of that dear brother, whose very picture he is, hath arisen to my mind in a way to weaken all its energy."
"This is most unusual! A creature so fair--so young--so noble--so rich--every way so excellent, to be so soon forgotten! Canst thou account for it by any wandering inclination, Lady of Moya?"
Isabella spoke musingly, and, as one of her high rank is apt to overlook minor considerations, when the feelings are strongly excited, she did not remember that Mercedes was a listener. The convulsive shudder that again shook the frame of our heroine, however, did not fail to remind her of this fact, and the queen could not have pressed the Princess Juana more fondly to her heart, than she now drew the yielding form of our heroine.
"What would you, Señora?" returned the marchioness, bitterly. "Luis, thoughtless and unprincipled boy as he is, hath induced a youthful Indian princess to abandon home and friends, under the pretence of swelling the triumph of the admiral, but really, in obedience to a wandering fancy, and in submission to those evil caprices, that make men what, in sooth, they are, and which so often render unhappy women their dupes and their victims."
"An Indian princess, say'st thou? The admiral made one of that rank known to us, but she was already a wife, and far from being one to rival Doña Mercedes of Valverde."
"Ah! dearest Señora, she of whom you speak will not compare with her I mean--Ozema--for so is the Indian lady called--Ozema is a different being, and is not without high claims to personal beauty. Could mere personal appearances justify the conduct of the boy, he would not be altogether without excuse."
"How know'st thou this, Beatriz?"
"Because, your Highness, Luis hath brought her to the palace, and she is, at this moment, in these very apartments. Mercedes hath received her like a sister, even while the stranger hath unconsciously crashed her heart." " _Here_, say'st thou, Marchioness? Then can there be no vicious union between the thoughtless young man and the stranger. Thy nephew would not thus presume to offend virtue and innocence."
"Of that we complain not, Señora. 'Tis the boyish inconstancy and thoughtless cruelty of the count, that hath awakened my feelings against him. Never have I endeavored to influence my ward to favor his suit, for I would not that they should have it in their power to say I sought a union so honorable and advantageous to our house; but now do I most earnestly desire her to steel her noble heart to his unworthiness."
"Ah! Señora--my guardian," murmured Mercedes, "Luis is not so _very_ culpable. Ozema's beauty, and my own want of the means to keep him true, are alone to blame."
"Ozema's beauty!" slowly repeated the queen. "Is this young Indian, then, so very perfect, Beatriz, that thy ward need fear or envy her? I did not think that such a being lived!"
"Your Highness knoweth how it is with men. They love novelties, and are most captivated with the freshest faces. San Iago! --Andres de Cabrera hath caused me to know this, though it were a crime to suppose any could teach this hard lesson to Isabella of Trastamara."
"Restrain thy strong and impetuous feelings, Daughter-Marchioness," returned the queen, glancing her eye at the bowed form of Mercedes, whose head was now buried in her lap; "truth seldom asserts its fullest power when the heart is overflowing with feeling. Don Andres hath been a loyal subject, and doth justice to thy merit; and, as to my lord the king, he is the father of my children, as well as thy sovereign. But, touching this Ozema--can I see her, Beatriz?"
"You have only to command, Señora, to see whom you please. But Ozema is, no doubt, at hand, and can be brought into your presence as soon as it may please your Highness to order it done."
"Nay, Beatriz, if she be a princess, and a stranger in the kingdom, there is a consideration due to her rank and to her position. Let Doña Mercedes go and prepare her to receive us; I will visit her in her own apartment. The hour is late, but she will overlook the want of ceremony in the desire to do her service."
Mercedes did not wait a second bidding, but, rising from her knees, she hastened to do as the queen had suggested. Isabella and the marchioness were silent some little time, when left to themselves; then the former, as became her rank, opened the discourse.
"It is remarkable, Beatriz, that Colon should not have spoken to me of this princess!" she said. "One of her condition ought not to have entered Spain with so little ceremony."
"The admiral hath deemed her the chosen subject of Luis' care, and hath left her to be presented to your Highness by my recreant nephew. Ah, Señora! is it not wonderful, that one like Mercedes could be so soon supplanted by a half-naked, unbaptized, benighted being, on whom the church hath never yet smiled, and whose very soul may be said to be in jeopardy of instantaneous condemnation?"
"That soul must be cared for, Beatriz, and that right quickly. Is the princess really of sufficient beauty to supplant a creature as lovely as the Doña Mercedes?"
"It is not that, Señora--it is not that. But men are fickle--and they so love novelties! Then is the modest restraint of cultivated manners less winning to them, than the freedom of those who deem even clothes superfluous. I mean not to question the modesty of Ozema; for, according to her habits, she seemeth irreproachable in this respect; but the ill-regulated fancy of a thoughtless boy may find a momentary attraction in her unfettered conduct and half-attired person, that is wanting to the air and manners of a high-born Spanish damsel, who hath been taught rigidly to respect herself and her sex."
"This may be true, as toucheth the vulgar, Beatriz, but such unworthy motives can never influence the Conde de Llera. If thy nephew hath really proved the recreant thou supposest, this Indian princess must be of more excellence than we have thought."
"Of that, Señora, you can soon judge for yourself; here is the maiden of Mercedes to inform us that the Indian is ready to receive the honor that your Highness intendeth."
Our heroine had prepared Ozema to meet the queen. By this time, the young Haytian had caught so many Spanish words, that verbal communication with her was far from difficult, though she still spoke in the disconnected and abrupt manner of one to whom the language was new. She understood perfectly that she was to meet that beloved sovereign, of whom Luis and Mercedes had so often spoken with reverence; and accustomed, herself, to look up to caciques greater than her brother, there was no difficulty in making her understand that the person she was now about to receive was the first of her sex in Spain. The only misconception which existed, arose from the circumstance that Ozema believed Isabella to be the queen of all the Christian world, instead of being the queen of a particular country; for, in her imagination, both Luis and Mercedes were persons of royal station.
Although Isabella was prepared to see a being of surprising perfection of form, she started with surprise, as her eye first fell on Ozema. It was not so much the beauty of the young Indian that astonished her, as the native grace of her movements, the bright and happy expression of her countenance, and the perfect self-possession of her mien and deportment. Ozema had got accustomed to a degree of dress that she would have found oppressive at Hayti; the sensitiveness of Mercedes, on the subject of female propriety, having induced her to lavish on her new friend many rich articles of attire, that singularly, though wildly, contributed to aid her charms. Still the gift of Luis was thrown over one shoulder, as the highest-prized part of her wardrobe, and the cross of Mercedes rested on her bosom, the most precious of all her ornaments.
"This is wonderful, Beatriz!" exclaimed the queen, as she stood at one side of the room, while Ozema bowed her body in graceful reverence on the other; "can this rare being really have a soul that knoweth naught of its God and Redeemer! But let her spirit be benighted as it may, there is no vice in that simple mind, or deceit in that pure heart."
"Señora, all this is true. Spite of our causes of dissatisfaction, my ward and I both love her already, and could take her to our hearts forever; one as a friend, and the other as a parent."
"Princess," said the queen, advancing with quiet dignity to the spot where Ozema stood, with downcast eyes and bended body, waiting her pleasure, "thou art welcome to our dominions. The admiral hath done well in not classing one of thy evident claims and station among those whom he hath exhibited to vulgar eyes. In this he hath shown his customary judgment, no less than his deep respect for the sacred office of sovereigns."
"Almirante!" exclaimed Ozema, her looks brightening with intelligence, for she had long known how to pronounce the well-earned title of Columbus; "Almirante, Mercedes--Isabella, Mercedes--Luis, Mercedes, Señora Reyña."
"Beatriz, what meaneth this? Why doth the princess couple the name of thy ward with that of Colon, with mine, and even with that of the young Count of Llera?"
"Señora, by some strange delusion, she hath got to think that Mercedes is the Spanish term for every thing that is excellent or perfect, and thus doth she couple it with all that she most desireth to praise. Your Highness must observe that she even united Luis and Mercedes, a union that we once fondly hoped might happen, but which now would seem to be impossible; and which she herself must be the last really to wish."
"Strange delusion!" repeated the queen; "the idea hath had its birth in some particular cause, for things like this come not of accidents; who but thy nephew, Beatriz, would know aught of thy ward, or who but he would have taught the princess to deem her very name a sign of excellence?"
"Señora!" exclaimed Mercedes, the color mounting to her pale cheek, and joy momentarily flashing in her eyes, "can this be so?"
"Why not, daughter? We may have been too hasty in this matter, and mistaken what are truly signs of devotion to thee, for proofs of fickleness and inconstancy."
"Ah! Señora! but this can never be, else would not Ozema so love him."
"How know'st thou, child, that the princess hath any other feeling for the count than that which properly belongeth to one who is grateful for his care, and for the inexpressible service of being made acquainted with the virtues of the cross? Here is some rash error, Beatriz."
"I fear not, your Highness. Touching the nature of Ozema's feelings, there can be no misconception, since the innocent and unpractised creature hath not art sufficient to conceal them. That her heart is all Luis', we discovered in the first few hours of our intercourse; and it is too pure, unsought, to be won. The feeling of the Indian is not merely admiration, but it is such a passionate devotion, as partaketh of the warmth of that sun, which, we are told, glows with a heat so genial in her native clime." " _Could_ one see so much of Don Luis, Señora," added Mercedes, "under circumstances to try his martial virtues, and so long daily be in communion with his excellent heart, and not come to view him as far above all others?"
"Martial virtues--excellent heart!" --slowly repeated the queen, "and yet so regardless of the wrong he doeth! He is neither knight nor cavalier worthy of the sex, if what thou thinkest be true, child."
"Nay, Señora," earnestly resumed the girl, whose diffidence was yielding to the wish to vindicate our hero, "the princess hath told us of the manner in which he rescued her from her greatest enemy and persecutor, Caonabo, a headstrong and tyrannical sovereign of her island, and of his generous self-devotion in her behalf."
"Daughter, do thou withdraw, and, first calling on Holy Maria to intercede for thee, seek the calm of religious peace and submission, on thy pillow. Beatriz, I will question the princess alone."
The marchioness and Mercedes immediately withdrew, leaving Isabella with Ozema, in possession of the room. The interview that followed lasted more than an hour, that time being necessary to enable the queen to form an opinion of the stranger's explanations, with the imperfect means of communication she possessed. That Ozema's whole heart was Luis', Isabella could not doubt. Unaccustomed to conceal her preferences, the Indian girl was too unpractised to succeed in such a design, had she even felt the desire to attempt it; but, in addition to her native ingenuousness, Ozema believed that duty required her to have no concealments from the sovereign of Luis, and she laid bare her whole soul in the simplest and least disguised manner.
"Princess," said the queen, after the conversation had lasted some time, and Isabella believed herself to be in possession of the means of comprehending her companion, "I now understand your tale. Caonabo is the chief, or, if thou wilt, the king of a country adjoining thine own; he sought thee for a wife, but being already married to more than one princess, thou didst very properly reject his unholy proposals. He then attempted to seize thee by violence. The Conde de Llera was on a visit to thy brother at the time"-- "Luis--Luis"--the girl impatiently interrupted, in her sweet, soft voice--"Luis no Conde--Luis."
"True, princess, but the Conde de Llera and Luis de Bobadilla are one and the same person. Luis, then, if thou wilt, was present in thy palace, and he beat back the presumptuous cacique, who, not satisfied with fulfilling the law of God by the possession of one wife, impiously sought, in thy person, a second, or a third, and brought thee off in triumph. Thy brother, next, requested thee to take shelter, for a time, in Spain, and Don Luis, becoming thy guardian and protector, hath brought thee hither to the care of his aunt?"
Ozema bowed her head in acknowledgment of the truth of this statement, most of which she had no difficulty in understanding, the subject having, of late, occupied so much of her thoughts.
"And, now, princess," continued Isabella, "I must speak to thee with maternal frankness, for I deem all of thy birth my children while they dwell in my realms, and have a right to look to me for advice and protection. Hast thou any such love for Don Luis as would induce thee to forget thine own country, and to adopt his in its stead?"
"Ozema don't know what 'adopt his,' means," observed the puzzled girl.
"I wish to inquire if thou wouldst consent to become the wife of Don Luis de Bobadilla?"
"Wife" and "husband" were words of which the Indian girl had early learned the signification, and she smiled guilelessly, even while she blushed, and nodded her assent.
"I am, then, to understand that thou expectest to marry the count, for no modest young female like, thee, would so cheerfully avow her preference, without having that hope ripened in her heart, to something like a certainty."
"Si, Señora--Ozema, Luis' wife."
"Thou meanest, princess, that Ozema expecteth shortly to wed the count--shortly to become his wife!"
"No--no--no--Ozema _now_ Luis' wife. Luis marry Ozema, already."
"Can this be so?" exclaimed the queen, looking steadily into the face of the beautiful Indian to ascertain if the whole were not an artful deception. But the open and innocent face betrayed no guilt, and Isabella felt compelled to believe what she had heard. In order, however, to make certain of the fact, she questioned and cross-questioned Ozema, for near half an hour longer, and always with the same result.
When the queen arose to withdraw, she kissed the princess, for so she deemed this wild creature of an unknown and novel state of society, and whispered a devout prayer for the enlightenment of her mind, and for her future peace. On reaching her own apartment, she found the Marchioness of Moya in attendance, that tried friend being unable to sleep until she had learned the impressions of her royal mistress. " 'Tis even worse than we had imagined, Beatriz," said Isabella, as the other closed the door behind her. "Thine heartless, inconstant nephew hath already wedded the Indian, and she is, at this moment, his lawful wife."
"Señora, there must be some mistake in this! The rash boy would hardly dare to practise this imposition on me, and that in the very presence of Mercedes."
"He would sooner place his wife in thy care, Daughter-Marchioness, than make the same disposition of one who had fewer claims on him. But there can be no mistake. I have questioned the princess closely, and no doubt remaineth in my mind, that the nuptials have been solemnized by religious rites. It is not easy to understand all she would wish to say, but that much she often and distinctly hath affirmed."
"Your Highness--can a Christian contract marriage with one that is yet unbaptized?"
"Certainly not, in the eye of the church, which is the eye of God. But I rather think Ozema hath received this holy rite, for she often pointed to the cross she weareth, when speaking of the union with thy nephew. Indeed, from her allusions, I understood her to say that she became a Christian, ere she became a wife."
"And that blessed cross, Señora, was a gift of Mercedes to the reckless, fickle-minded boy; a parting gift in which the holy symbol was intended to remind him of constancy and faith!"
"The world maketh so many inroads into the hearts of men, Beatriz, that they know not woman's reliance and woman's fidelity. But to thy knees, and bethink thee of asking for grace to sustain thy ward, in this cruel, but unavoidable extremity."
Isabella now turned to her friend, who advanced and raised the hand of her royal mistress to her lips. The queen, however, was not content with this salutation, warm as it was; passing an arm around the neck of Doña Beatriz, she drew her to her person, and imprinted a kiss on her forehead.
"Adieu, Beatriz--true friend as thou art!" she said. "If constancy hath deserted all others, it hath still an abode in thy faithful heart."
With these words the queen and the marchioness separated, each to find her pillow, if not her repose.
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"Now, Gondarino, what can you put on now That may deceive us? Have ye more strange illusions, yet more mists, Through which the weak eye may be led to error? What can ye say that may do satisfaction Both for her wronged honor and your ill?"
Beaumont and Fletcher.
The day which succeeded the interview related in the preceding chapter, was that which Cardinal Mendoza had selected for the celebrated banquet given to Columbus. On this occasion, most of the high nobility of the court were assembled in honor of the admiral, who was received with a distinction which fell little short of that usually devoted to crowned heads. The Genoese bore himself modestly, though nobly, in all these ceremonies; and, for the hour, all appeared to delight in doing justice to his great exploits, and to sympathize in a success so much surpassing the general expectation. Every eye seemed riveted on his person, every ear listened eagerly to the syllables as they fell from his lips, every voice was loud and willing in his praise.
As a matter of course, on such an occasion, Columbus was expected to give some account of his voyage and adventures. This was not an easy task, since it was virtually asserting how much his own perseverance and spirit, his sagacity and skill, were superior to the knowledge and enterprise of the age. Still, the admiral acquitted himself with dexterity and credit, touching principally on those heads which most redounded to the glory of Spain, and the lustre of the two crowns.
Among the guests was Luis de Bobadilla. The young man had been invited on account of his high rank, and in consideration of the confidence and familiarity with which he was evidently treated by the admiral. The friendship of Columbus was more than sufficient to erase the slightly unfavorable impressions that had been produced by Luis' early levities, and men quietly submitted to the influence of the great man's example, without stopping to question the motive or the end. The consciousness of having done that which few of his station and hopes would ever dream of attempting, gave to the proud mien and handsome countenance of Luis, a seriousness and elevation that had not always been seated there, and helped to sustain him in the good opinion that he had otherwise so cheaply purchased. The manner in which he had related to Peter Martyr and his companions the events of the expedition, was also remembered, and, without understanding exactly why, the world was beginning to associate him, in some mysterious manner, with the great western voyage. Owing to these accidental circumstances, our hero was actually reaping some few of the advantages of his spirit, though in a way he had never anticipated; a result by no means extraordinary, men as often receiving applause, or reprobation, for acts that were never meditated, as for those for which reason and justice would hold them rigidly responsible.
"Here is a health to my lord, their Highnesses' Admiral of the Ocean Sea," cried Luis de St. Angel, raising his cup so that all at the board might witness the act. "Spain oweth him her gratitude for the boldest and most beneficial enterprise of the age, and no good subject of the two sovereigns will hesitate to do him honor for his services."
The bumper was drunk, and the meek acknowledgments of Columbus listened to in respectful silence.
"Lord Cardinal," resumed the free-speaking accountant of the church's revenues, "I look upon the church's cure as doubled by these discoveries, and esteem the number of souls that will be rescued from perdition by the means that will now be employed to save them, as forming no small part of the lustre of the exploit, and a thing not likely to be forgotten at Rome."
"Thou say'st well, good de St. Angel," returned the cardinal, "and the Holy Father will not overlook God's agent, or his assistants. Knowledge came from the east, and we have long looked forward to the time when, purified by revelation and the high commission that we hold direct from the source of all power, it would be rolled backward to its place of beginning; but we now see that its course is still to be westward, reaching Asia by a path that, until this great discovery, was hid from human eyes."
Although so much apparent sympathy ruled at the festival, the human heart was at work, and envy, the basest, and perhaps the most common of our passions, was fast swelling in more than one breath. The remark of the cardinal produced an exhibition of the influence of this unworthy feeling that might otherwise have been smothered. Among the guests was a noble of the name of Juan de Orbitello, and he could listen no longer, in silence, to the praises of those whose breath he had been accustomed to consider fame.
"Is it so certain, holy sir," he said, addressing his host, "that God would not have directed other means to be employed, to effect this end, had these of Don Christopher failed? Or, are we to look upon this voyage as the only known way in which all these heathen could be rescued from perdition?"
"No one may presume, Señor, to limit the agencies of heaven," returned the cardinal, gravely; "nor is it the office of man to question the means employed, or to doubt the power to create others, as wisdom may dictate. Least of all, should laymen call in question aught that the church sanctioneth."
"This I admit, Lord Cardinal," answered the Señor de Orbitello, a little embarrassed, and somewhat vexed at the implied rebuke of the churchman's remarks, "and it was the least of my intentions to do so. But you, Señor Don Christopher, did you deem yourself an agent of heaven in this expedition?"
"I have always considered myself a most unworthy instrument, set apart for this great end, Señor," returned the admiral, with a grave solemnity that was well suited to impose on the spectators. "From the first, I have felt this impulse, as being of divine origin, and I humbly trust heaven is not displeased with the creature it hath employed."
"Do you then imagine, Señor Almirante, that Spain could not produce another, fitted equally with yourself, to execute this great enterprise, had any accident prevented either your sailing or your success?"
The boldness, as well as the singularity of this question, produced a general pause in the conversation, and every head was bent a little forward in expectation of the reply. Columbus sat silent for more than a minute; then, reaching forward, he took an egg, and holding it up to view, he spoke mildly, but with great gravity and earnestness of manner.
"Señores," he said, "is there one here of sufficient expertness to cause this egg to stand on its end? If such a man be present, I challenge him to give us an exhibition of his skill."
The request produced a good deal of surprise; but a dozen immediately attempted the exploit, amid much laughter and many words. More than once, some young noble thought he had succeeded, but the instant his fingers quitted the egg, it rolled upon the table, as if in mockery of his awkwardness.
"By Saint Luke, Señor Almirante, but this notable achievement surpasseth our skill," cried Juan de Orbitello. "Here is the Conde de Llera, who hath slain so many Moors, and who hath even unhorsed Alonzo de Ojeda, in a tourney, can make nothing of his egg, in the way you mention."
"And yet it will no longer be difficult to him, or even to you, Señor, when the art shall be exposed."
Saying thus, Columbus tapped the smaller end of his egg lightly on the table, when, the shell being forced in, it possessed a base on which it stood firmly and without tremor. A murmur of applause followed this rebuke, and the Lord of Orbitello was fain to shrink back into an insignificance, from which it would have been better for him never to have emerged. At this precise instant a royal page spoke to the admiral, and then passed on to the seat of Don Luis de Bobadilla.
"I am summoned hastily to the presence of the queen, Lord Cardinal," observed the admiral, "and look to your grace for an apology for my withdrawing. The business is of weight, by the manner of the message, and you will pardon my now quitting the board, though it seem early."
The usual reply was made; and, bowed to the door by his host and all present, Columbus quitted the room. Almost at the same instant, he was followed by the Conde de Llera.
"Whither goest thou, in this hurry, Don Luis?" demanded the admiral, as the other joined him. "Art thou in so great haste to quit a banquet such as Spain hath not often seen, except in the palaces of her kings?"
"By San Iago! nor there, neither, Señor," answered the young man, gaily, "if King Ferdinand's board be taken as the sample. But I quit this goodly company in obedience to an order of Doña Isabella, who hath suddenly summoned me to her royal presence."
"Then, Señor Conde, we go together, and are like to meet on the same errand. I, too, am hastening to the apartments of the queen."
"It gladdens my heart to hear this, Señor, as I know of but one subject on which a common summons should be sent to us. This affair toucheth on my suit, and, doubtless, you will be required to speak of my bearing in the voyage."
"My mind and my time have been so much occupied, of late, with public cares, Luis, that I have not had an occasion to question you of this. How fareth the Lady of Valverde, and when will she deign to reward thy constancy and love?"
"Señor, I would I could answer the last of these questions with greater certainty, and the first with a lighter heart. Since my return I have seen Doña Mercedes but thrice; and though she was all gentleness and truth, my suit for the consummation of my happiness hath been coldly and evasively answered by my aunt. Her Highness is to be consulted, it would seem; and the tumult produced by the success of the voyage hath so much occupied her, that there hath been no leisure to wait on trifles such as those that lead to the felicity of a wanderer like myself."
"Then is it like, Luis, that we are indeed summoned on this very affair; else, why should thou and I be brought together in a manner so unusual and so sudden."
Our hero was not displeased to fancy this, and he entered the apartments of the queen with a step as elastic, and a mien as bright, as if he had come to wed his love. The Admiral of the Ocean Sea, as Columbus was now publicly called, had not long to wait in ante-chambers, and, ere many minutes, he and his companion were ushered into the presence.
Isabella received her guests in private, there being no one in attendance but the Marchioness of Moya, Mercedes, and Ozema. The first glances of their eyes told Columbus and Luis that all was not right. Every countenance denoted that its owner was endeavoring to maintain a calmness that was assumed. The queen herself was serene and dignified, it is true, but her brow was thoughtful, her eye melancholy, and her cheek slightly flushed. As for Doña Beatriz, sorrow and indignation struggled in her expressive face, and Luis saw, with concern, that her look was averted from him in a way she always adopted when he had seriously incurred her displeasure. Mercedes' lips were pale as death, though a bright spot, like vermilion, was stationary on each cheek; her eyes were downcast, and all her mien was humbled and timid. Ozema alone seemed perfectly natural; still, her glances were quick and anxious, though a gleam of joy danced in her eyes, and even a slight exclamation of delight escaped her, as she beheld Luis, whom she had seen but once since her arrival in Barcelona, already near a month.
Isabella advanced a step or two, to meet the admiral, and when the last would have kneeled, she hurriedly prevented the act by giving him her hand to kiss.
"Not so--not so--Lord Admiral," exclaimed the queen; "this is homage unsuited to thy high rank and eminent services. If we are thy sovereigns, so are we also thy friends. I fear my lord cardinal will scarce pardon the orders I sent him, seeing that it hath deprived him of thy society somewhat sooner than he may have expected."
"His Eminence, and all his goodly company, have that to muse on, Señora, that may yet occupy them some time," returned Columbus, smiling in his grave manner; "doubtless, they will less miss me than at an ordinary time. Were it otherwise, both I, and this young count, would not scruple to quit even a richer banquet, to obey the summons of your Highness."
"I doubt it not, Señor, but I have desired to see thee, this night, on a matter of private, rather than of public concernment. Doña Beatriz, here, hath made known to me the presence at court, as well as the history of this fair being, who giveth one an idea so much more exalted of thy vast discoveries that I marvel she should ever have been concealed. Know'st thou her rank, Don Christopher, and the circumstances that have brought her to Spain?"
"Señora, I do; in part through my own observation, and in part from the statements of Don Luis de Bobadilla. I consider the rank of the Lady Ozema to be less than royal, and more than noble, if our opinions will allow us to imagine a condition between the two; though it must always be remembered that Hayti is not Castile; the one being benighted under the cloud of heathenism, and the other existing in the sunshine of the church and civilization."
"Nevertheless, Don Christopher, station is station, and the rights of birth are not impaired by the condition of a country. Although it hath pleased him already, and will still further please the head of the church, to give us rights, in our characters of Christian princes, over these caciques of India, there is nothing unusual or novel in the fact. The relation between the suzerain and the lieges is ancient and well established; and instances are not wanting, in which powerful monarchs have held certain of their states by this tenure, while others have come direct from God. In this view, I feel disposed to consider the Indian lady as more than noble, and have directed her to be treated accordingly. There remaineth only to relate the circumstances that have brought her to Spain."
"These can better come from Don Luis than from me, Señora; he being most familiar with the events."
"Nay, Señor, I would hear them from thine own lips. I am already possessed of the substance of the Conde de Llera's story."
Columbus looked both surprised and pained, but he did not hesitate about complying with the queen's request.
"Hayti hath its greater and its lesser princes, or caciques, your Highness," he added; "the last paying a species of homage, and owing a certain allegiance to the first, as hath been said"-- "Thou seest, Daughter-Marchioness, this is but a natural order of government, prevailing equally in the east and in the west!"
"Of the first of these was Guacanagari, of whom I have already related so much to your Highness," continued Columbus; "and of the last, Mattinao, the brother of this lady. Don Luis visited the Cacique Mattinao, and was present at an inroad of Caonabo, a celebrated Carib chief, who would fain have made a wife of her who now stands in this illustrious presence. The conde conducted himself like a gallant Castilian cavalier, routed the foe, saved the lady, and brought her in triumph to the ships. Here it was determined she should visit Spain, both as a means of throwing more lustre on the two crowns, and of removing her, for a season, from the attempts of the Carib, who is too powerful and warlike to be withstood by a race as gentle as that of Mattinao's."
"This is well, Señor, and what I have already heard; but how happeneth it, that Ozema did not appear with the rest of thy train, in the public reception of the town?"
"It was the wish of Don Luis it should be otherwise, and I consented that he and his charge should sail privately from Palos, with the expectation of meeting me in Barcelona. We both thought the Lady Ozema too superior to her companions, to be exhibited to rude eyes as a spectacle."
"There was delicacy, if there were not prudence in the arrangement," the queen observed, a little drily. "Then, the Lady Ozema hath been some weeks solely in the care of the Conde de Llera."
"I so esteem it, your Highness, except as she hath been placed under the guardianship of the Marchioness of Moya."
"Was this altogether discreet, Don Christopher, or as one prudent as thou shouldst have consented to?"
"Señora!" exclaimed Luis, unable to restrain his feelings longer.
"Forbear, young sir," commanded the queen. "I shall have occasion to question thee presently, when thou may'st have a need for all thy readiness, to give the fitting answers. Doth not thy discretion rebuke thy indiscretion in this matter, Lord Admiral?"
"Señora, the question, like its motive, is altogether new to me; I have the utmost reliance on the honor of the count, and then did I know that his heart hath long been given to the fairest and worthiest damsel of Spain; besides, my mind hath been so much occupied with the grave subjects of your Highness' interests, that it hath had but little opportunity to dwell on minor things."
"I believe thee, Señor, and thy pardon is secure. Still, for one so experienced, it was a sore indiscretion to trust to the constancy of a fickle heart, when placed in the body of a light-minded and truant boy. And, now, Conde de Llera, I have that to say to thee, which thou may'st find it difficult to answer. Thou assentest to all that hath hitherto been said?"
"Certainly, Señora. Don Christopher can have no motive to misstate, even were he capable of the meanness. I trust our house hath not been remarkable in Spain, for recreant and false cavaliers."
"In that I fully agree. If thy house hath had the misfortune to produce one untrue and recreant heart, it hath the glory"--glancing at her friend--"of producing others that might equal the constancy of the most heroic minds of antiquity. The lustre of the name of Bobadilla doth not altogether depend on the fidelity and truth of its head--nay, hear me, sir, and speak only when thou art ready to answer my questions. Thy thoughts, of late, have been bent on matrimony?"
"Señora, I confess it. Is it an offence to dream of the honorable termination of a suit that hath been long urged, and which I had dared to hope was finally about to receive your own royal approbation?"
"It is, then, as I feared, Beatriz!" exclaimed the queen; "and this benighted but lovely being hath been deceived by the mockery of a marriage; for no subject of Castile would dare thus to speak of wedlock, in my presence, with the consciousness that his vows had actually and lawfully been given to another. Both the church and the prince would not be thus braved, by even the greatest profligate of Spain!"
"Señora, your Highness speaketh most cruelly, even while you speak in riddles!" cried Luis. "May I presume to ask if I am meant in these severe remarks?"
"Of whom else should we be speaking, or to whom else allude? Thou must have the inward consciousness, unprincipled boy, of all thy unworthiness; and yet thou darest thus to brave thy sovereign--nay, to brave that suffering and angelic girl, with a mien as bold as if sustained by the purest innocence!"
"Señora, I am no angel, myself, however willing to admit Doña Mercedes to be one; neither am I a saint of perfect purity, perhaps--in a word, I am Luis de Bobadilla--but as far from deserving these reproaches, as from deserving the crown of martyrdom. Let me humbly demand my offence?"
"Simply that thou hast either cruelly deceived, by a feigned marriage, this uninstructed and confiding Indian princess, or hast insolently braved thy sovereign with the professions of a desire to wed another, with thy faith actually plighted at the altar, to another. Of which of these crimes thou art guilty, thou know'st best, thyself."
"And thou, my aunt--thou, Mercedes--dost thou, too, believe me capable of this?"
"I fear it is but too true," returned the marchioness, coldly; "the proof is such that none but an Infidel could deny belief."
"Mercedes?"
"No, Luis," answered the generous girl, with a warmth and feeling that broke down the barriers of all conventional restraint--"I do not think thee base as this--I do not think thee base at all; merely unable to restrain thy wandering inclinations. I know thy heart too well, and thine honor too well, to suppose aught more than a weakness that thou wouldst fain subdue, but canst not."
"God and the Holy Virgin be blessed for this!" cried the count, who had scarcely breathed while his mistress was speaking. "Any thing but thy entertaining so low an opinion of me, may be borne!"
"There must be an end of this, Beatriz; and I see no surer means, than by proceeding at once to the facts," said the queen. "Come hither, Ozema, and let thy testimony set this matter at rest, forever."
The young Indian, who comprehended Spanish much better than she expressed herself in the language, although far from having even a correct understanding of all that was said, immediately complied, her whole soul being engrossed with what was passing, while her intelligence was baffled in its attempts thoroughly to comprehend it. Mercedes alone had noted the workings of her countenance, as Isabella reproved, or Luis made his protestations, and they were such as completely denoted the interest she felt in our hero.
"Ozema," resumed the queen, speaking slowly, and with deliberate distinctness, in order that the other might get the meaning of her words as she proceeded. "Speak--art thou wedded to Luis de Bobadilla, or not?"
"Ozema, Luis' wife," answered the girl, laughing and blushing. "Luis, Ozema's husband."
"This is plain as words can make it, Don Christopher, and is no more than she hath already often affirmed, on my anxious and repeated inquiries. How and when did Luis wed thee, Ozema?"
"Luis wed Ozema with religion--with Spaniard's religion. Ozema wed Luis with love and duty--with Hayti manner."
"This is extraordinary, Señora," observed the admiral, "and I would gladly look into it. Have I your Highness' permission to inquire into the affair, myself?"
"Do as thou wilt, Señor," returned the queen, coldly. "My own mind is satisfied, and it behoveth my justice to act speedily."
"Conde de Llera, dost thou admit, or dost thou deny, that thou art the husband of the Lady Ozema?" demanded Columbus, gravely.
"Lord Admiral, I deny it altogether. Neither have I wedded her, nor hath the thought of so doing, with any but Mercedes, ever crossed my mind."
This was said firmly, and with the open frankness that formed a principal charm in the young man's manner.
"Hast thou, then, wronged her, and given her a right to think that thou didst mean wedlock?"
"I have not. Mine own sister would not have been more respected than hath Ozema been respected by me, as is shown by the fact that I have hastened to place her in the care of my dear aunt, and in the company of Doña Mercedes."
"This seemeth reasonable, Señora; for man hath ever that much respect for virtue in your sex, that he hesitateth to offend it even in his levities."
"In opposition to all these protestations, and to so much fine virtue, Señor Colon, we have the simple declaration of one untutored in deception--a mind too simple to deceive, and of a rank and hopes that would render such a fraud as unnecessary as it would be unworthy. Beatriz, thou dost agree with me, and it cannot find an apology for this recreant knight, even though he were once the pride of thy house?"
"Señora, I know not. Whatever may have been the failings and weaknesses of the boy--and heaven it knows that they have been many--deception and untruth have never made a part. I have even ascribed the manner in which he hath placed the princess in my immediate care, to the impulses of a heart that did not wish to conceal the errors of the head, and to the expectation that her presence in my family might sooner bring me to a knowledge of the truth. I could wish that the Lady Ozema might be questioned more closely, in order that we make certain of not being under the delusion of some strange error."
"This is right," observed Isabella, whose sense of justice ever inclined her to make the closest examination into the merits of every case that required her decision. "The fortune of a grandee depends on the result, and it is meet he enjoy all fair means of vindicating himself from so heinous an offence. Sir Count, thou canst, therefore, question her, in our presence, touching all proper grounds of inquiry."
"Señora, it would ill become a knight to put himself in array against a lady, and she, too, of the character and habits of this stranger," answered Luis, proudly; coloring as he spoke, with the consciousness that Ozema was utterly unable to conceal her predilection in his favor. "If such an office is, indeed, necessary, its functions would better become another."
"As the stern duty of punishing must fall on me," the queen calmly observed, "I will then assume this unpleasant office. Señor Almirante, we may not shrink from any obligation that brings us nearer to the greatest attribute of God, his justice. Princess, thou hast said that Don Luis hath wedded thee, and that thou considerest thyself his wife. When and where didst thou meet him before a priest?"
So many attempts had been made to convert Ozema to Christianity, that she was more familiar with the terms connected with religion than with any other part of the language, though her mind was a confused picture of imaginary obligations, and of mystical qualities. Like all who are not addicted to abstractions, her piety was more connected with forms than with principles, and she was better disposed to admit the virtue of the ceremonies of the church than the importance of its faith. The question of the queen was understood, and, therefore, it was answered without guile, or a desire to deceive.
"Luis wed Ozema with Christian's cross," she said, pressing to her heart the holy emblem that the young man had given to her in a moment of great peril, and in a manner the reader already knows. "Luis think he about to die--Ozema think she about to die--both wish to die man and wife, and Luis wed with the cross, like good Spanish Christian. Ozema wed Luis in her heart, like Hayti lady, in her own country."
"Here is some mistake--some sad mistake, growing out of the difference of language and customs," observed the admiral. "Don Luis hath not been guilty of this deception. I witnessed the offering of that cross, which was made at sea, during a tempest, and in a way to impress me favorably with the count's zeal in behalf of a benighted soul. There was no wedlock there; nor could any, but one who hath confounded our usages, through ignorance, imagine more than the bestowal of a simple emblem, that it was hoped might be useful, in extremity, to one that had not enjoyed the advantages of baptism and the church's offices."
"Don Luis, dost thou confirm this statement, and also assert that thy gift was made solely with this object?" asked the queen.
"Señora, it is most true. Death was staring us in the face; and I felt that this poor wanderer, who had trusted herself to our care, with the simple confidence of a child, needed some consolation; none seemed so meet, at the moment, as that memorial of our blessed Redeemer, and of our own redemption. To me it seemed the preservative next to baptism."
"Hast thou never stood before a priest with her, nor in any manner abused her guileless simplicity?"
"Señora, it is not my nature to deceive, and every weakness of which I have been guilty in connexion with Ozema shall be revealed. Her beauty and her winning manners speak for themselves, as doth her resemblance to Doña Mercedes. The last greatly inclined me to her, and, had not my heart been altogether another's, it would have been my pride to make the princess my wife. But we met too late for that; and even the resemblance led to comparisons, in which one, educated in infidelity and ignorance, must necessarily suffer. That I have had moments of tenderness for Ozema, I will own; but that they ever supplanted, or came near supplanting, my love for Mercedes, I do deny. If I have any fault to answer for, to the Lady Ozema, it is because I have not always been able to suppress the feelings that her likeness to the Doña Mercedes, and her own ingenuous simplicity--chiefly the former--have induced. Never otherwise, in speech or act, have I offended against her."
"This soundeth upright and true, Beatriz. Thou know'st the count better than I, and can easier say how far we ought to confide in these explanations."
"My life on their truth, my beloved mistress! Luis is no hypocrite, and I rejoice! --oh! how exultingly do I rejoice! --at finding him able to give this fair vindication of his conduct. Ozema, who hath heard of our form of wedlock, and hath seen our devotion to the cross, hath mistaken her position, as she hath my nephew's feelings, and supposed herself a wife, when a Christian girl would not have been so cruelly deceived."
"This really hath a seeming probability, Señores," continued the queen, with her sex's sensitiveness to her sex's delicacy of sentiment, not to say to her sex's rights--"This toucheth of a lady's--nay, of a princess' feelings, and must not be treated of openly. It is proper that any further explanations should be made only among females, and I trust to your honor, as cavaliers and nobles, that what hath this night been said, will never be spoken of amid the revels of men. The Lady Ozema shall be my care; and, Count of Llera, thou shalt know my final decision to-morrow, concerning Doña Mercedes and thyself."
As this was said with a royal, as well as with a womanly dignity, no one presumed to demur, but, making the customary reverences, Columbus and our hero left the presence. It was late before the queen quitted Ozema, but what passed in this interview will better appear in the scenes that are still to be given.
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"When sinking low the sufferer wan Beholds no arm outstretch'd to save, Fair, as the bosom of the swan That rises graceful o'er the wave, I've seen your breast with pity heave, And _therefore_ love you, sweet Genevieve!"
Coleridge.
When Isabella found herself alone with Ozema and Mercedes (for she chose that the last should be present), she entered on the subject of the marriage with the tenderness of a sensitive and delicate mind, but with a sincerity that rendered further error impossible. The result showed how naturally and cruelly the young Indian beauty had deceived herself. Ardent, confiding, and accustomed to be considered the object of general admiration among her own people, Ozema had fancied that her own inclinations had been fully answered by the young man. From the first moment they met, with the instinctive quickness of a woman, she perceived that she was admired, and, as she gave way to the excess of her own feelings, it was almost a necessary consequence of the communications she held with Luis, that she should think they were reciprocated. The very want of language in words, by compelling a substitution of one in looks and acts, contributed to the mistake; and it will be remembered that, if Luis' constancy did not actually waver, it had been sorely tried. The false signification she attached to the word "Mercedes," largely aided in the delusion, and it was completed by the manly tenderness and care with which our hero treated her on all occasions. Even the rigid decorum that Luis invariably observed, and the severe personal respect which he maintained toward his charge, had their effect on her feelings; for, wild and unsophisticated as had been her training, the deep and unerring instinct of the feeble, told her the nature of the power she was wielding over the strong.
Then came the efforts to give her some ideas of religion, and the deep and lamentable mistakes which imperfectly explained, and worse understood subtleties, left on her plastic mind. Ozema believed that the Spaniards worshipped the cross. She saw it put foremost in all public ceremonies, knelt to, and apparently appealed to, on every occasion that called for an engagement more solemn than usual. Whenever a knight made a vow, he kissed the cross of his sword-hilt. The mariners regarded it with reverence, and even the admiral had caused one to be erected as a sign of his right to the territory that had been ceded to him by Guacanagari. In a word, to her uninstructed imagination, it seemed as if the cross were used as a pledge for the fidelity of all engagements. Often had she beheld and admired the beautiful emblem worn by our hero; and, as the habits of her own people required the exchange of pledges of value as a proof of wedlock, she fancied, when she received this much-valued jewel, that she received the sign that our hero took her for a wife, at a moment when death was about to part them forever. Further than this, her simplicity and affections did not induce her to reason or to believe.
It was an hour before Isabella elicited all these facts and feelings from Ozema, though the latter clearly wished to conceal nothing; in truth, had nothing to conceal. The painful part of the duty remained to be discharged. It was to undeceive the confiding girl, and to teach her the hard lesson of bitterness that followed. This was done, however, and the queen, believing it best to remove all delusion on the subject, finally succeeded in causing her to understand that, before the count had ever seen herself, his affections were given to Mercedes, who was, in truth, his betrothed wife. Nothing could have been gentler, or more femininely tender, than the manner in which the queen made her communication; but the blow struck home, and Isabella, herself, trembled at the consequences of her own act. Never before had she witnessed the outbreaking of feeling in a mind so entirely unsophisticated, and the images of what she then saw, haunted her troubled slumbers for many succeeding nights.
As for Columbus and our hero, they were left mainly in the dark, as to what had occurred, for the following week. It is true, Luis received a kind and encouraging note from his aunt, the succeeding day, and a page of Mercedes' silently placed in his hand the cross that he had so long worn; but, beyond this, he was left to his own conjectures. The moment for explanation, however, arrived, and the young man received a summons to the apartment of the marchioness.
Luis did not, as he expected, meet his aunt on reaching the saloon, which he found empty. Questioning the page who had been his usher, he was desired to wait for the appearance of some one to receive him. Patience was not a conspicuous virtue in our hero's character, and he excited himself by pacing the room, for near half an hour, ere he discovered a single sign that his visit was remembered. Just as he was about to summon an attendant, however, again to announce his presence, a door was slowly opened, and Mercedes stood before him.
The first glance that the young man cast upon his betrothed, told him that she was suffering under deep mental anxiety. The hand which he eagerly raised to his lips trembled, and the color came and went on her cheeks, in a way to show that she was nearly overcome. Still she rejected the glass of water that he offered, putting it aside with a faint smile, and motioning her lover to take a chair, while she calmly placed herself on a _tabouret_--one of the humble seats she was accustomed to occupy in the presence of the queen.
"I have asked for this interview, Don Luis," Mercedes commenced, as soon as she had given herself time to command her feelings, "in order that there may no longer be any reasons for mistaking our feelings and wishes. You have been suspected of having married the Lady Ozema; and there was a moment when you stood on the verge of destruction, through the displeasure of Doña Isabella."
"But, blessed Mercedes, _you_ never imputed to me this act of deception and unfaithfulness?"
"I told you truth, Señor--for that I knew you too well. I felt certain that, whenever Luis de Bobadilla had made up his mind to the commission of such a step, he would also have the manliness and courage to avow it. _I_ never, for an instant, believed that you had wedded the princess."
"Why, then, those cold and averted looks? --eyes that sought the floor, rather than the meeting of glances that love delights in; and a manner which, if it hath not absolutely displayed aversion, hath at least manifested a reserve and distance that I had never expected to witness from thee to me?"
Mercedes' color changed, and she made no answer for a minute, during which little interval she had doubts of her ability to carry out her own purpose. Rallying her courage, however, the discourse was continued in the same manner as before.
"Hear me, Don Luis," she resumed, "for my history will not be long. When you left Spain, at my suggestion, to enter on this great voyage, you loved _me_--of that grateful recollection no earthly power can deprive me! Yes, you then loved _me_, and me _only_. We parted, with our troth plighted to each other; and not a day went by, during your absence, that I did not pass hours on my knees, beseeching heaven in behalf of the admiral and his followers."
"Beloved Mercedes! It is not surprising that success crowned our efforts; such an intercessor could not fail to be heard!"
"I entreat you, sir, to hear me. Until the eventful day which brought the tidings of your return, no Spanish wife could have felt more concern for him on whom she had placed all her hopes, than I felt for you. To me, the future was bright and filled with hope, if the present was loaded with fear and doubt. The messenger who reached the court, first opened my eyes to the sad realities of the world, and taught me the hard lesson the young are ever slow to learn--that of disappointment. It was then I first heard of Ozema--of your admiration of her beauty--your readiness to sacrifice your life in her behalf!"
"Holy Luke! Did that vagabond, Sancho, dare to wound thy ear, Mercedes, with an insinuation that touched the strength or the constancy of my love for thee?"
"He related naught but the truth, Luis, and blame him not. I was prepared for some calamity by his report, and I bless God that it came on me by such slow degrees, and with the means of preparation to bear it. When I beheld Ozema, I no longer wondered at thy change of feeling--scarce blamed it. Her beauty, I do think, thou might'st have withstood; but her unfeigned devotion to thyself, her innocence, her winning simplicity, and her modest joyousness and nature, are sufficient to win a lover from any Spanish maiden"-- "Mercedes!"
"Nay, Luis, I have told thee that I blame thee not. It is better that the blow come now, than later, when I should not be able to bear it. There is something which tells me that, as a wife, I should sink beneath the weight of blighted affections; but, now, there are open to me the convent and the espousals of the Son of God. Do not interrupt me, Luis," she added, smiling sweetly, but with an effort that denoted how difficult it was to seem easy. "I have to struggle severely to speak at all, and to an argument I am altogether unequal. Thou hast not been able to control thy affections; and to the strange novelties that have surrounded Ozema, as well as to her winning ingenuousness, I owe my loss, and she oweth her gain. It is the will of Heaven, and I strive to think it is to my everlasting advantage. Had I really wedded thee, the tenderness that is even now swelling in my heart--I wish not to conceal it--might have grown to such a strength as to supplant the love I owe to God; it is, therefore, doubtless, better as it is. If happiness on earth is not to be my lot, I shall secure happiness hereafter. Nay, all happiness here will not be lost; I can still pray for thee, as well as for myself--and thou and Ozema, of all earthly beings, will ever be uppermost in my thoughts."
"This is so wonderful, Mercedes--so cruel--so unreasonable--and so unjust, that I cannot credit my ears!"
"I have said that I blame thee not. The beauty and frankness of Ozema are more than sufficient to justify thee, for men yield to the senses, rather than to the heart, in bestowing their love. Then"--Mercedes blushed crimson as she continued--"a Haytian maid may innocently use a power, that it would ill become a Christian damsel to employ. And, now, we will come to facts that press for a decision. Ozema hath been ill--is still ill--dangerously so, as her Highness and my guardian believe--even as the physicians say--but it is in thy power, Luis, to raise her, as it might be, from the grave. See her--say but the word that will confer happiness--tell her, if thou hast not yet wedded her after the manner of Spain, that thou wilt--nay, let one of the holy priests, who are in constant attendance on her, to prepare the way for baptism, perform the ceremony this very morning, and we shall presently see the princess, again, the smiling, radiant, joyous creature she was, when thou first placed her in our care."
"And this thou say'st to me, Mercedes, calmly and deliberately, as if thy words express thy very wishes and feelings!"
"Calmly I may _seem_ to say it, Luis," answered our heroine, in a smothered tone, "and deliberately I _do_ say it. Marry me, loving another better, thou canst not; and why not, then, follow whither thy heart leadeth. The dowry of the princess shall not be small, for the convent recluse hath little need of gold, and none of lands."
Luis gazed earnestly at the enthusiastic girl, who in his eyes never appeared more lovely; then, rising, he paced the room for three or four minutes, like one who wished to keep down mental agony by physical action. When he had obtained a proper command of himself, he returned to his seat, and taking the unresisting hand of Mercedes, he replied to her extraordinary proposal.
"Watching over the sick couch of thy friend, and too much brooding on this subject, love, hath impaired thy judgment. Ozema hath no hold on my heart, in the way thou fanciest--never had, beyond a passing and truant inclination"-- "Ah! Luis, those 'passing and truant inclinations.' None such"--pressing both her hands on her own heart--"have ever found a place here!"
"Thy education and mine, Mercedes--thy habits and mine--nay, thy nature and the ruder elements of mine, are not, _cannot_ be the same. Were they so, I should not worship thee as I now do. But didst thou not exist, the certainty that I should wed Ozema would not give me happiness--but thou existing, and beloved as thou art, it would entail on me a misery that even my buoyant nature could not endure. In no case can I ever be the husband of the Indian."
Although a gleam of happiness illumined the face of Mercedes for a moment, her high principles and pure intentions soon suppressed the momentary and unbidden triumph, and, even with a reproving manner, she made her answer.
"Is this just to Ozema? Hath not her simplicity been deluded by those 'passing and truant inclinations,' and doth not honor require that thy acts now redeem the pledges that have been given by, at least, thy manner?"
"Mercedes--beloved girl, hearken to me. Thou must know that, with all my levities and backslidings, I am no coxcomb. Never hath my manner said aught that the heart did not confirm, and never hath the heart been drawn toward any but thee. In this, is the great distinction that I make between thee and all others of thy sex. Ozema's is not the only form, her's are not the only charms that may have caught a truant glance from my eyes, or extorted some unmeaning and bootless admiration, but thou, love, art enshrined here, and seemest already a part of myself. Didst thou know how often thy image hath proved a monitor stronger than conscience; on how many occasions the remembrance of thy virtues and thy affections hath prevailed, when even duty, and religion, and early lessons would have been forgotten, thou wouldst understand the difference between the love I bear _thee_, and what thou hast so tauntingly repeated as truant and passing inclinations."
"Luis, I ought not to listen to these alluring words, which come from a goodness of heart that would spare me present pain, only to make my misery in the end the deeper. If thou hast never felt otherwise, why was the cross that I gave thee at parting, bestowed on another?"
"Mercedes, thou know'st not the fearful circumstances under which I parted with that cross. Death was staring us in the face, and I gave it as a symbol that might aid a heathen soul in its extremity. That the gift, or rather that the thing I lent, was mistaken for a pledge of matrimony, is an unhappy misconception, that your own knowledge of Christian usages will tell you I could not foresee; otherwise I might now claim thee for my wife, in consequence of having first bestowed it on me."
"Ah! Luis; when I gave thee that cross, I did wish to be understood as plighting my faith to thee forever!"
"And when thou didst send it back to me, now within the week, how was it thy wish to be understood?"
"I sent it to thee, Luis, in a moment of reviving hope, and by the order of the queen. Her Highness is now firmly thy friend, and would fain see us united, but for the melancholy condition of Ozema, to whom all has been explained--all, as I fear, except the real state of thy feelings toward us both."
"Cruel girl! Am I, then, never to be believed--never again to be happy? I swear to thee, dearest Mercedes, that thou alone hast my whole heart--that with thee, I could be contented in a hovel, and that without thee I should be miserable on a throne. Thou wilt believe this, when thou see'st me a wretch, wandering the earth, reckless alike of hopes and objects, perhaps of character, because thou alone canst make me, and keep me the man I ought to be. Bethink thee, Mercedes, of the influence thou canst have--must have--_wilt_ have on one of my temperament and passions. I have long looked upon thee as my guardian angel, one that can mould me to thy will, and rule me when all others fail. With thee--the impatience produced by thy doubts excepted--am I not ever tractable and gentle? Hath Doña Beatriz ever exercised a tithe of thy power over me, and hast thou ever failed to tame even my wildest and rashest humors?"
"Luis--Luis--no one that knew it, ever doubted of thy heart!" Mercedes paused, and the working of her countenance proved that the earnest sincerity of her lover had already shaken her doubts of his constancy. Still, her mind reverted to the scenes of the voyage, and her imagination portrayed the couch of the stricken Ozema. After a minute's delay, she proceeded, in a low, humbled tone--"I will not deny that it is soothing to my heart to hear this language, to which, I fear, I listen too readily," she said. "Still, I find it difficult to believe that thou canst ever forget one who hath even braved the chances of death, in order to shelter thy body from the arrows of thy foes."
"Believe not this, beloved girl; thou wouldst have done that thyself, in Ozema's place, and so I shall ever consider it."
"I should have the wish, Luis," Mercedes continued, her eyes suffused with tears, "but I might not have the power!"
"Thou wouldst--thou wouldst--I know thee too well to doubt it."
"I could envy Ozema the occasion, were it not sinful! I fear thou wilt think of this, when thy mind shall have tired with attractions that have lost their novelty."
"Thou wouldst not only have done it, but thou wouldst have done it far better. Ozema, moreover, was exposed in her own quarrel, whilst thou wouldst have exposed thyself in mine."
Mercedes again paused, and appeared to muse deeply. Her eyes had brightened under the soothing asseverations of her lover, and, spite of the generous self-devotion with which she had determined to sacrifice all her own hopes to what she had imagined would make her lover happy, the seductive influence of requited affection was fast resuming its power.
"Come with me, then, Luis, and behold Ozema," she at length continued. "When thou see'st her, in her present state, thou wilt better understand thine own intentions. I ought not to have suffered thee thus to revive thy ancient feelings in a private interview, Ozema not being present; it is like forming a judgment on the hearing of only one side. And, Luis"--her heightened color, the effect of feeling, not of shame, rendered the girl surpassingly beautiful--"and, Luis, if thou shouldst find reason to change thy language after visiting the princess, however hard I may find it to be borne, thou wilt be certain of my forgiveness for all that hath passed, and of my prayers"-- Sobs interrupted Mercedes, and she stopped an instant to wipe away her tears, rejecting Luis' attempt to fold her in his arms, in order to console her, with a sensitive jealousy of the result; a feeling, however, in which delicacy had more weight than resentment. When she had dried her eyes, and otherwise removed the traces of her agitation, she led the way to the apartment of Ozema, where the presence of the young man was expected.
Luis started on entering the room; a little on perceiving that the queen and the admiral were present, and more at observing the inroads that disappointment had made on the appearance of Ozema. The color of the latter was gone, leaving a deadly paleness in its place; her eyes possessed a brightness that seemed supernatural, and yet her weakness was so evident as to render it necessary to support her, in a half-recumbent posture, on pillows. An exclamation of unfeigned delight escaped her when she beheld our hero, and then she covered her face with both her hands, in childish confusion, as if ashamed at betraying the pleasure she felt. Luis behaved with manly propriety, for, though his conscience did not altogether escape a few twinges, at the recollection of the hours he had wasted in Ozema's society, and at the manner in which he had momentarily submitted to the influence of her beauty and seductive simplicity, on the whole he stood self-acquitted of any thing that might fairly be urged as a fault, and most of all, of any thought of being unfaithful to his first love, or of any design to deceive. He took the hand of the young Indian respectfully, and he kissed it with an openness and warmth that denoted brotherly tenderness and regard, rather than passion, or the emotion of a lover. Mercedes did not dare to watch his movements, but she observed the approving glance that the queen threw at her guardian, when he had approached the couch on which Ozema lay. This glance she interpreted into a sign that the count had acquitted himself in a manner favorable to her own interests.
"Thou findest the Lady Ozema weak and changed," observed the queen, who alone would presume to break a silence that was already awkward. "We have been endeavoring to enlighten her simple mind on the subject of religion, and she hath, at length, consented to receive the holy sacrament of baptism. The lord archbishop is even now preparing for the ceremony in my oratory, and we have the blessed prospect of rescuing this one precious soul from perdition."
"Your Highness hath ever the good of all your people at heart," said Luis, bowing low to conceal the tears that the condition of Ozema had drawn from his eyes. "I fear this climate of ours ill agrees with the poor Haytians, generally, for I hear that the sick among them, at Seville and Palos, offer but little hope of recovery."
"Is this so, Don Christopher?"
"Señora, I believe it is only too true. Care hath been had, however, to their souls, as well as to their bodies, and Ozema is the last of her people, now in Spain, to receive the holy rite of Christian baptism."
"Señora," said the marchioness, coming from the couch, with surprise and concern in her countenance, "I fear our hopes are to be defeated after all! The Lady Ozema hath just whispered me, that Luis and Mercedes must first be married in her presence, ere she will consent to be admitted within the pale of the church herself."
"This doth not denote the right spirit, Beatriz--and, yet, what can be done with a mind so little illuminated with the light from above. 'Tis merely a passing caprice, and will be forgotten when the archbishop shall be ready."
"I think not, Señora. Never have I seen her so decided and clear. In common, we find her gentle and tractable, but this hath she thrice said, in a way to cause the belief of her perfect seriousness."
Isabella now advanced to the couch, and spoke long and soothingly to the invalid. In the meantime, the admiral conversed with the marchioness, and Luis again approached our heroine. The evidences of emotion were plain in both, and Mercedes scarce breathed, not knowing what to expect. But a few low words soon brought an assurance that could not fail to bring happiness, spite of her generous efforts to feel for Ozema--that the heart of our hero was all her own. From this moment Mercedes dismissed every doubt, and she regarded Luis as had so long been her wont.
As is usual in the presence of royalty, the conversation was carried on in a low tone; and a quarter of an hour elapsed before a page announced that the oratory, or little chapel, was ready, opening a door that communicated directly with it, as he entered.
"This wilful girl persisteth, Daughter-Marchioness," said the queen, advancing from the side of the couch, "and I know not what to answer. It is cruel to deny her the offered means of grace, and yet it is a sudden and unseemly request to make of thy nephew and thy ward!"
"As for the first, dearest Señora, never distrust his forgiveness; though I much doubt the possibility of prevailing on Mercedes. Her very nature is made up of religion and female decorum."
"It is, indeed, scarce right to think of it. A Christian maiden should have time to prepare her spirit for the holy sacrament of marriage, by prayer."
"And yet, Señora, many wed without it! The time hath been when Don Ferdinand of Aragon and Doña Isabella might not have hesitated for such a purpose."
"That time never was, Beatriz. Thou hast a habit of making me look back to our days of trial and youth, whenever thou wouldst urge on me some favorite but ill-considered wish of thine own. Dost really think thy ward would overlook the want of preparation and time?"
"I know not what she might feel disposed to overlook, Señora; but I do know that if there be one woman in Spain who is at all times ready in _spirit_, for the most sacred rites of the church, it is your Highness; and, if there be another, it is my ward."
"Go to--go to--good Beatriz; flattery sitteth ill on thee. None are always ready, and all have an unceasing need for watchfulness. Bid Doña Mercedes follow to my closet; I will converse with her on this subject. At least, there shall be no unfeminine and unseemly surprise."
So saying, the queen withdrew. She had hardly reached her closet, before our heroine entered, with a doubtful and timid step. As soon as her eyes met those of her sovereign, Mercedes burst into tears, and falling on her knees, she again buried her face in the robe of Doña Isabella. This outbreak of feeling was soon subdued, however, and then the girl stood erect, waiting her sovereign's pleasure.
"Daughter," commenced the queen, "I trust there is no longer any misapprehension between thee and the Conde de Llera. Thou know'st the views of thy guardian and myself, and may'st, in a matter like this, with safety defer to our cooler heads and greater experience. Don Luis loveth thee, and hath never loved the princess, though it would not be out of character did an impetuous young man, who hath been much exposed to temptation, betray some transient and passing feeling toward one of so much nature and beauty."
"Luis hath admitted all, Señora; inconstant he hath never been, though he may have had his weaknesses." " 'Tis a hard lesson to learn, child, even in this stage of thy life," said the queen, gravely; "but it would have been harder were it deferred until the nearer tenderness of a wife had superseded the impulses of the girl. Thou hast heard the opinions of the learned; there is little hope that the Princess Ozema can long survive."
"Ah! Señora, 'tis a cruel fate! To die among strangers, in the flower of her beauty, and with a heart crushed by the weight of unrequited love!"
"And yet, Mercedes, if heaven open on her awaking eyes, when the last earthly scene is over, the transition will be most blessed; and they who mourn her loss, would do wiser to rejoice. One so youthful and so innocent; whose pure mind hath been laid bare to us, as it might be, and which we have found wanting in nothing beside the fruits of a pious instruction, can have little to apprehend on the score of personal errors. All that is required for such a being, is to place her within the covenant of God's grace, by obtaining the rite of baptism, and there is not a bishop of the church that could depart with brighter hopes for the future."
"That holy office is my lord archbishop about to administer, as I hear, Señora." " _That_ somewhat dependeth on thee, daughter. Listen, and be not hasty in thy decision, which may touch on the security of a human soul."
The queen now related to Mercedes the romantic request of Ozema, placing it before her listener in terms so winning and gentle, that it produced less surprise and alarm than she herself had anticipated.
"Doña Beatriz hath a proposal that may, at first, appear plausible, but which reflection will not sanction. Her design was to cause the count actually to wed Ozema"--Mercedes started, and turned pale--"in order that the last hours of the young stranger might be soothed by the consciousness of being the wife of the man she idolized; but I have found serious objections to the scheme. What is thy opinion, daughter?"
"Señora, could I believe--as lately I did, but now do not--that Luis had such a preference for the princess as might lead him, in the end, to the happiness of that mutual affection without which wedlock must be a curse instead of a blessing, I would be the last to object; nay, I think I could even beg the boon of your Highness on my knees, for she who so truly loveth can only seek the felicity of its object. But I am assured the count hath not the affection for the Lady Ozema that is necessary to this end; and would it not be profane, Señora, to receive the church's sacraments under vows that the heart not only does not answer to, but against which it is actually struggling?"
"Excellent girl! These are precisely my own views, and in this manner have I answered the marchioness. The rites of the church may not be trifled with, and we are bound to submit to sorrows that may be inflicted, after all, for our eternal good; though it be harder to bear those of others than to bear our own. It remaineth only to decide on this whim of Ozema's, and to say if thou wilt now be married, in order that she may be baptized."
Notwithstanding the devotedness of feeling with which our heroine loved Luis, it required a strong struggle with her habits and her sense of propriety to take this great step so suddenly, and with so little preparation. The wishes of the queen, however, prevailed; for Isabella felt a deep responsibility on her own soul, in letting the stranger depart without being brought within the pale of the church. When Mercedes consented, she despatched a messenger to the marchioness, and then she and her companion both knelt, and passed near an hour together, in the spiritual exercises that were usual to the occasion. In this mood, did these pure-minded females, without a thought to the vanities of the toilet, but with every attention to the mental preparations of which the case admitted, present themselves at the door of the royal chapel, through which Ozema had just been carried, still stretched on her couch. The marchioness had caused a white veil to be thrown over the head of Mercedes, and a few proper but slight alterations had been made in her attire, out of habitual deference to the altar and its ministers.
About a dozen persons, deemed worthy of confidence, were present, already; and just as the bride and bridegroom were about to take their places, Don Ferdinand hastily entered, carrying in his hand some papers which he had been obliged to cease examining, in order to comply with the wishes of his royal consort. The king was a dignified prince; and when it suited him, no sovereign enacted his part more gracefully or in better taste. Motioning the archbishop to pause, he directed Luis to kneel. Throwing over the shoulder of the young man the collar of one of his own orders, he said-- "Now, arise, noble sir, and ever do thy duty to thy Heavenly Master, as thou hast of late discharged it toward us."
Isabella rewarded her husband for this act of grace by an approving smile, and the ceremony immediately proceeded. In the usual time, our hero and heroine were pronounced man and wife, and the solemn rites were ended. Mercedes felt, in the warm pressure with which Luis held her to his heart, that she now understood him; and, for a blissful instant, Ozema was forgotten, in the fulness of her own happiness. Columbus had given away the bride--an office that the king had assigned to him, though he stood at the bridegroom's side himself, with a view to do him honor, and even so far condescended as to touch the canopy that was held above the heads of the new-married couple. But Isabella kept aloof, placing herself near the couch of Ozema, whose features she watched throughout the ceremony. She had felt no occasion for public manifestations of interest in the bride, their feelings having so lately been poured out together in dear and private communion. The congratulations were soon over, and then Don Ferdinand, and all but those who were in the secret of Ozema's history, withdrew.
The queen had not desired her husband, and the other attendants, to remain and witness the baptism of Ozema, out of a delicate feeling for the condition of a female stranger, whom her habits and opinions had invested with a portion of the sacred rights of royalty. She had noted the intensity of feeling with which the half-enlightened girl watched the movements of the archbishop and the parties, and the tears had forced themselves from her own eyes, at witnessing the struggle between love and friendship, that was portrayed in every lineament of her pale, but still lovely countenance.
"Where cross?" Ozema eagerly demanded, as Mercedes stooped to fold the wasted form of the young Indian in her arms, and to kiss her cheek. "Give cross--Luis no marry with cross--give Ozema cross."
Mercedes, herself, took the cross from the bosom of her husband, where it had lain near his heart, since it had been returned to him, and put it in the hands of the princess.
"No marry with cross, then," murmured the girl, the tears suffusing her eyes, so as nearly to prevent her gazing at the much-prized bauble. "Now, quick, Señora, and make Ozema Christian."
The scene was getting to be too solemn and touching for many words, and the archbishop, at a sign from the queen, commenced the ceremony. It was of short duration; and Isabella's kind nature was soon quieted with the assurance that the stranger, whom she deemed the subject of her especial care, was put within the covenant for salvation that had been made with the visible church.
"Is Ozema Christian now?" demanded the girl, with a suddenness and simplicity, that caused all present to look at each other with pain and surprise.
"Thou hast, now, the assurance that God's grace will be offered to thy prayers, daughter," answered the prelate. "Seek it with thy heart, and thy end, which is at hand, will be more blessed."
"Christian no marry heathen? --Christian marry Christian?"
"This hast thou been often told, my poor Ozema," returned the queen; "the rite could not be duly solemnized between Christian and heathen."
"Christian marry first lady he love best?"
"Certainly. To do otherwise would be a violation of his vow, and a mockery of God."
"So Ozema think--but he can marry second wife--inferior wife--lady he love next. Luis marry Mercedes, first wife, because he love best--then he marry Ozema, second wife--lower wife--because he love next best--Ozema Christian, now, and no harm. Come, archbishop; make Ozema Luis' second wife."
Isabella groaned aloud, and walked to a distant part of the chapel, while Mercedes burst into tears, and sinking on her knees, she buried her face in the cloth of the couch, and prayed fervently for the enlightening of the soul of the princess. The churchman did not receive this proof of ignorance in his penitent, and of her unfitness for the rite he had just administered, with the same pity and indulgence.
"The holy baptism thou hast just received, benighted woman," he said, sternly, "is healthful, or not, as it is improved. Thou hast just made such a demand, as already loadeth thy soul with a fresh load of sin, and the time for repentance is short. No Christian can have two wives at the same time, and God knoweth no higher or lower, no first or last, between those whom his church hath united. Thou canst not be a second wife, the first still living."
"No would be to Caonabo--to Luis, yes. Fifty, hundred wife to dear Luis! No possible?"
"Self-deluded and miserable girl, I tell thee no. No--no--no--never--never--never. There is such a taint of sin in the very question, as profaneth this holy chapel, and the symbols of religion by which it is filled. Ay, kiss and embrace thy cross, and bow down thy very soul in despair, for"-- "Lord Archbishop," interrupted the Marchioness of Moya, with a sharpness of manner that denoted how much her ancient spirit was aroused, "there is enough of this. The ear thou wouldst wound, at such a moment, is already deaf, and the pure spirit hath gone to the tribunal of another, and, as I trust, a milder judge. Ozema is dead!"
It was, indeed, true. Startled by the manner of the prelate--bewildered with the confusion of ideas that had grown up between the dogmas that had been crowded on her mind, of late, and those in which she had been early taught; and physically paralyzed by the certainty that her last hope of a union with Luis was gone, the spirit of the Indian girl had deserted its beautiful tenement, leaving on the countenance of the corpse a lovely impression of the emotions that had prevailed during the last moments of its earthly residence.
Thus fled the first of those souls that the great discovery was to rescue from the perdition of the heathen. Casuists may refine, the learned dilate, and the pious ponder, on its probable fate in the unknown existence that awaited it: but the meek and submissive will hope all from the beneficence of a merciful God. As for Isabella, she received a shock from the blow that temporarily checked her triumph at the success of her zeal and efforts. Little, however, did she foresee, that the event was but a type of the manner in which the religion of the cross was to be abused and misunderstood; a sort of practical prognostic of the defeat of most of her own pious and gentle hopes and wishes.
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"A perfect woman, nobly planned To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright, With something of an angel light."
Wordsworth.
The lustre that was thrown around the voyage of Columbus, brought the seas into favor. It was no longer deemed an inferior occupation, or unsuited to nobles to engage in enterprises on its bosom; and that very propensity of our hero, which had so often been mentioned to his prejudice in former years, was now frequently named to his credit. Though his real connection with Columbus is published, for the first time, in these pages, the circumstance having escaped the superficial investigations of the historians, it was an advantage to him to be known as having manifested what might be termed a maritime disposition, in an age when most of his rank and expectations were satisfied with the adventures of the land. A sort of fashion was got up on behalf of the ocean; and the cavalier who had gazed upon its vast and unbroken expanse, beyond the view of his mother earth, regarded him who had not, much as he who had won his spurs looked down upon him who had suffered the proper period of life to pass without making the effort. Many of the nobles whose estates touched the Mediterranean or the Atlantic, fitted out small coasters--the yachts of the fifteenth century--and were met following the sinuosities of the glorious coasts of that part of the world, endeavoring to derive a satisfaction from a pursuit that it seemed meritorious to emulate. That all succeeded who attempted thus to transfer the habits of courts and castles to the narrow limits of xebecs and feluccas, it would be hazarding too much to assert; but there is little doubt that the spirit of the period was sustained by the experiments, and that men were ashamed to condemn that, which it was equally the policy and the affectation of the day to extol. The rivalry between Spain and Portugal, too, contributed to the feeling of the times; and there was soon greater danger of the youth who had never quitted his native shores, being pointed out for his want of spirit, than that the adventurer should be marked for his eccentric and vagrant instability.
In the meanwhile, the seasons advanced, and events followed, in their usual course, from cause to effect. About the close of the month of September, the ocean, just without that narrow and romantic pass that separates Europe from Africa, while it connects the transcendent Mediterranean with the broader wastes of the Atlantic, was glittering with the rays of the rising sun, which, at the same time, was gilding the objects that rose above the surface of the blue waters. The latter were not numerous, though a dozen different sails were moving slowly on their several courses, impelled by the soft breezes of the season. Of these, our business is with one alone, which it may be well to describe in a few general terms.
The rig of the vessel in question was latine, perhaps the most picturesque of all that the ingenuity of man has invented as the accessory of a view, whether given to the eye by means of the canvas, or in its real dimensions and substance. Its position, too, was precisely that which a painter would have chosen as the most favorable to his pencil, the little felucca running before the wind, with one of its high pointed sails extended on each side, resembling the pinions of some enormous bird that was contracting its wings as it settled toward its nest. Unusual symmetry was apparent in the spars and rigging; while the hull, which was distinguished by lines of the fairest proportions, had a neatness and finish that denoted the yacht of a noble.
The name of this vessel was the "Ozema," and she carried the Count of Llera with his youthful bride. Luis, who had acquired much of the mariner's skill, in his many voyages, directed the movements in person, though Sancho Mundo strutted around her decks with an air of authority, being the titular, if not the real patron of the craft.
"Ay--ay--good Bartolemeo, lash that anchor well," said the last, as he inspected the forecastle, in his hourly rounds; "for fair as may be the breezes, and mild as is the season, no one can know what humor the Atlantic may be in, when it fairly waketh up. In the great voyage to Cathay, nothing could have been more propitious than our outward passage, and nothing savor more of devils incarnate, than the homeward. Doña Mercedes maketh an excellent sailor, as ye all may see; and no one can tell which way, or how far, the humor of the conde may carry him, when he hath once taken his departure. I tell ye, fellows, that glory and gold may alight upon ye all, any minute, in the service of such a noble; and I hope none of ye have forgotten to come provided with hawk's-bells, which are as remarkable for assembling doblas, as the bells of the Seville cathedral are for assembling Christians."
"Master Mundo," called out our hero, from the quarter-deck, "let there be a man sent to the extremity of the fore-yard, and bid him look along the sea to the north and east of us."
This command interrupted one of Sancho's self-glorifying discourses, and compelled him to see the order executed. When the seaman who was sent aloft, had "shinned" his way to the airy and seemingly perilous position he had been told to occupy, an inquiry went up from the deck, to demand what he beheld.
"Señor Conde," answered the fellow, "the ocean is studded with sails, in the quarter your Excellency hath named, looking like the mouth of the Tagus, at the first of a westerly wind."
"Canst thou tell them, and let me know their numbers?" called out Luis.
"By the mass, Señor," returned the man, after taking time to make his count, "I see no less than sixteen--nay, now I see another, a smaller just opening from behind a carrack of size--seventeen, I make them in all."
"Then are we in season, love!" exclaimed Luis, turning toward Mercedes with delight--"once more shall I grasp the hand of the admiral, ere he quitteth us again for Cathay. Thou seemest glad as myself, that our effort hath not failed."
"That which gladdeneth thee, Luis, is sure to gladden me," returned the bride; "where there is but one interest, there ought to be but one wish."
"Beloved--beloved Mercedes--thou wilt make me every thing thou canst desire. This heavenly disposition of thine, and this ready consenting to voyage with me, will be sure to mould me in such a way that I shall be less myself than thee."
"As yet, Luis," returned the young wife, smiling, "the change promiseth to be the other way, since thou art much likelier to make me a rover, than I to make thee a fixture of the castle of Llera."
"Thou comest not out upon the sea, Mercedes, contrary to thine own wishes?" demanded Luis, with the earnest quickness of one who was fearful he might unconsciously have done an act of indiscretion.
"No, dearest Luis; so far from it, that I have come with satisfaction, apart from the pleasure I have had in obliging thee. Fortunately, I feel no indisposition from the motion of the felucca, and the novelty is of the most agreeable and exciting kind."
To say that Luis rejoiced to hear this on more accounts than one, is but to add that he still found a pleasure in the scenes of the ocean.
In half an hour the vessel of the admiral was visible from the Ozema's deck, and ere the sun had reached the meridian, the little felucca was gliding into the centre of the fleet, holding her course toward the carrack of Columbus. The usual hailing passed, when, apprised of the presence of Mercedes, the admiral gallantly repaired on board the Ozema, to pay his respects in person. The scenes through which they had passed together, had created in Columbus a species of paternal regard for Luis, in which Mercedes shared, through the influence of her noble conduct during the events that occurred at Barcelona. He met the happy pair, therefore, with dignified affection, and his reception partook of the feelings that the count and countess so fully reciprocated.
Nothing could be more striking to one who had an opportunity of witnessing both, than the contrast between the means with which the Genoese sailed on this, and on his former voyage. Then he had set forth neglected, almost forgotten, in three vessels, ill-found, and worse manned, while now, the ocean was whitened with his canvas, and he was surrounded by no inconsiderable portion of the chivalry of Spain. As soon as it was known that the Countess of Llera was in the felucca that had stopped the fleet, boats put off from most of the vessels, and Mercedes held a sort of court on the broad Atlantic; her own female attendants, among whom were two or three of the rank of ladies, assisting her in doing proper honor to the cavaliers who thronged the deck. The balmy influence of the pure air of the ocean, contributed to the happiness of the moment; and, for an hour, the Ozema presented a scene of gaiety and splendor, such as had never before been witnessed by any person present.
"Beautiful Countess," cried one, who had been a rejected suitor of our heroine, "you see to what acts of desperation your cruelty hath driven me, who am going forth on an adventure to the furthest east. It is well for Don Luis that I did not make this venture before he won your favor; as no damsel in Spain is expected, henceforth, to withstand the suit of one of the admiral's followers."
"It may be as you say, Señor," returned Mercedes, her heart swelling with the consciousness that he whom she had chosen had made this same boasted adventure, while others shrunk from its hazard, and when its result was still a mystery in the unknown future--"It may be as you say; but one of moderate wishes, like myself, must be content with these unambitious voyages along the coast, in which, happily, a wife may be her husband's companion."
"Lady," cried the gallant and reckless Alonzo de Ojeda, in his turn, "Don Luis caused me to roll upon the earth, in the tourney, by a fair and manly effort, that hath left no rancor behind it; but I shall outdo him now, since he is content to keep the shores of Spain in view, leaving to us the glory of seeking the Indies, and of reducing the Infidels to the sway of the two sovereigns!"
"It is a sufficient honor to my husband, Señor, that he can boast of the success you name, and he must rest satisfied with the reputation acquired in that one deed."
"Countess, a year hence you would love him better, did he come forth with us, and show his spirit among the people of the Grand Khan!"
"Thou see'st, Don Alonzo, that the illustrious admiral doth not altogether despise him as it is. They seek a private interview in my cabin together; an attention Don Christopher would not be apt to pay a recreant, or a laggard." " 'Tis surprising!" resumed the rejected suitor; "the favor of the conde with our noble admiral hath surprised us all, at Barcelona. Can it be, de Ojeda, that they have met in some of their earlier nautical wanderings?"
"By the mass! Señor," cried Alonzo, laughing, "if Don Luis ever met the admiral, as he met me in the lists, I should think one interview would answer for the rest of their days!"
In this manner did the discourse proceed, some speaking in levity, some in more sober mood, and all in amity. While this was passing on deck, Columbus had, indeed, retired to a cabin with our hero.
"Don Luis," said the admiral, when they were seated near each other, and alone, "thou know'st the regard I bear thee, and I feel certain that thou returnest it with an equal degree of esteem. I now go forth from Spain, on a far more perilous adventure than that in which thou wert my companion. Then I sailed concealed in contempt, and veiled from human eyes by ignorance and pity; now, have I left the old world, followed by malignancy and envy. These facts am I too old not to have seen, and foreseen. In my absence, many will be busy with my name. Even they who now shout at my heels will become my calumniators, revenging themselves for past adulation by present detraction. The sovereigns will be beset with lies, and any disappointment in the degree of success will be distorted into crimes. I leave friends behind me, too--friends, such as Juan Perez, de St. Angel, Quintanilla, and thyself. On ye, then, do I greatly rely, not for favors, but for the interest of truth and justice."
"Señor, you may count upon my small influence under all circumstances. I have seen you in the day of trial, and it exceedeth ordinary misrepresentations to weaken my faith in you."
"This did I believe, Luis, even before it was so warmly and sincerely said," returned the admiral, squeezing the young man's hand with fervor. "I doubt if Fonseca, who hath now so much power in the affairs of India, is truly my friend. Then, there is one of thy blood and name, who hath already regarded me with unfavorable eyes, and whom I distrust exceedingly, should an occasion offer in which he might do me injury."
"I know him well, Don Christopher, and account him as doing no credit to the house of Bobadilla."
"He hath credit, nevertheless, with the king, which is of more importance, just now!"
"Ah! Señor, to that wily and double-faced monarch, you must look for nothing generous. So long as Doña Isabella's ear can be kept open to the truth, there is nothing to fear, but Don Ferdinand groweth each day more worldly and temporizing. Mass! --that one who, in youth, was so bold and manly a knight, should in his age betray so many of the meannesses that would disgrace a Moor! My noble aunt, however, is a host in herself, and will ever remain true to you, as she commenced."
"God overruleth all, and it were sinful to distrust either his wisdom or justice. And now, Luis, one word touching thyself. Providence hath made thee the guardian of the happiness of such a being as is seldom found this side the gates of heaven. The man who is blessed with a virtuous and amiable wife, like her thou hast wedded, should erect an altar in his heart, on which he ought to make daily, nay, hourly sacrifices of gratitude to God for the boon; since of all earthly blessings, he enjoyeth the richest, the purest, and the most lasting, should he not be unmindful of his own riches. But a woman like Doña Mercedes is a creature as delicate as she is rare. Let her equanimity check thy impetuosity; her purity rebuke the less refined elements of thy composition; her virtue stimulate thine own; her love keep thine in an unceasing flame, and her tenderness be a constant appeal to thy manly indulgence and protection. Fulfil all thy duties as a Spanish grandee, son, and seek felicity in the partner of thy bosom, and in love to God."
The admiral now gave Luis his blessing, and, taking leave of Mercedes in the same solemn manner, he hastened to his carrack. Boat after boat quitted the felucca, many calling out their leave-takings even after they were at a distance. In a few minutes, the heavy yards swung around, and the fleet was again sweeping off toward the south-west, holding its way, as was then fancied, toward the distant shores of India. For an hour the Ozema lay where she had been left by Columbus, as if gazing at her retiring friends; then her canvas filled, and she hauled up toward that bight of the coast, at the bottom of which lay the port of Palos de Moguer.
The afternoon was deliciously balmy, and when the felucca drew in with the land, the surface of the sea was as smooth as that of an inland lake. There was just wind enough to cool the air, and to propel the little vessel three or four knots through the water. The day apartment occupied by our hero and heroine, was on the quarter-deck. It was formed, on the exterior, by a tarpauling, bent like the tilt of a wagon, while the interior was embellished with a lining of precious stuffs that converted it into a beautiful little saloon. In front, a canvas bulkhead protected it from the gaze of the crew; and, toward the stearn a rich curtain fell, when it became necessary to shut out the view. The latter was now carelessly festooned, permitting the eye to range over a broad expanse of the ocean, and to watch the glories of the setting sun.
Mercedes reclined on a luxurious couch, gazing on the ocean, and Luis touched a guitar, seated on a stool at her feet. He had just played a favorite national air, which he had accompanied with his voice, and had laid aside the instrument, when he perceived that his young wife did not listen, with her usual fondness and admiration, to his music.
"Thou art thoughtful, Mercedes," he said, leaning forward to read the melancholy expression of those eyes that were so often glowing with enthusiasm.
"The sun is setting in the direction of the land of poor Ozema, Luis," Mercedes answered, a slight tremor pervading her voice; "the circumstance, in connection with the sight of this boundless ocean, that so much resembleth eternity, hath led me to think of her end. Surely--surely--a creature so innocent can never be consigned to eternal misery, because her unenlightened mind and impassioned feelings were unable to comprehend all the church's mysteries!"
"I would that thou thought'st less on this subject, love; thy prayers, and the masses that have been said for her soul, should content thee; or, if thou wilt, the last can be repeated, again and again."
"We will offer still more," returned the young wife, scarce speaking above her breath, while the tears fell down her cheeks. "The best of us will need masses, and _we_ owe this to poor Ozema. Didst thou bethink thee, to intercede again with the admiral, to do all service to Mattinao, on reaching Española?"
"That hath been attended to, and so dismiss the subject from thy mind. The monument is already erected at Llera, and we may feel regret for the loss of the sweet girl, but can scarce mourn for her. Were I not Luis de Bobadilla, thy husband, dearest, I could think her the subject of envy, rather than of pity."
"Ah! Luis, thy flattery is too pleasing to bring reproof, but it is scarce seemly. Even the happiness I feel, in being assured of thy love--that our fortunes, fate, name, interests are one--is, in truth, but misery, compared with the seraphic joys of the blessed; and to such joys I could wish Ozema's spirit might be elevated."
"Doubt it not, Mercedes; she hath all that her goodness and innocence can claim. Mass! If she even have half that I feel, in holding thee thus to my heart, she is no subject for grief, and thou say'st she hath, or wilt have, ten-fold more."
"Luis--Luis--speak not thus! We will have other masses said at Seville, as well as at Burgos and Salamanca."
"As thou wilt, love. Let them be said yearly, monthly, weekly, forever, or as long as the churchmen think they may have virtue."
Mercedes smiled her gratitude, and the conversation became less painful, though it continued to be melancholy. An hour passed in this manner, during which, the communion was of the sweet character that pervades the intercourse of those who love tenderly. Mercedes had already acquired a powerful command over the headlong propensities and impetuous feelings of her husband, and was gradually moulding him, unknown to herself, to be the man that was necessary to her own feelings. In this change, which was the result of influence, and not of calculation or design, she was aided by the manly qualities of our hero, which were secretly persuading him that he had now the happiness of another in his keeping, as well as his own. This is an appeal that a really generous mind seldom withstands, and far oftener produces the correction of minor faults, than any direct management, or open rebukes. Perhaps Mercedes' strongest arm, however, was her own implicit confidence in her husband's excellence, Luis feeling a desire to be that which she so evidently thought him; an opinion that his own conscience did not, in the fullest extent, corroborate.
Just as the sun had set, Sancho came to announce that he had let go the anchor.
"Here we are, Señor Conde--here we are, at last, Señora Doña Mercedes, lying off the town of Palos, and within a hundred yards of the very spot where Don Christopher and his gallant companions departed for the discovery of the Indies--God bless him a hundred-fold, and all who went with him. The boat is ready to take you to the shore, Señora; and there, if you do not find Seville, or Barcelona, cathedrals and palaces, you will find Palos, and Santa Clara, and the ship-yard-gate--three places that are, henceforth, to be more renowned than either: Palos, as having sent forth the expedition; Santa Clara, as having saved it from destruction, by vows fulfilled at its altars; and the gate, for having had the ship of the admiral built within it."
"And other great events, good Sancho!" put in the count.
"Just so, your Excellency; and for other great events. Am I to land you, lady?"
Mercedes assented, and in ten minutes she and her husband were walking on the beach, within ten yards of the very spot where Columbus and Luis had embarked the previous year. The firm sands were now covered with people, walking in the cool of the evening. Most of them were of the humbler classes, this being the only land, we believe, in which the population of countries that possess a favorable climate, do not thus mingle in their public promenades, at that witching hour.
Luis and his beautiful wife had landed merely for exercise and relaxation, well knowing that the felucca possessed better accommodations than any hosteria of Palos; and they fell into the current of the walkers. Before them was a group of young matrons, who were conversing eagerly, and sufficiently loud to be overheard. Our hero and heroine instantly ceased their own discourse, when they found that the subject was the voyage to Cathay.
"This day," said one of the party, in a tone of authority, "did Don Christopher sail from Cadiz; the sovereigns deeming Palos too small a port for the equipment of so great an enterprise. You may depend on what I tell ye, good neighbors; my husband, as you all well know, holding an appointment in the admiral's own ship."
"You are to be envied, neighbor, that he is in so good repute with so great a man!"
"How could he be otherwise, seeing that he was with him before, when few had courage to be his companions, and was ever faithful to his orders. 'Monica'--nay, it was '_good_ Monica'--said the admiral to me, with his own mouth, 'thy Pepe is a true-hearted mariner, and hath conducted to my entire satisfaction. He shall be made the boatswain of my own carrack, and thou, and thy posterity, to the latest antiquity, may boast that you belong to so good a man.' These were his words; and what he said, he did--Pepe being now a boatswain. But the _paters_ and _aves_ that I said to reach this good fortune, would pave this beach!"
Luis now stepped forward and saluted the party, making curiosity to know the particulars of the first departure, his excuse. As he expected, Monica did not recognize him in his present rich attire, and she willingly related all she knew, and not a little more. The interview showed how completely this woman had passed from despair to exultation, reducing the general and more public change of sentiment, down to the individual example of a particular case.
"I have heard much of one Pinzon," added Luis, "who went forth as pilot of a caravel in the voyage; what hath become of him?"
"Señor, he is dead!" answered a dozen voices, Monica's, however, so far getting the ascendency, as to tell the story. "He was once a great man in this quarter; but now his name is lost, like his life. He was untrue, and died of grief, it is said, when he found the Niña lying in the river, when he expected to have had all the glory to himself."
Luis had been too much engrossed with his own feelings to have heard this news before, and he continued his walk, musing and sad.
"So much for unlawful hopes, and designs that God doth not favor!" he exclaimed, when they had walked a considerable distance. "Providence hath, I think, been of the admiral's side; and certainly, my love, it hath been of mine."
"This is Santa Clara," observed Mercedes. "Luis, I would enter, and return a thanksgiving at its altars for thy safety and return, and offer a prayer for the future success of Don Christopher."
They both entered the church, and they knelt together at the principal altar; for, in that age, the bravest warriors were not as much ashamed, as in our own times, of publicly acknowledging their gratitude to, and their dependence on God. This duty performed, the happy pair returned silently to the beach, and went off to the felucca.
Early in the morning, the Ozema sailed for Malaga again, Luis being fearful he might be recognized if he continued at Palos. Their port was reached in safety; and shortly after the party arrived at Valverde, the principal estate of Mercedes, where we shall leave our hero and heroine in the enjoyment of a felicity that was as great as could be produced by the connection between manly tenderness on one side, and purity of feeling and disinterested womanly love on the other.
At a late day, there were other Luis de Bobadillas in Spain, among her gallant and noble, and other Mercedes', to cause the hearts of the gay and aspiring to ache; but there was only one Ozema. She appeared at court, in the succeeding reign, and, for a time, blazed like a star that had just risen in a pure atmosphere. Her career, however, was short, dying young and lamented; since which time, the name itself has perished. It is, in part, owing to these circumstances, that we have been obliged to drag so much of our legend from the lost records of that eventful period.
[Illustration]
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{
"id": "36406"
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1
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THE FUGITIVES
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A low hut built of turf roughly thatched with rushes and standing on the highest spot of some slightly raised ground. It was surrounded by a tangled growth of bushes and low trees, through which a narrow and winding path gave admission to the narrow space on which the hut stood. The ground sloped rapidly. Twenty yards from the house the trees ceased, and a rank vegetation of reeds and rushes took the place of the bushes, and the ground became soft and swampy. A little further pools of stagnant water appeared among the rushes, and the path abruptly stopped at the edge of a stagnant swamp, though the passage could be followed by the eye for some distance among the tall rushes. The hut, in fact, stood on a hummock in the midst of a wide swamp where the water sometimes deepened into lakes connected by sluggish streams.
On the open spaces of water herons stalked near the margin, and great flocks of wild-fowl dotted the surface. Other signs of life there were none, although a sharp eye might have detected light threads of smoke curling up here and there from spots where the ground rose somewhat above the general level. These slight elevations, however, were not visible to the eye, for the herbage here grew shorter than on the lower and wetter ground, and the land apparently stretched away for a vast distance in a dead flat--a rush-covered swamp, broken only here and there by patches of bushes and low trees.
The little hut was situated in the very heart of the fen country, now drained and cultivated, but in the year 870 untouched by the hand of man, the haunt of wild-fowl and human fugitives. At the door of the hut stood a lad some fourteen years old. His only garment was a short sleeveless tunic girded in at the waist, his arms and legs were bare; his head was uncovered, and his hair fell in masses on his shoulders. In his hand he held a short spear, and leaning against the wall of the hut close at hand was a bow and quiver of arrows. The lad looked at the sun, which was sinking towards the horizon.
"Father is late," he said. "I trust that no harm has come to him and Egbert. He said he would return to-day without fail; he said three or four days, and this is the fourth. It is dull work here alone. You think so, Wolf, don't you, old fellow? And it is worse for you than it is for me, pent up on this hummock of ground with scarce room to stretch your limbs."
A great wolf-hound, who was lying with his head between his paws by the embers of a fire in the centre of the hut, raised his head on being addressed, and uttered a low howl indicative of his agreement with his master's opinion and his disgust at his present place of abode.
"Never mind, old fellow," the boy continued, "we sha'n't be here long, I hope, and then you shall go with me in the woods again and hunt the wolves to your heart's content." The great hound gave a lazy wag of his tail. "And now, Wolf, I must go. You lie here and guard the hut while I am away. Not that you are likely to have any strangers to call in my absence."
The dog rose and stretched himself, and followed his master down the path until it terminated at the edge of the water. Here he gave a low whimper as the lad stepped in and waded through the water; then turning he walked back to the hut and threw himself down at the door. The boy proceeded for some thirty or forty yards through the water, then paused and pushed aside the wall of rushes which bordered the passage, and pulled out a boat which was floating among them.
It was constructed of osier rods neatly woven together into a sort of basket-work, and covered with an untanned hide with the hairy side in. It was nearly oval in shape, and resembled a great bowl some three feet and a half wide and a foot longer. A broad paddle with a long handle lay in it, and the boy, getting into it and standing erect in the middle paddled down the strip of water which a hundred yards further opened out into a broad half a mile long and four or five hundred yards wide. Beyond moving slowly away as the coracle approached them, the water-fowl paid but little heed to its appearance.
The boy paddled to the end of the broad, whence a passage, through which flowed a stream so sluggish that its current could scarce be detected, led into the next sheet of water. Across the entrance to this passage floated some bundles of light rushes. These the boy drew out one by one. Attached to each was a piece of cord which, being pulled upon, brought to the surface a large cage, constructed somewhat on the plan of a modern eel or lobster pot. They were baited by pieces of dead fish, and from them the boy extracted half a score of eels and as many fish of different kinds.
"Not a bad haul," he said as he lowered the cages to the bottom again. "Now let us see what we have got in our pen."
He paddled a short way along the broad to a point where a little lane of water ran up through the rushes. This narrowed rapidly and the lad got out from his boat into the water, as the coracle could proceed no further between the lines of rushes. The water was knee-deep and the bottom soft and oozy. At the end of the creek it narrowed until the rushes were but a foot apart. They were bent over here, as it would seem to a superficial observer naturally; but a close examination would show that those facing each other were tied together where they crossed at a distance of a couple of feet above the water, forming a sort of tunnel. Two feet farther on this ceased, and the rushes were succeeded by lines of strong osier withies, an inch or two apart, arched over and fastened together. At this point was a sort of hanging door formed of rushes backed with osiers, and so arranged that at the slightest push from without the door lifted and enabled a wild-fowl to pass under, but dropping behind it prevented its exit. The osier tunnel widened out to a sort of inverted basket three feet in diameter.
On the surface of the creek floated some grain which had been scattered there the evening before as a bait. The lad left the creek before he got to the narrower part, and, making a small circuit in the swamp, came down upon the pen.
"Good!" he said, "I am in luck to-day; here are three fine ducks."
Bending the yielding osiers aside, he drew out the ducks one by one, wrung their necks, and passing their heads through his girdle, made his way again to the coracle. Then he scattered another handful or two of grain on the water, sparingly near the mouth of the creek, but more thickly at the entrance to the trap, and then paddled back again by the way he had come.
Almost noiselessly as he dipped the paddle in the water, the hound's quick ear had caught the sound, and he was standing at the edge of the swamp, wagging his tail in dignified welcome as his master stepped on to dry land.
"There, Wolf, what do you think of that? A good score of eels and fish and three fine wild ducks. That means bones for you with your meal to-night--not to satisfy your hunger, you know, for they would not be of much use in that way, but to give a flavour to your supper. Now let us make the fire up and pluck the birds, for I warrant me that father and Egbert, if they return this evening, will be sharp-set. There are the cakes to bake too, so you see there is work for the next hour or two."
The sun had set now, and the flames, dancing up as the boy threw an armful of dry wood on the fire, gave the hut a more cheerful appearance. For some time the lad busied himself with preparation for supper. The three ducks were plucked in readiness for putting over the fire should they be required; cakes of coarse rye-flour were made and placed in the red ashes of the fire; and then the lad threw himself down by the side of the dog.
"No, Wolf, it is no use your looking at those ducks. I am not going to roast them if no one comes; I have got half a one left from dinner." After sitting quiet for half an hour the dog suddenly raised himself into a sitting position, with ears erect and muzzle pointed towards the door; then he gave a low whine, and his tail began to beat the ground rapidly.
"What! do you hear them, old fellow?" the boy said, leaping to his feet. "I wish my ears were as sharp as yours are, Wolf; there would be no fear then of being caught asleep. Come on, old boy, let us go and meet them."
It was some minutes after he reached the edge of the swamp before the boy could hear the sounds which the quick ears of the hound had detected. Then he heard a faint splashing noise, and a minute or two later two figures were seen wading through the water.
"Welcome back, father," the lad cried. "I was beginning to be anxious about you, for here we are at the end of the fourth day."
"I did not name any hour, Edmund," the boy's father said, as he stepped from the water, "but I own that I did not reckon upon being so late; but in truth Egbert and I missed our way in the windings of these swamps, and should not have been back to-night had we not luckily fallen upon a man fishing, who was able to put us right. You have got some supper, I hope, for Egbert and I are as hungry as wolves, for we have had nothing since we started before sunrise."
"I have plenty to eat, father; but you will have to wait till it is cooked, for it was no use putting it over the fire until I knew that you would return; but there is a good fire, and you will not have to wait long. And how has it fared with you, and what is the news?"
"The news is bad, Edmund. The Danes are ever receiving reinforcements from Mercia, and scarce a day passes but fresh bands arrive at Thetford, and I fear that ere long East Anglia, like Northumbria, will fall into their clutches. Nay, unless we soon make head against them they will come to occupy all the island, just as did our forefathers."
"That were shame indeed," Edmund exclaimed. "We know that the people conquered by our ancestors were unwarlike and cowardly; but it would be shame indeed were we Saxons so to be overcome by the Danes, seeing moreover that we have the help of God, being Christians, while the Danes are pagans and idolaters."
"Nevertheless, my son, for the last five years these heathen have been masters of Northumbria, have wasted the whole country, and have plundered and destroyed the churches and monasteries. At present they have but made a beginning here in East Anglia; but if they continue to flock in they will soon overrun the whole country, instead of having, as at present, a mere foothold near the rivers except for those who have come down to Thetford. We have been among the first sufferers, seeing that our lands lie round Thetford, and hitherto I have hoped that there would be a general rising against these invaders; but the king is indolent and unwarlike, and I see that he will not arouse himself and call his ealdormen and thanes together for a united effort until it is too late. Already from the north the Danes are flocking down into Mercia, and although the advent of the West Saxons to the aid of the King of Mercia forced them to retreat for a while, I doubt not that they will soon pour down again." " 'Tis a pity, father, that the Saxons are not all under one leading; then we might surely defend England against the Danes. If the people did but rise and fall upon each band of Northmen as they arrived they would get no footing among us."
"Yes," the father replied, "it is the unhappy divisions between the Saxon kingdoms which have enabled the Danes to get so firm a footing in the land. Our only hope now lies in the West Saxons. Until lately they were at feud with Mercia; but the royal families are now related by marriage, seeing that the King of Mercia is wedded to a West Saxon princess, and that Alfred, the West Saxon king's brother and heir to the throne, has lately espoused one of the royal blood of Mercia. The fact that they marched at the call of the King of Mercia and drove the Danes from Nottingham shows that the West Saxon princes are alive to the common danger of the country, and if they are but joined heartily by our people of East Anglia and the Mercians, they may yet succeed in checking the progress of these heathen. And now, Edmund, as we see no hope of any general effort to drive the Danes off our coasts, 'tis useless for us to lurk here longer. I propose to-morrow, then, to journey north into Lincolnshire, to the Abbey of Croyland, where, as you know, my brother Theodore is the abbot; there we can rest in peace for a time, and watch the progress of events. If we hear that the people of these parts are aroused from their lethargy, we will come back and fight for our home and lands; if not, I will no longer stay in East Anglia, which I see is destined to fall piecemeal into the hands of the Danes; but we will journey down to Somerset, and I will pray King Ethelbert to assign me lands there, and to take me as his thane."
While they had been thus talking Egbert had been broiling the eels and wild ducks over the fire. He was a freeman, and a distant relation of Edmund's father, Eldred, who was an ealdorman in West Norfolk, his lands lying beyond Thetford, and upon whom, therefore, the first brunt of the Danish invasion from Mercia had fallen. He had made a stout resistance, and assembling his people had given battle to the invaders. These, however, were too strong and numerous, and his force having been scattered and dispersed, he had sought refuge with Egbert and his son in the fen country. Here he had remained for two months in hopes that some general effort would be made to drive back the Danes; but being now convinced that at present the Angles were too disunited to join in a common effort, he determined to retire for a while from the scene.
"I suppose, father," Edmund said, "you will leave your treasures buried here?"
"Yes," his father replied; "we have no means of transporting them, and we can at any time return and fetch them. We must dig up the big chest and take such garments as we may need, and the personal ornaments of our rank; but the rest, with the gold and silver vessels, can remain here till we need them."
Gold and silver vessels seem little in accordance with the primitive mode of life prevailing in the ninth century. The Saxon civilization was indeed a mixed one. Their mode of life was primitive, their dwellings, with the exception of the religious houses and the abodes of a few of the great nobles, simple in the extreme; but they possessed vessels of gold and silver, armlets, necklaces, and ornaments of the same metals, rich and brightly coloured dresses, and elaborate bed furniture while their tables and household utensils were of the roughest kind, and their floors strewn with rushes. When they invaded and conquered England they found existing the civilization introduced by the Romans, which was far in advance of their own; much of this they adopted. The introduction of Christianity further advanced them in the scale.
The prelates and monks from Rome brought with them a high degree of civilization, and this to no small extent the Saxons imitated and borrowed. The church was held in much honour, great wealth and possessions were bestowed upon it, and the bishops and abbots possessed large temporal as well as spiritual power, and bore a prominent part in the councils of the kingdoms. But even in the handsome and well-built monasteries, with their stately services and handsome vestments, learning was at the lowest ebb--so low, indeed, that when Prince Alfred desired to learn Latin he could find no one in his father's dominions capable of teaching him, and his studies were for a long time hindered for want of an instructor, and at the time he ascended the throne he was probably the only Englishman outside a monastery who was able to read and write fluently.
"Tell me, father," Edmund said after the meal was concluded, "about the West Saxons, since it is to them, as it seems, that we must look for the protection of England against the Danes. This Prince Alfred, of whom I before heard you speak in terms of high praise, is the brother, is he not, of the king? In that case how is it that he does not reign in Kent, which I thought, though joined to the West Saxon kingdom, was always ruled over by the eldest son of the king."
"Such has been the rule, Edmund; but seeing the troubled times when Ethelbert came to the throne, it was thought better to unite the two kingdoms under one crown with the understanding that at Ethelbert's death Alfred should succeed him. Their father, Ethelwulf, was a weak king, and should have been born a churchman rather than a prince. He nominally reigned over Wessex, Kent, and Mercia, but the last paid him but a slight allegiance. Alfred was his favourite son, and he sent him, when quite a child, to Rome for a visit. In 855 he himself, with a magnificent retinue, and accompanied by Alfred, visited Rome, travelling through the land of the Franks, and it was there, doubtless, that Alfred acquired that love of learning, and many of those ideas, far in advance of his people, which distinguish him. His mother, Osburgha, died before he and his father started on the pilgrimage. The king was received with much honour by the pope, to whom he presented a gold crown of four pounds weight, ten dishes of the purest gold, a sword richly set in gold, two gold images, some silver-gilt urns, stoles bordered with gold and purple, white silken robes embroidered with figures, and other costly articles of clothing for the celebration of the service of the church, together with rich presents in gold and silver to the churches, bishops, clergy, and other dwellers in Rome. They say that the people of Rome marvelled much at these magnificent gifts from a king of a country which they had considered as barbarous. On his way back he married Judith, daughter of the King of the Franks; a foolish marriage, for the king was far advanced in years and Judith was but a girl.
"Ethelbald, Ethelwulf's eldest son, had acted as regent in his father's absence, and so angered was he at this marriage that he raised his standard of revolt against his father. At her marriage Judith had been crowned queen, and this was contrary to the customs of the West Saxons, therefore Ethelbald was supported by the people of that country; on his father's return to England, however, father and son met, and a division of the kingdom was agreed upon.
"Ethelbald received Wessex, the principal part of the kingdom, and Ethelwulf took Kent, which he had already ruled over in the time of his father Egbert. Ethelwulf died a few months afterwards, leaving Kent to Ethelbert, his second surviving son. The following year, to the horror and indignation of the people of the country, Ethelbald married his stepmother Judith, but two years afterwards died, and Ethelbert, King of Kent, again united Wessex to his own dominions, which consisted of Kent, Surrey, and Sussex. Ethelbert reigned but a short time, and at his death Ethelred, his next brother, ascended the throne. Last year Alfred, the youngest brother, married Elswitha, the daughter of Ethelred Mucil, Earl of the Gaini, in Lincolnshire, whose mother was one of the royal family of Mercia.
"It was but a short time after the marriage that the Danes poured into Mercia from the north. Messengers were sent to ask the assistance of the West Saxons. These at once obeyed the summons, and, joining the Mercians, marched against the Danes, who shut themselves up in the strong city of Nottingham, and were there for some time besieged. The place was strong, the winter at hand, and the time of the soldiers' service nearly expired. A treaty was accordingly made by which the Danes were allowed to depart unharmed to the north side of the Humber, and the West Saxons returned to their kingdom.
"Such is the situation at present, but we may be sure that the Danes will not long remain quiet, but will soon gather for another invasion; ere long, too, we may expect another of their great fleets to arrive somewhere off these coasts, and every Saxon who can bear arms had need take the field to fight for our country and faith against these heathen invaders. Hitherto, Edmund, as you know, I have deeply mourned the death of your mother, and of your sisters who died in infancy; but now I feel that it is for the best, for a terrible time is before us. We men can take refuge in swamp and forest, but it would have been hard for delicate women; and those men are best off who stand alone and are able to give every thought and energy to the defence of their country. 'Tis well that you are now approaching an age when the Saxon youth are wont to take their place in the ranks of battle. I have spared no pains with your training in arms, and though assuredly you lack strength yet to cope in hand-to-hand conflict with these fierce Danes, you may yet take your part in battle, with me on one side of you and Egbert on the other. I have thought over many things of late, and it seems to me that we Saxons have done harm in holding the people of this country as serfs."
"Why, father," Edmund exclaimed in astonishment, "surely you would not have all men free and equal."
"The idea seems strange to you, no doubt, Edmund, and it appears only natural that some men should be born to rule and others to labour, but this might be so even without serfdom, since, as you know, the poorer freemen labour just as do the serfs, only they receive a somewhat larger guerdon for their toil; but had the two races mixed more closely together, had serfdom been abolished and all men been free and capable of bearing arms, we should have been able to show a far better front to the Danes, seeing that the serfs are as three to one to the freemen."
"But the serfs are cowardly and spiritless," Edmund said; "they are not of a fighting race, and fell almost without resistance before our ancestors when they landed here."
"Their race is no doubt inferior to our own, Edmund," his father said, "seeing that they are neither so tall nor so strong as we Saxons, but of old they were not deficient in bravery, for they fought as stoutly against the Romans as did our own hardy ancestors. After having been for hundreds of years subject to the Roman yoke, and having no occasion to use arms, they lost their manly virtues, and when the Romans left them were an easy prey for the first comer. Our fathers could not foresee that the time would come when they too in turn would be invaded. Had they done so, methinks they would not have set up so broad a line of separation between themselves and the Britons, but would have admitted the latter to the rights of citizenship, in which case intermarriage would have taken place freely, and the whole people would have become amalgamated. The Britons, accustomed to our free institutions, and taking part in the wars between the various Saxon kingdoms, would have recovered their warlike virtues, and it would be as one people that we should resist the Danes. As it is, the serfs, who form by far the largest part of the population, are apathetic and cowardly; they view the struggle with indifference, for what signifies to them whether Dane or Saxon conquer; they have no interest in the struggle, nothing to lose or to gain, it is but a change of masters."
Edmund was silent. The very possibility of a state of things in which there should be no serfs, and when all men should be free and equal, had never occurred to him; but he had a deep respect for his father, who bore indeed the reputation of being one of the wisest and most clear-headed of the nobles of East Anglia, and it seemed to him that this strange and novel doctrine contained much truth in it. Still the idea was as strange to him as it would have been to the son of a southern planter in America half a century ago. The existence of slaves seemed as much a matter of course as that of horses or dogs, and although he had been accustomed to see from time to time freedom bestowed upon some favourite serf as a special reward for services, the thought of a general liberation of the slaves was strange and almost bewildering, and he lay awake puzzling over the problem long after his father and kinsman had fallen asleep.
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{
"id": "3674"
}
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2
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THE BATTLE OF KESTEVEN
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The following morning early the little party started. The great chest was dug up from its place of concealment, and they resumed their ordinary dresses. The ealdorman attired himself in a white tunic with a broad purple band round the lower edge, with a short cloak of green cloth. This was fastened with a gold brooch at the neck; a necklet of the same metal and several gold bracelets completed his costume, except that he wore a flat cap and sandals. Edmund had a green tunic and cloak of deep red colour; while Egbert was dressed in yellow with a green cloak--the Saxons being extremely fond of bright colours.
All wore daggers, whose sheaths were incrusted in silver, in their belts, and the ealdorman and his kinsman carried short broad-bladed swords, while Edmund had his boar-spear. Eldred placed in the pouch which hung at his side a bag containing a number of silver cubes cut from a long bar and roughly stamped. The chest was then buried again in its place of concealment among the bushes near the hut, Edmund placed his bows and arrows in the boat--not that in which Edmund had fished, but the much larger and heavier craft which Eldred and Egbert had used--and then the party, with the hound, took their places in it. The ealdorman and Egbert were provided with long poles, and with these they sent the little boat rapidly through the water.
After poling their way for some eight hours they reached the town of Norwich, to which the Danes had not yet penetrated; here, procuring what articles they needed, they proceeded on their journey to Croyland, making a great circuit to avoid the Danes at Thetford. The country was for the most part covered with thick forests, where the wild boar and deer roamed undisturbed by man, and where many wolves still lurked, although the number in the country had been greatly diminished by the energetic measures which King Egbert had taken for the destruction of these beasts. Their halting-places were for the most part at religious houses, which then served the purpose of inns for travellers, being freely opened to those whom necessity or pleasure might cause to journey. Everywhere they found the monks in a state of alarm at the progress of the Danes, who, wherever they went, destroyed the churches and religious houses, and slew the monks.
Eldred was everywhere received with marked honour; being known as a wise and valiant noble, his opinions on the chances of the situation were eagerly listened to, and he found the monks at all their halting-places prepared, if need be, to take up arms and fight the pagan invaders, as those of Mercia and Wessex had done in the preceding autumn. The travellers, on arriving at Croyland, were warmly welcomed.
"I heard, brother," the abbot said, "that you had bravely fought against the Danes near Thetford, and have been sorely anxious since the news came of the dispersal of your force."
"I have been in hiding," Eldred said, "hoping that a general effort would be made against the invaders. My own power was broken, since all my lands are in their hands. The people of East Anglia foolishly seem to suppose that, so long as the Danes remain quiet, the time has not come for action. They will repent their lethargy some day, for, as the Danes gather in strength, they will burst out over the surrounding country as a dammed-up river breaks its banks. No, brother, I regard East Anglia as lost so far as depends upon itself; its only hope is in the men of Kent and Wessex, whom we must now look upon as our champions, and who may yet stem the tide of invasion and drive back the Danes. This abbey of yours stands in a perilous position, being not far removed from the Humber, where so many of the Danes find entrance to England."
"It is not without danger, Eldred, but the men of the fens are numerous, hardy and brave, and will offer a tough resistance to any who may venture to march hitherward, and if, as I hope, you will stay with us, and will undertake their command, we may yet for a long time keep the Danes from our doors."
For some weeks the time passed quietly. Edmund spent most of his time in hunting, being generally accompanied by Egbert. The Saxon was an exceedingly tall and powerful man, slow and scanty of speech, who had earned for himself the title of Egbert the Silent. He was devoted to his kinsmen and regarded himself as special guardian of Edmund. He had instructed him in the use of arms, and always accompanied him when he went out to hunt the boar, standing ever by his side to aid him to receive the rush of the wounded and furious beasts; and more than once, when Edmund had been borne down by their onslaughts, and would have been severely wounded, if not killed, a sweeping blow of Egbert's sword had rid him of his assailant.
Sometimes Edmund made excursions in the fens, where with nets and snares he caught the fish which swarmed in the sluggish waters; or, having covered his boat with a leafy bower until it resembled a floating bush, drifted close to the flocks of wild-fowl, and with his bow and arrows obtained many a plump wild duck. Smaller birds were caught in snares or traps, or with bird-lime smeared on twigs. Eldred seldom joined his son in his hunting excursions, as he was busied with his brother the abbot in concerting the measures of defence and in organizing a band of messengers, who, on the first warning of danger, could be despatched throughout the fens to call in the fisher population to the defence of the abbey.
It was on the 18th of September, 870, that a messenger arrived at the abbey and craved instant speech with the prior. The latter, who was closeted with his brother, ordered the man to be admitted.
"I come," he said, "from Algar the ealdorman. He bids me tell you that a great Danish host has landed from the Humber at Lindsay. The rich monastery of Bardenay has been pillaged and burned. Algar is assembling all the inhabitants of the marsh lands to give them battle, and he prays you to send what help you can spare, for assuredly they will march hither should he be defeated."
"Return to the ealdorman," the abbot said; "tell him that every lay brother and monk who can bear arms shall march hence to join him under the command of lay brother Toley, whose deeds of arms against the Danes in Mercia are well known to him. My brother here, Eldred, will head all the inhabitants of the marshes of this neighbourhood. With these and the brothers of the abbey, in all, as I reckon, nigh four hundred men, he will to-morrow march to join Algar."
Messengers were at once sent off through the surrounding country bidding every man assemble on the morrow morning at Croyland, and soon after daybreak they began to arrive. Some were armed with swords, some with long sickles, used in cutting rushes, tied to poles, some had fastened long pieces of iron to oars to serve as pikes. They were a rough and somewhat ragged throng, but Eldred saw with satisfaction that they were a hard and sturdy set of men, accustomed to fatigue and likely to stand firm in the hour of battle.
Most of them carried shields made of platted osiers covered with skin. The armoury of the abbey was well supplied, and swords and axes were distributed among the worst armed of the fenmen. Then, with but little order or regularity, but with firm and cheerful countenances, as men determined to win or die, the band moved off under Eldred's command, followed by the contingent of the abbey, eighty strong, under lay brother Toley.
A sturdy band were these monks, well fed and vigorous. They knew that they had no mercy to expect from the Danes, and, regarding them as pagans and enemies of their religion as well as of their country, could be trusted to do their utmost. Late that evening they joined Algar at the place they had appointed, and found that a large number of the people of the marshes had gathered round his banner.
The Danes had not moved as yet from Bardenay, and Algar determined to wait for another day or two before advancing, in order to give time to others farther from the scene of action to arrive.
The next day came the contingents from several other priories and abbeys, and the sight of the considerable force gathered together gave heart and confidence to all. Algar, Eldred, and the other leaders, Morcar, Osgot, and Harding, moved about among the host, encouraging them with cheering words, warning them to be in no way intimidated by the fierce appearance of the Danes, but to hold steadfast and firm in the ranks, and to yield no foot of ground to the onslaught of the enemy. Many priests had accompanied the contingents from the religious houses, and these added their exhortations to those of the leaders, telling the men that God would assuredly fight on their side against the heathen, and bidding each man remember that defeat meant the destruction of their churches and altars, the overthrow of their whole religion, and the restored worship of the pagan gods.
Edmund went about among the gathering taking great interest in the wild scene, for these marsh men differed much in their appearance from the settled inhabitants of his father's lands. The scenes in the camp were indeed varied in their character. Here and there were harpers with groups of listeners gathered round, as they sung the exploits of their fathers, and animated their hearers to fresh fire and energy by relating legends of the cruelty of the merciless Danes. Other groups there were surrounding the priests, who were appealing to their religious feelings as well as to their patriotism.
Men sat about sharpening their weapons, fixing on more firmly the handles of their shields, adjusting arrows to bowstrings, and preparing in other ways for the coming fight. From some of the fires, round which the marsh men were sitting, came snatches of boisterous song, while here and there, apart from the crowd, priests were hearing confessions, and shriving penitents.
The next morning early, one of the scouts, who had been sent to observe the movements of the Danes, reported that these were issuing from their camp, and advancing into the country.
Algar marshalled his host, each part under its leaders, and moved to meet them. Near Kesteven the armies came in sight of each other, and after advancing until but a short distance apart both halted to marshal their ranks anew. Eldred, with the men of the marshes near Croyland and the contingent from the abbey, had their post in the central division, which was commanded by Algar himself, Edmund took post by his father, and Egbert stood beside him.
Edmund had never before seen the Danes, and he could not but admit that their appearance was enough to shake the stoutest heart. All carried great shields covering them from head to foot. These were composed of wood, bark, or leather painted or embossed, and in the cases of the chiefs plated with gold and silver. So large were these that in naval encounters, if the fear of falling into the enemy's hands forced them to throw themselves into the sea, they could float on their shields; and after death in battle a soldier was carried to his grave on his buckler. As they stood facing the Saxons they locked their shields together so as to form a barrier well-nigh impregnable against the arrows.
All wore helmets, the common men of leather, the leaders of iron or copper, while many in addition wore coats of mail. Each carried a sword, a battle-axe, and a bow and arrows. Some of the swords were short and curled like a scimitar; others were long and straight, and were wielded with both hands. They wore their hair long and hanging down their shoulders, and for the most part shaved their cheeks and chins, but wore their moustaches very long.
They were, for the most, tall, lithe, and sinewy men, but physically in no way superior to the Saxons, from whom they differed very widely in complexion, the Saxons being fair while the Danes were very dark, as much so as modern gypsies; indeed, the Saxon historians speak of them as the black pagans. Upon the other hand many of the Northmen, being Scandinavians, were as fair as the Saxons themselves.
The Danes began the battle, those in front shouting fiercely, and striking their swords on their shields with a clashing noise, while the ranks behind shot a shower of arrows among the Saxons. These at once replied. The combat was not continued long at a distance, for the Danes with a mighty shout rushed upon the Saxons. These stood their ground firmly and a desperate conflict ensued. The Saxon chiefs vied with each other in acts of bravery, and singling out the leaders of the Danes engaged with them in hand-to-hand conflict.
Algar had placed his swordsmen in the front line, those armed with spears in the second; and as the swordsmen battled with the Danes the spearmen, when they saw a shield uplifted to guard the head, thrust under with their weapons and slew many. Edmund, seeing that with his sword he should have but little chance against these fierce soldiers, fell a little behind his father and kinsman, and as these were engaged with the enemy he from time to time, when he saw an opportunity, rushed in and delivered a thrust with his spear at an unguarded point. The Saxon shouts rose louder and louder as the Danes in vain endeavoured to break through their line. The monks fought stoutly, and many a fierce Norseman fell before their blows.
The Danes, who had not expected so firm a resistance, began to hesitate, and Algar giving the word, the Saxons took the offensive, and the line pressed forward step by step. The archers poured their arrows in a storm among the Danish ranks. These fell back before the onslaught. Already three of their kings and many of their principal leaders had fallen, and at last, finding themselves unable to withstand the impetuous onslaught of the Saxons, they turned and fled in confusion towards their camp. The Saxons with exulting shouts pursued them, and great numbers were slaughtered. The Danes had, however, as was their custom, fortified the camp before advancing, and Algar drew off his troops, deeming that it would be better to defer the attack on this position until the following day.
There was high feasting in the Saxon camp that evening, but this was brought to an abrupt conclusion by the arrival of a scout, who reported that a great Danish army marching from the Humber was approaching the camp of the compatriots. The news was but too true. The kings Guthorn, Bergsecg, Oskytal, Halfdene, and Amund, and the Jarls Frene, Hingwar, Hubba, and the two Sidrocs, with all their followers, had marched down from Yorkshire to join the invaders who had just landed.
The news of this immense reinforcement spread consternation among the Angles. In vain their leaders went about among them and exhorted them to courage, promising them another victory as decisive as that they had won that day. Their entreaties were in vain, for when the morning dawned it was found that three-fourths of their number had left the camp during the night, and had made off to the marshes and fastnesses.
A council of the chiefs was held. The chances of conflict appeared hopeless, so vastly were they out-numbered by the Danes. Algar, however, declared that he would die rather than retreat.
"If we fly now," he said, "all East Anglia will fall into the hands of the heathen. Even should we fight and fall, the example of what a handful of brave men can do against the invaders will surely animate the Angles to further resistance; while if we conquer, so great a blow will be dealt to the renown of these Danes that all England will rise against them."
On hearing these words all the chiefs came to the determination to win or die as they stood. Eldred took Edmund aside after this determination had been arrived at.
"My son," he said, "I allowed you yesterday to stand by my side in battle, and well and worthily did you bear yourself, but to-day you must withdraw. The fight is well-nigh hopeless, and I believe that all who take part in it are doomed to perish. I would not that my house should altogether disappear, and shall die more cheerfully in the hope that some day you will avenge me upon these heathen. Therefore, Edmund, I bid you take station at a distance behind the battle, so that when you see the day goes against us you may escape in time. I shall urge our faithful Egbert to endeavour, when he sees that all is lost, to make his way from the fight and rejoin you, and to journey with you to Wessex and there present you to the king. For myself, if the battle is lost I shall die rather than fly. Such is the resolution of Algar and our other brave chiefs, and Eldred the ealdorman must not be the only one of the leaders to run from the fray."
Edmund was deeply touched at his father's words, but the parental rule was so strict in those days that it did not even enter his mind to protest against Eldred's decision.
As the morning went on the Danes were engaged in the funeral ceremonies of their dead kings, while the Saxons, quiet and resolute, received the holy sacrament and prepared for the fight. Algar chose a position on rising ground. He himself with Eldred commanded the centre, Toley and Morcar led the right wing, Osgot and Harding the left.
Each of these wings contained about five hundred men. Algar's centre, which was a little withdrawn from its wings, contained about 200 of his best warriors, and was designed as a reserve, with which, if need be, he could move to the assistance of either of the wings which might be sorely pressed and in danger. The Saxons formed in a solid mass with their bucklers linked together. The Danish array which issued out from their camp was vastly superior in numbers, and was commanded by four kings and eight jarls or earls, while two kings and four earls remained in charge of the camp, and of the great crowd of prisoners, for the most part women and children, whom they had brought with them.
With the Danes who had come down from Yorkshire were a large body of horsemen, who charged furiously down upon the Saxons; but these maintained so firm an array with their lances and spears projecting outward that the Danes failed to break through them, and after making repeated efforts and suffering heavy loss they drew back. Then the Danish archers and slingers poured in a storm of missiles, but these effected but little harm, as the Saxons stooped a little behind their closely packed line of bucklers, which were stout enough to keep out the shower of arrows. All day the struggle continued. Again and again the Danes strove to break the solid Saxon array, and with sword and battle-axe attempted to hew down the hedge of spears, but in vain. At last their leaders, convinced that they could not overcome the obstinacy of the resistance, ordered their followers to feign a retreat.
As the Danes turned to fly the Saxons set up a triumphant shout, and breaking up their solid phalanx rushed after them in complete disorder. In vain Algar, Osgot, Toley, Eldred, and the other leaders shouted to them to stand firm. Weary of their long inactivity, and convinced that the Danes were routed, the Saxons pursued them across the plain. Suddenly the Danish horse, who after failing to break through the ranks had remained apart at a short distance from the conflict, dashed down upon the disordered Saxons, while the flying infantry turning round also fell upon them with exulting shouts.
Taken wholly by surprise, confused and disordered, the Saxons could offer no effectual opposition to the charge. The Danish horse rode among them hewing and slaying, and the swords and battle-axes of the footmen completed the work. In a few minutes of all the Saxon band which had for so many hours successfully resisted the onslaught of the Danes, not one survived save a few fleet-footed young men who, throwing away their arms, succeeded in making their escape, and a little group, consisting of Algar, Toley, Eldred, and the other leaders who had gathered together when their men broke their ranks and had taken up their position on a knoll of ground rising above the plain. Here for a long time they resisted the efforts of the whole of the Danes, surrounding themselves with a heap of slain; but at length one by one they succumbed to the Danish onslaught, each fighting valiantly to the last.
From his position at a distance Edmund watched the last desperate struggle. With streaming eyes and a heart torn by anxiety for his father he could see the Danish foe swarming round the little band who defended the crest. These were lost from his sight, and only the flashing of swords showed where the struggle was still going on in the centre of the confused mass. Edmund had been on his knees for some time, but he now rose.
"Come, old boy," he said to the hound, who lay beside him watching the distant conflict and occasionally uttering deep angry growls. "I must obey my father's last command; let us away."
He took one more glance at the distant conflict before turning. It was plain that it was nearly finished. The swords had well-nigh ceased to rise and fall when he saw a sudden movement in the throng of Danes and suddenly a man burst out from them and started at headlong speed towards him, pursued by a number of Danes. Even at that distance Edmund thought that he recognized the tall figure of his kinsman, but he had no time to assure himself of this, and he at once, accompanied by the hound, set off at the top of his speed from the field of battle. He had fully a quarter of a mile start, and being active and hardy and accustomed to exercise from his childhood, he had no fear that the Danes would overtake him. Still he ran his hardest.
Looking over his shoulder from time to time he saw that at first the Danes who were pursuing the fugitive were gaining upon him also, but after a time he again increased the distance, while, being unencumbered with shield or heavy weapons, the fugitive kept the advantage he had at first gained. Three miles from the battle-field Edmund reached the edge of a wide-spreading wood. Looking round as he entered its shelter he saw that the flying Saxon was still about a quarter of a mile behind him, and that the Danes, despairing of over-taking him, had ceased their pursuit. Edmund therefore checked his footsteps and awaited the arrival of the fugitive, who he now felt certain was his kinsman.
In a few minutes Egbert came up, having slackened his speed considerably when he saw that he was no longer pursued. He was bleeding from several wounds, and now that the necessity for exertion had passed he walked but feebly along. Without a word he flung himself on the ground by Edmund and buried his face in his arms, and the lad could see by the shaking of his broad shoulders that he was weeping bitterly. The great hound walked up to the prostrate figure and gave vent to a long and piteous howl, and then lying down by Egbert's side placed his head on his shoulder.
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{
"id": "3674"
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3
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THE MASSACRE AT CROYLAND
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Edmund wept sorely for some time, for he knew that his kinsman's agitation could be only caused by the death of his father. At last he approached Egbert.
"My brave kinsman," he said, "I need ask you no questions, for I know but too well that my dear father has fallen; but rouse yourself, I pray you; let me bandage your wounds, which bleed fast, for you will want all your strength, and we must needs pursue our way well into the forest, for with to-morrow's dawn the Danes will scatter over the whole country."
"Yes," Egbert said, turning round and sitting up, "I must not in my grief forget my mission, and in truth I am faint with loss of blood. It was well the Danes stopped when they did, for I felt my strength failing me, and could have held out but little further. Yes, Edmund," he continued, as the lad, tearing strips from his garments, proceeded to bandage his wounds, "your father is dead. Nobly, indeed, did he fight; nobly did he die, with a circle of dead Danes around him. He, Algar, Toley, and myself were the last four to resist. Back to back we stood, and many were the Danes who fell before our blows. Toley fell first and then Algar. The Danes closed closer around us. Still we fought on, till your father was beaten to his knee, and then he cried to me, 'Fly, Egbert, to my son.' Then I flung myself upon the Danes like a wild boar upon the dogs, and with the suddenness of my rush and the heavy blows of my battle-axe cut a way for myself through them. It was well-nigh a miracle, and I could scarce believe it when I was free. I flung away my shield and helmet as soon as I had well begun to run, for I felt the blood gushing out from a dozen wounds, and knew that I should want all my strength. I soon caught sight of you running ahead of me. Had I found we were gaining upon you I should have turned off and made another way to lead the Danes aside, but I soon saw that you were holding your own, and so followed straight on. My knees trembled, and I felt my strength was well-nigh gone, when, looking round, I found the Danes had desisted from their pursuit. I grieve, Edmund, that I should have left the battle alive when all the others have died bravely, for, save a few fleet-footed youths, I believe that not a single Saxon has escaped the fight; but your father had laid his commands upon me, and I was forced to obey, though God knows I would rather have died with the heroes on that field." " 'Tis well for me that you did not, my good Egbert," Edmund said, drying his eyes, "for what should I have done in this troubled land without one protector?"
"It was the thought of that," Egbert said, "that seemed to give me strength as I dashed at the Danes. And now, methinks, I am strong enough to walk again. Let us make our way far into the forest, then we must rest for the night. A few hours' sleep will make a fresh man of me, and to-morrow morning we will go to Croyland and see what the good abbot your uncle proposes to do, then will we to the hut where we dwelt before coming hither. We will dig up the chest and take out such valuables as we can carry, and then make for Wessex. After this day's work I have no longer any hope that East Anglia will successfully oppose the Danes. And yet the Angles fought well, and for every one of them who has fallen in these two days' fighting at least four Danes must have perished. Have you food, Edmund, for in truth after such a day's work I would not lie down supperless?"
"I have in my pouch here, Egbert, some cakes, which I cooked this morning, and a capon which one of the monks of Croyland gave me. I was tempted to throw it away as I ran."
"I am right glad, Edmund, that the temptation was not too strong for you. If we can find a spring we shall do well."
It was now getting dark, but after an hour's walk through the forest they came upon a running stream. They lit a fire by its side, and sitting down ate the supper, of which both were in much need. Wolf shared the repast, and then the three lay down to sleep. Egbert, overcome by the immense exertions he had made during the fight, was soon asleep; but Edmund, who had done his best to keep a brave face before his kinsman, wept for hours over the loss of his gallant father.
On the following morning Egbert and Edmund started for Croyland. The news of the defeat at Kesteven had already reached the abbey, and terror and consternation reigned there. Edmund went at once to his uncle and informed him of the circumstance of the death of his father and the annihilation of the Saxon army.
"Your news, Edmund, is even worse than the rumours which had reached me, and deeply do I grieve for the loss of my brave brother and of the many valiant men who died with him. This evening or to-morrow the spoilers will be here, and doubtless will do to Croyland as they have done to all the other abbeys and monasteries which have fallen into their hands. Before they come you and Egbert must be far away. Have you bethought you whither you will betake yourselves?"
"We are going to the king of the West Saxons," Edmund replied. "Such was my father's intention, and I fear that all is now lost in East Anglia." " 'Tis your best course, and may God's blessing and protection rest upon you!"
"But what are you going to do, uncle? Surely you will not remain here until the Danes arrive, for though they may spare other men they have no mercy on priests and monks?"
"I shall assuredly remain here, Edmund, at my post, and as my brother Eldred and Earl Algar and their brave companions died at their posts in the field of battle, so I am prepared to die here where God has placed me. I shall retain here with me only a few of the most aged and infirm monks, too old to fly or to support the hardships of the life of a hunted fugitive in the fens; together with some of the children who have fled here, and who, too, could not support such a life. It may be that when the fierce Danes arrive and find nought but children and aged men even their savage breasts may be moved to pity; but if not, God's will be done. The younger brethren will seek refuge in the fens, and will carry with them the sacred relics of the monastery. The most holy body of St. Guthlac with his scourge and psalmistry, together with the most valuable jewels and muniments, the charters of the foundation of the abbey, given by King Ethelbald, and the confirmation thereof by other kings, with some of the most precious gifts presented to the abbey."
Edmund and Egbert set to work to assist the weeping monks in making preparations for their departure. A boat was laden with the relics of the saints, the muniments of the king, and the most precious vessels. The table of the great altar covered with plates of gold, which King Wichtlof had presented, with ten gold chalices, and many other vessels, was thrown into the well of the convent.
In the distance the smoke of several villages could now be seen rising over the plain, and it was clear that the Danes were approaching. The ten priests and twenty monks who were to leave now knelt, and received the solemn benediction of the abbot, then, with Edmund and Egbert, they took their places in the boat and rowed away to the wood of Ancarig, which lay not far from the abbey.
The abbot Theodore and the aged monks and priests now returned to the church, and, putting on their vestments, commenced the services of the day; the abbot himself celebrated high mass, assisted by brother Elfget the deacon, brother Savin the sub-deacon, and the brothers Egelred and Wyelric, youths who acted as taper-bearers. When the mass was finished, just as the abbot and his assistants had partaken of the holy communion, the Danes burst into the church. The abbot was slain upon the holy altar by the hand of the Danish king Oskytal, and the other priests and monks were beheaded by the executioner.
The old men and children in the choir were seized and tortured to disclose where the treasures of the abbey were concealed, and were also put to death with the prior and sub-prior. Turgar, an acolyte of ten years of age; a remarkably beautiful boy, stood by the side of the sub-prior as he was murdered and fearlessly confronted the Danes, and bade them put him to death with the holy father. The young Earl Sidroc, however, struck with the bearing of the child, and being moved with compassion, stripped him of his robe and cowl, and threw over him a long Danish tunic without sleeves, and ordering him to keep close by him, made his way out of the monastery, the boy being the only one who was saved from the general massacre.
The Danes, furious at being able to find none of the treasures of the monastery, broke open all the shrines and levelled the marble tombs, including those of St. Guthlac, the holy virgin Ethelbritha, and many others, but found in these none of the treasure searched for. They piled the bodies of the saints in a heap, and burned them, together with the church and all the buildings of the monastery; then, with vast herds of cattle and other plunder, they moved away from Croyland, and attacked the monastery of Medeshamsted. Here the monks made a brave resistance. The Danes brought up machines and attacked the monastery on all sides, and effected a breach in the walls. Their first assault, however, was repelled, and Fulba, the brother of Earl Hulba, was desperately wounded by a stone.
Hulba was so infuriated at this that when, at the second assault, the monastery was captured, he slew with his own hand everyone of the monks, while all the country people who had taken refuge within the walls were slaughtered by his companions, not one escaping. The altars were levelled to the ground, the monuments broken in pieces. The great library of parchments and charters was burnt. The holy relics were trodden under foot, and the church itself, with all the monastic buildings, burnt to the ground. Four days later, the Danes, having devastated the whole country round and collected an enormous booty, marched away against Huntingdon.
Edmund and Egbert remained but a few hours with the monks who had escaped from the sack of Croyland; for, as soon as they saw the flames mounting up above the church, they knew that the Danes had accomplished their usual work of massacre, and there being no use in their making further stay, they started upon their journey. They travelled by easy stages, for time was of no value to them. For the most part their way lay among forests, and when once they had passed south of Thetford they had no fear of meeting with the Danes. Sometimes they slept at farm-houses or villages, being everywhere hospitably received, the more so when it was known that Edmund was the son of the brave ealdorman Eldred; but the news which they brought of the disastrous battle of Kesteven, and the southward march of the great Danish army, filled everyone with consternation.
The maids and matrons wept with terror at the thought of the coming of these terrible heathen, and although the men everywhere spoke of resistance to the last, the prospect seemed so hopeless that even the bravest were filled with grief and despair. Many spoke of leaving their homes and retiring with their wives and families, their serfs and herds to the country of the West Saxons, where alone there appeared any hope of a successful resistance being made. Wherever they went Edmund and Egbert brought by their news lamentation and woe to the households they entered, and at last Edmund said: "Egbert, let us enter no more houses until we reach the end of our journey; wherever we go we are messengers of evil, and turn houses of feasting into abodes of grief. Every night we have the same sad story to tell, and have to witness the weeping and wailing of women. A thousand times better were it to sleep among the woods, at any rate until we are among the West Saxons, where our news may cause indignation and rage at least, but where it will arouse a brave resolve to resist to the last instead of the hopelessness of despair."
Egbert thoroughly agreed with the lad, and henceforth they entered no houses save to buy bread and mead. Of meat they had plenty, for as they passed through the forests Wolf was always upon the alert, and several times found a wild boar in his lair, and kept him at bay until Edmund and Egbert ran up and with spears and swords slew him. This supplied them amply with meat, and gave them indeed far more than they could eat, but they exchanged portions of the flesh for bread in the villages. At last they came down upon the Thames near London, and crossing the river journeyed west. They were now in the kingdom of the West Saxons, the most warlike and valiant of the peoples of England, and who had gradually extended their sway over the whole of the country. The union was indeed but little more than nominal, as the other kings retained their thrones, paying only a tribute to the West Saxon monarchs.
As Egbert had predicted, their tale of the battle of Kesteven here aroused no feeling save that of wrath and a desire for vengeance upon the Danes. Swords were grasped, and all swore by the saints of what should happen to the invaders should they set foot in Wessex. The travellers felt their spirits rise at the martial and determined aspect of the people.
"It is a sad pity," Egbert said to Edmund one day, "that these West Saxons had not had time to unite England firmly together before the Danes set foot on the island. It is our divisions which have rendered their task so far easy. Northumbria, Mercia, and East Anglia have one by one been invaded, and their kings have had to fight single-handed against them, whereas had one strong king reigned over the whole country, so that all our force could have been exerted against the invader wherever he might land, the Danes would never have won a foot of our soil. The sad day of Kesteven showed at least that we are able to fight the Danes man for man. The first day we beat them, though they were in superior numbers, the second we withstood them all day, although they were ten to one against us, and they would never have triumphed even then had our men listened to their leaders and kept their ranks. I do not believe that even the West Saxons could have fought more bravely than did our men on that day; but they are better organized, their king is energetic and determined, and when the Danes invade Wessex they will find themselves opposed by the whole people instead of merely a hastily raised assemblage gathered in the neighbourhood."
They presently approached Reading, where there was a royal fortress, in which King Ethelred and his brother Alfred were residing.
"It is truly a fine city," Edmund said as he approached it; "its walls are strong and high, and the royal palace, which rises above them, is indeed a stately building."
They crossed the river and entered the gates of the town. There was great bustle and traffic in the streets, cynings, or nobles, passed along accompanied by parties of thanes, serfs laden with fuel or provisions made their way in from the surrounding country, while freemen, with their shields flung across their shoulders and their swords by their sides, stalked with an independent air down the streets.
The travellers approached the royal residence. The gates were open, and none hindered their entrance, for all who had business were free to enter the royal presence and to lay their complaints or petitions before the king.
Entering they found themselves in a large hall. The lower end of this was occupied by many people, who conversed together in little groups or awaited the summons of the king. Across the upper end of the room was a raised dais, and in the centre of this was a wide chair capable of holding three persons. The back and sides were high and richly carved. A table supported by four carved and gilded legs stood before it. Two persons were seated in the chair.
One was a man of three or four and twenty, the other was his junior by some two years. Both wore light crowns of gold somewhat different in their fashion. Before the younger was a parchment, an inkhorn, and pens. King Ethelred was a man of a pleasant face, but marked by care and by long vigils and rigorous fastings. Alfred was a singularly handsome young prince, with an earnest and intellectual face. Both had their faces shaven smooth. Ethelred wore his hair parted in the middle, and falling low on each side of the face, but Alfred's was closely cut. On the table near the younger brother stood a silver harp.
Edmund looked with great curiosity and interest on the young prince, who was famous throughout England for his great learning, his wisdom, and sweetness of temper. Although the youngest of the king's brothers, he had always been regarded as the future King of England, and had his father survived until he reached the age of manhood, he would probably have succeeded directly to the throne. The law of primogeniture was by no means strictly observed among the Saxons, a younger brother of marked ability or of distinguished prowess in war being often chosen by a father to succeed him in place of his elder brothers.
Alfred had been his father's favourite son. He had when a child been consecrated by the pope as future King of England; and his two journeys to Rome, and his residence at the court of the Frankish king had, with his own great learning and study, given him a high prestige and reputation among his people as one learned in the ways of the world. Although but a prince, his authority in the kingdom nearly equalled that of his brother, and it was he rather than Ethelred whom men regarded as the prop and stay of the Saxons in the perils which were now threatening them.
One after another, persons advanced to the table and laid their complaints before the king; in cases of dispute both parties were present and were often accompanied by witnesses. Ethelred and Alfred listened attentively to all that was said on both sides, and then gave their judgment. An hour passed, and then seeing that no one else approached the table, Egbert, taking Edmund by the hand, led him forward and knelt before the royal table.
"Whom have we here?" the king said. "This youth is by his attire one of noble race, but I know not his face."
"We have come, sir king," Egbert said, "as fugitives and suppliants to you. This is Edmund, the son of Ealdorman Eldred, a valiant cyning of East Anglia, who, after fighting bravely against the Danes near Thetford, joined Earl Algar, and died by his side on the fatal field of Kesteven. He had himself purposed to come hither to you and to ask you to accept him as your thane, and on the morn of the battle he charged me if he fell to bring hither his son to you; and we pray you to accept, in token of our homage to you, these vessels."
And here he placed two handsome goblets of silver gilt upon the table.
"I pray you rise," the king said. "I have assuredly heard of the brave Eldred, and will gladly receive his son as my thane. I had not heard of Eldred's death, though two days since the rumour of a heavy defeat of the East Angles at Kesteven, and the sacrilegious destruction of the holy houses of Bardenay, Croyland, and Medeshamsted reached our ears. Were you present at the battle?"
"I was, sir king," Egbert said, "and fought beside Earl Algar and my kinsman the Ealdorman Eldred until both were slain by the Danes, and I with difficulty cut my way through them and escaped to carry out my kinsman's orders regarding his son."
"You are a stout champion yourself," the king said, regarding with admiration Egbert's huge proportions; "but tell us the story of this battle, of which at present but vague rumours have reached us." Egbert related the incidents of the battle of Kesteven. "It was bravely fought," the king said when he had concluded; "right well and bravely, and better fortune should have attended such valour. Truly the brave Algar has shown that we Saxons have not lost the bravery which distinguished our ancestors, and that, man for man, we are equal to these heathen Danes."
"But methinks," Prince Alfred said, "that the brave Algar and his valiant companions did wrong to throw away their lives when all was lost. So long as there is the remotest chance of victory it is the duty of a leader to set an example of valour to his followers, but when all is lost he should think of his country. What though the brave thanes slew each a score of Danes before they died, their death has left their countrymen without a leader, and by that one battle the Danes have made themselves masters of the north of East Anglia. Better far had they, when the day was lost, retreated, to gather the people together when a better opportunity presented itself, and again to make head against the invaders. It is heathen rather than Christian warfare thus to throw away their lives rather than to retreat and wait for God's time to come again. To stake all on one throw, which if lost loses a whole people, seems to me the act of a gamester. I trust that, should the time ever come, as it is too much to be feared it will ere long, that the Danes invade my brother's kingdom of Wessex, I shall not be found wanting in courage; but assuredly when defeated in battle I would not throw away my life, for that belongs to our people rather than to myself, but would retire to some refuge until I could again gather the Saxons around me and attack the invaders. I like the face of the young ealdorman, and doubt not that he will prove a valiant warrior like his father. My brother will doubtless assign him lands for his maintenance and yours; but if he will let me I will attach him to my person, and will be at once a master and a friend to him. Wouldst thou like this, young Edmund?"
The lad, greatly pleased at the young prince's kindness of speech and manner, replied enthusiastically that he would follow him to the death if he would accept him as his faithful thane.
"Had the times been more peaceful, Edmund," Alfred said, "I would fain have imparted to you some of the little knowledge that I have gained, for I see an intelligence in your face which tells me that you would have proved an apt and eager pupil; but, alas, in the days that are coming it is the sword rather than the book which will prevail, and the cares of state, and the defence of the country, will shortly engross all my time and leave me but little leisure for the studies I love so well."
"There are the lands," the king said, "of Eabald, Ealdorman of Sherborne, in Dorset. He died but last week and has left no children. These lands I will grant to Edmund in return for liege and true service." The lad knelt before the king, and, kissing his hand, swore to be his true and faithful thane, and to spend land, goods, and life in his service.
"And now," the king said, "since the audience is over, and none other comes before us with petitions, we will retire to our private apartments, and there my brother Alfred will present you to the fair Elswitha, his wife."
The room into which Egbert and Edmund followed the king and his brother was spacious and lofty. The walls were covered with hangings of red cloth, and a thick brown baize covered the floor. The ceiling was painted a dark brown with much gilding. Round the sides of the room stood several dressers of carved oak, upon which stood gold and silver cups.
On a table were several illuminated vellums. At Croyland Edmund had seen a civilization far in advance of that to which he had been accustomed in his father's abode; but he saw here a degree of luxury and splendour which surprised him. Alfred had, during his two visits to Rome, learned to appreciate the high degree of civilization which reigned there, and many of the articles of furniture and other objects which met Edmund's eye he had brought with him on his return with his father from that city.
Across the upper end of the room was a long table laid with a white cloth. Elswitha was sitting in a large gilded chair by the great fire which was blazing on the hearth.
Prince Alfred presented Edmund and Egbert to her. Elswitha was well acquainted with the Ealdorman Eldred, as his lands lay on the very border of her native Mercia, and she received the lad and his kinsman with great kindness. In a short time they took their places at table. First the attendance brought in bowls containing broth, which they presented, kneeling, to each of those at table. The broth was drunk from the bowl itself; then a silver goblet was placed by each diner, and was filled with wine. Fish was next served. Plates were placed before each; but instead of their cutting food with their own daggers, as Edmund had been accustomed to see in his father's house, knives were handed round. After the fish came venison, followed by wild boar, chickens, and other meats. After these confections, composed chiefly of honey, were placed on the table. The king and Prince Alfred pledged their guests when they drank. No forks were used, the meat as cut being taken up by pieces of bread to the mouth. During the meal a harper played and sung.
Edmund observed the decorum with which his royal hosts fed, and the care which they took to avoid dipping their fingers into their saucers or their plates. He was also struck with the small amount of wine which they took; for the Saxons in general were large feeders, and drank heavily at their meals.
When the dinner was over a page brought round a basin of warm water, in which lavender had been crushed, and each dipped his fingers in this and then dried them on the cloth. Then at Prince Alfred's request Egbert again related in full the details of the two days' desperate struggle at Kesteven, giving the most minute particulars of the Danes' method of fighting. Egbert and Edmund then retired to the royal guest-house adjoining the palace, where apartments were assigned to them.
After remaining for a week at Reading they took leave of the king and started for the lands which he had assigned to Edmund. They were accompanied by an officer of the royal household, who was to inform the freemen and serfs of the estate that by the king's pleasure Edmund had been appointed ealdorman of the lands. They found on arrival that the house had been newly built, and was large and comfortable. The thanes of the district speedily came in to pay their respects to their new ealdorman, and although surprised to find him so young, they were pleased with his bearing and manner, and knowing that he came of good fighting blood doubted not that in time he would make a valiant leader. All who came were hospitably entertained, and for many days there was high feasting. So far removed was this part of England from the district which the Danes had invaded, that at present but slight alarm had been caused by them; but Edmund and his kinsman lost no time in impressing upon them the greatness of the coming danger.
"You may be sure," he said, "that ere long we shall see their galleys on the coast. When they have eaten up Mercia and Anglia they will assuredly come hither, and we shall have to fight for our lives, and unless we are prepared it will go hard with us."
After he had been at his new residence for a month Edmund sent out messengers to all the thanes in his district requesting them to assemble at a council, and then formally laid the matter before them.
"It is, above all things," he said, "necessary that we should have some place where we can place the women and children in case of invasion and where we can ourselves retire in extreme necessity. Therefore I propose that we shall build a fort of sufficient size to contain all the inhabitants of the district, with many flocks and herds. My cousin Egbert has ridden far over the country, and recommends that the Roman fortification at Moorcaster shall be utilized. It is large in extent, and has a double circle of earthen banks. These differ from those which we are wont to build, since we Saxons always fill up the ground so as to be flat with the top of the earthen banks, while the Romans left theirs hollow. However, the space is so large that it would take a vast labour to fill it up, therefore I propose that we should merely thicken the banks, and should, in Saxon custom, build a wall with turrets upon them. The sloping banks alone would be but a small protection against the onslaught of the Danes, but stone walls are another matter, and could only be carried after a long siege. If you fall in with my views you will each of you send half your serfs to carry out the work, and I will do the same, and will, moreover, pay fifty freemen who may do the squaring of the stones and the proper laying of them."
The proposal led to a long discussion, as some thought that there was no occasion as yet to take such a measure; but the thanes finally agreed to carry out Edmund's proposal.
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{
"id": "3674"
}
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4
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THE INVASION OF WESSEX
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Edmund and Egbert devoted most of their time to the building of the new fort, living very simply, and expended the whole of the revenues of the lands on the payment of the freemen and masons engaged upon the work. The Roman fort was a parallelogram, the sides being about 200 yards long, and the ends half that length. It was surrounded by two earthen banks with wide ditches. These were deepened considerably, and the slopes were cut down more sharply. The inner bank was widened until it was 15 feet across the top.
On this the wall was built. It was faced on both sides with square stones, the space between filled up with rubble and cement, the total thickness being 4 feet. The height of the wall was 8 feet, and at intervals of 30 yards apart towers were raised 10 feet above it, one of these being placed at either side of the entrance. Here the bank was cut away, and solid buttresses of masonry supported the high gates. The opening in the outer bank was not opposite to the gate in the inner, being fifty yards away, so that any who entered by it would have for that distance to follow the ditch between the two banks, exposed to the missiles of those on the wall before arriving at the inner gate.
Five hundred men laboured incessantly at the work. The stone for the walls was fortunately found close at hand, but, notwithstanding this, the work took nearly six months to execute; deep wells were sunk in the centre of the fort, and by this means an ample supply of water was secured, however large might be the number within it.
A very short time after the commencement of the work the news arrived that King Edmund of East Anglia had gathered his forces together and had met the Danes in a great battle near Thetford on Sunday the 20th of November, and had been totally defeated by them, Edmund himself having been taken prisoner. The captive king, after having been for a long time cruelly tortured by the Danes, was shot to death with arrows. It was not long after this that news came that the whole of East Anglia had fallen into the hands of the Danes.
Early in the month of February, 871, just as the walls of his fort had begun to rise, a messenger arrived from the king bidding Edmund assemble all the men in his earlship and march at once to join him near Devizes, as the news had come that a great Danish fleet had sailed up the Thames and had already captured the royal town of Reading.
Messengers were sent out in all directions, and early the next morning, 400 men having assembled, Edmund and his kinsman marched away with them towards Devizes. Upon their arrival at that town they found the king and his brother with 8000 men, and the following day the army moved east towards Reading.
They had not marched many miles before a messenger arrived saying that two of the Danish jarls with a great following had gone out to plunder the country, that they had been encountered by Aethelwulf, Earl of Berkshire, with his men at Englefield, and a fierce battle had taken place. The Saxons had gained the victory, and great numbers of the Danes had been slain, Sidroc, one of their jarls, being among the fallen.
Three days later the royal army arrived in sight of Reading, being joined on their march by Aethelwulf and his men. The Danes had thrown up a great rampart between the Thames and the Kennet, and many were still at work on this fortification. These were speedily slain by the Saxons, but their success was a short one. The main body of the invaders swarmed out from the city and a desperate engagement took place.
The Saxons fought valiantly, led by the king and Prince Alfred; but being wholly undisciplined and unaccustomed to war they were unable to withstand the onslaught of the Danes, who fought in better order, keeping together in ranks: after four hours' hard fighting the Saxons were compelled to fall back.
They rallied again a few miles from Reading. Ethelred and Alfred went among them bidding them be of good cheer, for that another time, when they fought in better order, they would gain the victory; and that their loss had not been greater than the Danes, only that unhappily the valiant Ealdorman Aethelwulf had been slain. Fresh messengers were sent throughout the country bidding all the men of Wessex to rally round their king, and on the fourth morning after the defeat Ethelred found himself at the head of larger forces than had fought with him in the last battle.
The Danes had moved out from Reading and had taken post at Ashdown, and as the Saxon army approached they were seen to be divided into two bodies, one of which was commanded by their two kings and the other by two jarls. The Saxons therefore made a similar division of their army, the king commanding one division and Prince Alfred the other.
Edmund with the men of Sherborne was in the division of Alfred. The Danes advanced to the attack and fell with fury upon them. It had been arranged that this division should not advance to the attack until that commanded by the king was also put in motion. For some time Alfred and his men supported the assaults of the Danes, and then, being hardly pressed, the prince sent a messenger to his brother to urge that a movement should be made. The Saxons were impatient at standing on the defensive, and Alfred saw that he must either allow them to charge the enemy or must retreat.
Presently the messenger returned saying that the king was in his tent hearing mass, and that he had given orders that no man should move or any should disturb him until mass was concluded. Alfred hesitated no longer; he formed his men into a solid body, and then, raising his battle cry, rushed upon the Danes. The battle was a furious one. The Danes were upon higher ground, their standard being planted by the side of a single thorn-tree which grew on the slopes of the hill. Towards this Alfred with his men fought their way.
The lesson of the previous battle had not been lost, the Saxons kept together in a solid body which made its way with irresistible weight through the ranks of the Danes. Still the latter closed in on all sides, and the fight was doubtful until the king, having finished his devotions, led his division into the battle. For a long time a desperate strife continued and great numbers on both sides were killed; but the Saxons, animated at once by love of their country and hatred of the invaders and by humiliation at their previous defeat, fought with such fury that the Danes began to give way. Then the Saxons pressed them still more hotly, and the invaders presently lost heart and fled in confusion, pursued in all directions by the exulting Saxons.
The Danish king Bergsecg and five jarls, the two Sidrocs, Osbearn, Frene, and Hareld, were slain, and many thousands of their followers. Great spoil of arms and armour fell into the hands of the victors.
Edmund had fought bravely in the battle at the head of his men. Egbert had kept beside him, and twice, when the lad had been smitten to his knees by the enemy, covered him with his shield and beat off the foe.
"You are over-young for such a fight as this, Edmund," he said when the Danes had taken to flight. "You will need another four or five years over your head before you can stand in battle against these fierce Northmen. They break down your guard by sheer weight; but you bore yourself gallantly, and I doubt not will yet be as famous a warrior as was your brave father."
Edmund did not join in the pursuit, being too much bruised and exhausted to do so; but Egbert with the men of Sherborne followed the flying Danes until nightfall.
"You have done well, my young ealdorman," Prince Alfred said to the lad after the battle. "I have been wishing much that you could be with me during the past month, but I heard that you were building a strong fort and deemed it better to let you continue your work undisturbed. When it is finished I trust that I shall have you often near me; but I fear that for a time we shall have but little space for peaceful pursuits, for the Danes are coming, as I hear, in great troops westward, and we shall have many battles to fight ere we clear the land of them."
In those days a defeat, however severe, had not the same decisive effect as it has in modern warfare. There were no cannons to lose, no great stores to fall into the hands of the victors. The army was simply dispersed, and its component parts reassembled in the course of a day or two, ready, when reinforcements arrived, to renew the fight. Thus, decisive as was the victory of Ashdown, Prince Alfred saw that many such victories must be won, and a prolonged and exhausting struggle carried on before the tide of invasion would be finally hurled back from Wessex. The next few days were spent in making a fair distribution of the spoil and arms among the conquerors. Some of the thanes then returned home with their people; but the remainder, on the king's entreaty, agreed to march with him against the Danes, who after the battle had fallen back to Basing, where they had been joined by others coming from the coast. The royal army advanced against them, and fourteen days after the battle of Ashdown the struggle was renewed. The fight lasted for many hours, but towards nightfall the Saxons were compelled to retreat, moving off the field, however, in good order, so that no spoil fell into the hands of the Danes.
This check was a great disappointment to the Saxons, who after their late victory had hoped that they should speedily clear the kingdom of the Danes. These, indeed, taught prudence by the manner in which the West Saxons had fought, for a while refrained from plundering excursions. Two months later the Saxons were again called to arms. Somerled, a Danish chieftain, had again advanced to Reading, and had captured and burned the town. The king marched against him, and the two armies met at Merton. Here another desperate battle took place.
During the first part of the day the Saxons were victorious over both the divisions of the Danish army, but in the afternoon the latter received some reinforcements and renewed the fight. The Saxons, believing that the victory had been won, had fallen into disorder and were finally driven from the field. Great numbers were slain on both sides. Bishop Edmund and many Saxon nobles were killed, and King Ethelred so severely wounded that he expired a few days later, April 23rd, 871, having reigned for five years. He was buried at Wimbourne Minster, and Prince Alfred ascended the throne.
Ethelred was much regretted by his people, but the accession of Alfred increased their hopes of battling successfully against the Danes. Although wise and brave, King Ethelred had been scarcely the monarch for a warlike people in troubled times. Religious exercises occupied too large a share of his thoughts. His rule was kindly rather than strong, and his authority was but weak over his nobles. From Prince Alfred the Saxons hoped better things. From his boyhood he had been regarded with special interest and affection by the people, as his father had led them to regard him as their future king.
The fact that he had been personally consecrated by the pope appeared to invest him with a special authority. His immense superiority in learning over all his people greatly impressed them. Though gentle he was firm and resolute, prompt in action, daring in the field. Thus, then, although the people regretted King Ethelred, there was a general feeling of hope and joy when Alfred took his place on the throne. He had succeeded to the crown but a month when the Danes again advanced in great numbers. The want of success which had attended them in the last two battles had damped the spirit of the people, and it was with a very small force only that Alfred was able to advance against them.
The armies met near Wilton, where the Danes in vastly superior numbers were posted on a hill. King Alfred led his forces forward and fell upon the Danes, and so bravely did the Saxons fight that for some time the day went favourably for them. Gradually the Danes were driven from their post of vantage, and after some hours' fighting turned to fly; but, as at Merton and Kesteven, the impetuosity of the Saxons proved their ruin. Breaking their compact ranks they scattered in pursuit of the Danes, and these, seeing how small was the number of their pursuers, rallied and turned upon them, and the Saxons were driven from the field which they had so bravely won.
"Unless my brave Saxons learn order and discipline," the king said to Edmund and some of his nobles who gathered round him on the evening after the defeat, "our cause is assuredly lost. We have proved now in each battle that we are superior man to man to the Danes, but we throw away the fruits of victory by our impetuosity. The great Caesar, who wrote an account of his battles which I have read in Latin, described the order and discipline with which the Roman troops fought. They were always in heavy masses, and even after a battle the heavy-armed soldiers kept their ranks and did not scatter in pursuit of the enemy, leaving this task to the more lightly armed troops.
"Would that we had three or four years before us to teach our men discipline and order, but alas! there is no time for this. The Danes have fallen in great numbers in every fight, but they are ever receiving reinforcements and come on in fresh waves of invasion; while the Saxons, finding that all their efforts and valour seem to avail nothing, are beginning fast to lose heart. See how small a number assembled round my standard yesterday, and yet the war is but beginning. Truly the look-out is bad for England."
The king made strenuous efforts again to raise an army, but the people did not respond to his call. In addition to the battles which have been spoken of several others had been fought in different parts of Wessex by the ealdormen and their followers against bodies of invading Danes. In the space of one year the Saxons had engaged in eight pitched battles and in many skirmishes. Great numbers had been slain on both sides, but the Danes ever received fresh accessions of strength, and seemed to grow stronger and more numerous after every battle, while the Saxons were dwindling rapidly. Wide tracts of country had been devastated, the men slaughtered, and the women and children taken captives, and the people, utterly dispirited and depressed, no longer listened to the voices of their leaders, and refused again to peril their lives in a strife which seemed hopeless. Alfred therefore called his ealdormen together and proposed to them, that since the people would no longer fight, the sole means that remained to escape destruction was to offer to buy off the Danes.
The proposal was agreed to, for although none of them had any hope that the Danes would long keep any treaty they might make, yet even a little respite might give heart and spirit to the Saxons again. Accordingly negotiations were entered into with the Danes, and these, in consideration of a large money payment, agreed to retire from Wessex. The money was paid, the Danes retired from Reading, which they had used as their headquarters, and marched to London. King Burhred, the feeble King of Mercia, could do nothing to oppose them, and he too agreed to pay them a large annual tribute.
From the end of 872 till the autumn of 875 the country was comparatively quiet. Alfred ruled it wisely, and tried to repair the terrible damages the war had made. Edmund looked after his earldom, and grew into a powerful young man of nineteen years old.
King Alfred had not deceived himself for a moment as to the future. "The Danes," he said, "are still in England. East Anglia and Northumbria swarm with them. Had this army, after being bought off by us and my brother of Mercia, sailed across the seas and landed in France there would have been some hope for us, but their restless nature will not allow them to stay long in the parts which they have conquered.
"In Anglia King Guthrum has divided the land among his jarls, and there they seem disposed to settle down; but elsewhere they care not for the land, preferring to leave it in the hands of its former owners to till, and after to wring from the cultivators the fruits of the harvest; then, as the country becomes thoroughly impoverished, they must move elsewhere. Mercia they can overrun whensoever they choose, and after that there is nothing for them to do but to sweep down again upon Wessex, and with all the rest of England at their feet it is hopeless to think that we alone can withstand their united power."
"Then what, think you, must be the end of this?" Edmund asked. " 'Tis difficult to see the end," Alfred replied. "It would seem that our only hope of release from them is that when they have utterly eaten up and ravaged England they may turn their thoughts elsewhere. Already they are harrying the northern coasts of France, but there are richer prizes on the Mediterranean shores, and it may be that when England is no longer worth plundering they may sail away to Spain and Italy. We have acted foolishly in the way we have fought them. When they first began to arrive upon our coasts we should have laboured hard to build great fleets, so that we could go forth and meet them on the seas.
"Some, indeed, might have escaped our watch and landed, but the fleets could have cut off reinforcements coming to them, and thus those who reached our shores could have been overwhelmed. Even now, I think that something might be done that way, and I purpose to build a fleet which may, when they again invade us, take its station near the mouth of the Thames and fall upon the vessels bringing stores and reinforcements. This would give much encouragement to the people, whose hopelessness and desperation are caused principally by the fact that it seems to be of no use killing the enemy, since so many are ready constantly to take their places."
"I will gladly undertake to build one ship," Edmund said. "The fort is now finished, and with the revenues of the land I could at once commence a ship; and if the Danes give us time, when she is finished I would build another. I will the more gladly do it, since it seems to me that if the Danes entirely overrun our country we must take to the sea and so in turn become plunderers. With this view I will have the ship built large and strong, so that she may keep the sea in all weathers and be my home if I am driven out of England. There must be plenty of ports in France, and many a quiet nook and inlet round England, where one can put in to refit when necessary, and we could pick up many a prize of Danish ships returning laden with booty. With such a ship I could carry a strong crew, and with my trusty Egbert and the best of my fighting men we should be able to hold our own, even if attacked by two or three of the Danish galleys."
"The idea is a good one, Edmund," the king said, "and I would that I myself could carry it into effect. It were a thousand times better to live a free life on the sea, even if certain at last to be overpowered by a Danish fleet, than to lurk a hunted fugitive in the woods; but I cannot do it. So long as I live I must remain among my people, ready to snatch any chance that may offer of striking a blow against the invader. But for you it is different."
"I should not, of course, do it," Edmund said, "until all is lost here, and mean to defend my fort to an extremity; still should it be that the Danes conquer all our lands, it were well to have such a refuge."
Edmund talked the matter over with Egbert, who warmly entered into the plan. "So long as I have life I will fight against the Danes, and in a ship at least we can fight manfully till the end. We must not build her on the sea-coast, or before the time when we need her she may be destroyed by the Danes. We will build her on the Parrot. The water is deep enough far up from the sea to float her when empty, and if we choose some spot where the river runs among woods we might hide her so that she may to the last escape the attention of the Danes.
"We must get some men crafty in ship-building from one of the ports, sending down a body of our own serfs to do the rough work. We will go to Exeter first and there choose us the craftsman most skilled in building ships, and will take council with him as to the best form and size. She must be good to sail and yet able to row fast with a strong crew, and she must have room to house a goodly number of rowing and fighting men. You, Edmund, might, before we start, consult King Alfred. He must have seen at Rome and other ports on the Mediterranean the ships in use there, which are doubtless far in advance of our own. For we know from the Holy Bible that a thousand years ago St. Paul made long voyages in ships, and doubtless they have learned much since those days."
Edmund thought the idea a good one, and asked the king to make him a drawing of the vessels in use in the Mediterranean. This King Alfred readily did, and Egbert and Edmund then journeyed to Exeter, where finding out the man most noted for his skill in building ships, they told him the object they had in view, and showed him the drawings the king had made. There were two of them, the one a long galley rowed with double banks of oars, the other a heavy trading ship.
"This would be useless to you," the shipwright said, laying the second drawing aside. "It would not be fast enough either to overtake or to fly. The other galley would, methinks, suit you well. I have seen a drawing of such a ship before. It is a war galley such as is used by the Genoese in their fights against the African pirates. They are fast and roomy, and have plenty of accommodation for the crews. One of them well manned and handled should be a match for six at least of the Danish galleys, which are much lower in the water and smaller in all ways. But it will cost a good deal of money to build such a ship."
"I will devote all the revenues of my land to it until it is finished," Edmund said. "I will place a hundred serfs at your service, and will leave it to you to hire as many craftsmen as may be needed. I intend to build her in a quiet place in a deep wood on the river Parrot, so that she may escape the eyes of the Danes."
"I shall require seasoned timber," the shipwright urged.
"That will I buy," Edmund replied, "as you shall direct, and can have it brought up the river to the spot."
"Being so large and heavy," the shipwright said, "she will be difficult to launch. Methinks it were best to dig a hole or dock at some little distance from the river; then when she is finished a way can be cut to the river wide enough for her to pass out. When the water is turned in it will float her up level to the surface, and as she will not draw more than two feet of water the cut need not be more than three feet deep."
"That will be the best plan by far," Edmund agreed, "for you can make the hole so deep that you can build her entirely below the level of the ground. Then we can, if needs be, fill up the hole altogether with bushes, and cover her up, so that she would not be seen by a Danish galley rowing up the river, or even by any of the enemy who might enter the wood, unless they made special search for her; and there she could lie until I chose to embark."
The shipwright at once set to work to draw out his plans, and a week later sent to Edmund a messenger with an account of the quantity and size of wood he should require. This was purchased at once. Edmund and Egbert with their serfs journeyed to the spot they had chosen, and were met there by the shipwright, who brought with him twenty craftsmen from Exeter. The wood was brought up the river, and while the craftsmen began to cut it up into fitting sizes, the serfs applied themselves to dig the deep dock in which the vessel was to be built.
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{
"id": "3674"
}
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5
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A DISCIPLINED BAND
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The construction of the ship went on steadily. King Alfred, who was himself building several war vessels of ordinary size, took great interest in Edmund's craft and paid several visits to it while it was in progress.
"It will be a fine ship," he said one day as the vessel was approaching completion, "and much larger than any in these seas. It reminds me, Edmund, not indeed in size or shape, but in its purpose, of the ark which Noah built before the deluge which covered the whole earth. He built it, as you know, to escape with his family from destruction. You, too, are building against the time when the deluge of Danish invasion will sweep over this land, and I trust that your success will equal that of the patriarch."
"I shall be better off than Noah was," Edmund said, "for he had nothing to do, save to shut up his windows and wait till the floods abated, while I shall go out and seek my enemies on the sea."
The respite purchased by the king from the Danes was but a short one. In the autumn of 875 their bands were again swarming around the borders of Wessex, and constant irruptions took place. Edmund received a summons to gather his tenants, but he found that these no longer replied willingly to the call. Several of his chief men met him and represented to him the general feeling which prevailed.
"The men say," their spokesman explained, "that it is useless to fight against the Danes. In 872 there were ten pitched battles, and vast numbers of the Danes were slain, and vast numbers also of Saxons. The Danes are already far more numerous than before, for fresh hordes continue to arrive on the shores, and more than fill up the places of those who are killed; but the places of the Saxons are empty, and our fighting force is far smaller than it was last year. If we again go out and again fight many battles, even if we are victorious, which we can hardly hope to be, the same thing will happen. Many thousands will be slain, and the following year we shall in vain try to put an army in the field which can match that of the Danes, who will again have filled up their ranks, and be as numerous as ever. So long as we continue to fight, so long the Danes will slay, burn, and destroy wheresoever they march, until there will remain of us but a few fugitives hidden in the woods. We should be far better off did we cease to resist, and the Danes become our masters, as they have become the masters of Northumbria, Mercia, and Anglia.
"There, it is true, they have plundered the churches and thanes' houses and have stolen all that is worth carrying away; but when they have taken all that there is to take they leave the people alone, and unmolested, to till the ground and to gain their livelihood. They do not slay for the pleasure of slaying, and grievous as is the condition of the Angles they and their wives and children are free from massacre and are allowed to gain their livings. The West Saxons have showed that they are no cowards; they have defeated the Northmen over and over again when far outnumbering them. It is no dishonour to yield now when all the rest of England has yielded, and when further fighting will only bring ruin upon ourselves, our wives, and children."
Edmund could find no reply to this argument. He knew that even the king despaired of ultimately resisting the Danish invasion, and after listening to all that the thanes had to say he retired with Egbert apart.
"What say you, Egbert? There is reason in the arguments that they use. You and I have neither wives nor children, and we risk only our own lives; but I can well understand that those who have so much to lose are chary of further effort. What say you?"
"I do not think it will be fair to press them further," Egbert answered; "but methinks that we might raise a band consisting of all the youths and unmarried men in the earldom. These we might train carefully and keep always together, seeing that the lands will still be cultivated and all able to pay their assessment, and may even add to it, since you exempt them from service. Such a band we could train and practise until we could rely upon them to defeat a far larger force of the enemy, and they would be available for our crew when we take to the ship."
"I think the idea is a very good one, Egbert; we will propose it to the thanes." The proposition was accordingly made that all married men should be exempt from service, but that the youths above the age of sixteen and the unmarried men should be formed into a band and kept permanently under arms. Landowners who lost the services of sons or freemen working for them should pay the same assessment only as before, but those who did not contribute men to the levy should pay an additional assessment. Edmund said he would pay the men composing the band the same wages they would earn in the field, and would undertake all their expenses. "So long as the king continues the struggle," he said, "it is our duty to aid him, nor can we escape from the dangers and perils of invasion. Should the Danes come near us all must perforce fight, but so long as they continue at a distance things can go on here as if we had peace in the land."
The proposal was, after some discussion, agreed to, and the news caused gladness and contentment throughout the earldom. The younger men who had been included in the levy were quite satisfied with the arrangement. The spirit of the West Saxons was still high, and those without wives and families who would suffer by their absence or be ruined by their death were eager to continue the contest. The proposal that they should be paid as when at work was considered perfectly satisfactory.
The men of Sherborne had under their young leader gained great credit by their steadiness and valour in the battles four years before, and they looked forward to fresh victories over the invader. The result was that ninety young men assembled for service. Edmund had sent off a messenger to the king saying that the people were utterly weary of war and refused to take up arms, but that he was gathering a band of young men with whom he would ere long join him; but he prayed for a short delay in order that he might get them into a condition to be useful on the day of battle.
After consultation with Egbert, Edmund drew up a series of orders somewhat resembling those of modern drill. King Alfred had once, in speaking to him, described the manner in which the Thebans, a people of Northern Greece, had fought, placing their troops in the form of a wedge. The formation he now taught his men. From morning to night they were practised at rallying from pursuit or flight, or changing from a line into the form of a wedge. Each man had his appointed place both in the line and wedge. Those who formed the outside line of this formation were armed with large shields which covered them from chin to foot, and with short spears; those in the inner lines carried no shields, but bore spears of increasing length, so that four lines of spears projected from the wedge to nearly the same distance. Inside the four lines were twenty men armed with shields, bows, and arrows. The sides of the wedge were of equal length, so that they could march either way.
Egbert's place was at the apex of the wedge intended generally for attack. He carried no spear, nor did those at the other corners, as they would be covered by those beside and behind them; he was armed with a huge battle-axe. The other leaders were also chosen for great personal strength. Edmund's place was on horseback in the middle of the wedge, whence he could overlook the whole and direct their movements.
In three weeks the men could perform their simple movements to perfection, and at a sound from Edmund's horn would run in as when scattered in pursuit or flight, or could form from line into the wedge, without the least confusion, every man occupying his assigned place.
The men were delighted with their new exercises, and felt confident that the weight of the solid mass thickly bristling with spears would break through the Danish line without difficulty, or could draw off from the field in perfect order and safety in case of a defeat, however numerous their foes. The two front lines were to thrust with their pikes, the others keeping their long spears immovable to form a solid hedge. Each man carried a short heavy sword to use in case, by any fatality, the wedge should get broken up.
When assured that his band were perfect in their new exercise Edmund marched and joined the king. He found on his arrival that the summons to arms had been everywhere disregarded. Many men had indeed come in, but these were in no way sufficient to form a force which would enable him to take the field against the Danes.
Edmund therefore solicited and obtained permission to march with his band to endeavour to check the plundering bands of Danes, who were already committing devastations throughout the country.
"Be not rash, Edmund," the monarch said, "you have but a handful of men, and I should grieve indeed did aught of harm befall you. If you can fall upon small parties of plunderers and destroy them you will do good service, not only by compelling them to keep together but by raising the spirits of the Saxons; but avoid conflict with parties likely to defeat you."
"You shall hear of us soon, I promise you," Edmund replied, "and I trust that the news will be good."
The little party set out towards the border, and before long met numbers of fugitives, weeping women carrying children, old men and boys, making their way from the neighbourhood of the Danes. The men had for the most part driven their herds into the woods, where they were prepared to defend them as best they could against roving parties. They learned that Haffa, a Danish jarl, with about 600 followers, was plundering and ravaging the country about twelve miles away. The force was a formidable one, but after consultation with Egbert, Edmund determined to advance, deeming that he might find the Danes scattered and cut off some of their parties.
As they neared the country of which the Danes were in possession the smoke of burning villages and homesteads was seen rising heavily in the air. Edmund halted for the night in a wood about a mile distant from a blazing farm, and the band lay down for some hours.
Before daybreak three or four of the swiftest-footed of the men were sent out to reconnoitre. They learned, from badly wounded men whom they found lying near the burning farms, that the Danes had been plundering in parties of twenty or thirty, but that the main body under Haffa lay five miles away at the village of Bristowe.
A consultation was held, and it was agreed that the party should remain hidden in the wood during the day, and that upon the following night they should fall upon the Danes, trusting to the surprise to inflict much damage upon them, and to be able to draw off before the enemy could recover sufficiently to rally and attack them.
Accordingly about nine o'clock in the evening they started, and marching rapidly approached Bristowe an hour and a half later. They could see great fires blazing, and round them the Danes were carousing after their forays of the day. Great numbers of cattle were penned up near the village.
Edmund and Egbert having halted their men stole forward until close to the village in order to learn the nature of the ground and the position of the Danes. Upon their return they waited until the fires burned low and the sound of shouting and singing decreased. It was useless to wait longer, for they knew that many of the Danes would, according to their custom, keep up their revelry all night. Crawling along the ground the band made for the great pen where were herded the cattle which the Danes had driven in from the surrounding country, and over which several guards had been placed. Before starting Egbert assigned to each man the special duties which he was to fulfil.
The Saxons crept up quite close to the Danish guards unobserved. To each of these three or four bowmen had been told off, and they, on nearing the sentries lay prone on the ground with bows bent and arrows fixed until a whistle from Edmund gave the signal. Then the arrows were loosed, and the distance being so short the Danish sentries were all slain. Then a party of men removed the side of the pen facing the village; the rest mingled with the cattle, and soon with the points of their spears goaded them into flight. In a mass the herd thundered down upon the village, the Saxons keeping closely behind them and adding to their terror by goading the hindermost.
The Danes, astonished at the sudden thunder of hoofs bearing down upon them, leaped to their feet and endeavoured to turn the course of the herd, which they deemed to have accidentally broken loose, by loud shouts and by rattling their swords against their shields. The oxen, however, were too terrified by those in their rear to check their course, and charged impetuously down upon the Danes.
Numbers of these were hurled to the ground and trampled under foot, and the wildest confusion reigned in the camp. This was increased when, as the herds swept along, a number of active men with spear and sword fell suddenly upon them. Scores were cut down or run through before they could prepare for defence, or recover from their surprise at the novel method of attack.
At last, as the thunder of the herd died away in the distance, and they became aware of the comparative fewness of their foes, they began to rally and make head against their assailants. No sooner was this the case than the note of a horn was heard, and as if by magic their assailants instantly darted away into the night, leaving the superstitious Danes in some doubt whether the whole attack upon them had not been of a supernatural nature.
Long before they recovered themselves, and were ready for pursuit, the Saxons were far away, no less than 200 of the Danes having been slain or trampled to death, while of Edmund's band not one had received so much as a wound.
The Saxons regained the wood in the highest state of exultation at their success, and more confident than before in themselves and their leader.
"I am convinced," Edmund said, "that this is the true way to fight the Danes, to harry and attack them by night assaults until they dare not break up into parties, and become so worn out by constant alarms that they will be glad to leave a country where plunder and booty are only to be earned at so great a cost."
Knowing that Haffa's band would for some time be thoroughly on the alert Edmund moved his party to another portion of the country, where he inflicted a blow, almost as heavy as he had dealt Haffa, upon Sigbert, another of the Danish jarls. Three or four more very successful night attacks were made, and then the Danes, by this time thoroughly alarmed, obtained from some Saxon country people whom they took prisoners news as to the strength of Edmund's band.
Furious at the heavy losses which had been inflicted upon them by so small a number, they determined to unite in crushing them. By threats of instant death, and by the offers of a high reward, they succeeded in persuading two Saxon prisoners to act as spies, and one day these brought in to Haffa the news that the band had that morning, after striking a successful blow at the Danes ten miles away, entered at daybreak a wood but three miles from his camp.
The Northman, disdaining to ask for assistance from one of the other bands against so small a foe, moved out at once with 300 of his men towards the wood. The Saxons had posted guards, who on the approach of the Danes roused Edmund with the news that the enemy were close at hand. The Saxons were soon on their feet.
"Now, my friends," Edmund said to them, "here is the time for trying what benefit we have got from our exercise. We cannot well draw off, for the Danes are as fleet-footed as we; therefore let us fight and conquer them."
The men formed up cheerfully, and the little body moved out from the wood to meet the Danes. The latter gave a shout of triumph as they saw them. The Saxon force, from its compact formation, appeared even smaller than it was, and the Norsemen advanced in haste, each eager to be the first to fall upon an enemy whom they regarded as an easy prey. As they arrived upon the spot, however, and saw the thick hedge of spears which bristled round the little body of Saxons, the first comers checked their speed and waited till Haffa himself came up, accompanied by his principal warriors.
Without a moment's hesitation the jarl flung himself upon the Saxons. In vain, however, he tried to reach them with his long sword. As he neared them the front line of the Saxons dropped on one knee, and as the Danes with their shields dashed against the spears and strove to cut through them, the kneeling men were able with their pikes to thrust at the unguarded portions of the bodies below their shields, and many fell grievously wounded. After trying for some time in vain, Haffa, finding that individual effort did not suffice to break through the Saxon spears, formed his men up in line four deep, and advanced in a solid body so as to overwhelm them.
The Saxons now rose to their feet. The spears, instead of being pointed outwards, were inclined towards the front, and the wedge advanced against the Danes. The Saxon war cry rose loud as they neared the Danish line, and then, still maintaining their close formation, they charged upon it. The assault was irresistible. The whole weight was thrown upon a point, and preceded, as it was, by the densely-packed spears, it burst through the Danish line as if the latter had been composed of osier twigs, bearing down all in its way.
With shouts of surprise the Danes broke up their line and closed in a thick mass round the Saxons, those behind pressing forward and impeding the motions of the warriors actually engaged. The Saxons no longer kept stationary. In obedience to Edmund's orders the triangle advanced, sometimes with one angle in front, sometimes with another, but whichever way it moved sweeping away the Danes opposed to it, while the archers from the centre shot fast and strong into the mass of the enemy.
Haffa himself, trying to oppose the advance of the wedge, was slain by a blow of Egbert's axe, and after half an hour's fierce fighting, the Danes, having lost upwards of fifty of their best men, and finding all their efforts to produce an impression upon the Saxons vain, desisted from the attack and fled.
At once the wedge broke up, and the Saxons followed in hot pursuit, cutting down their flying enemies. Obedient, however, to Edmund's repeated shouts they kept fairly together, and when the Danes, thinking them broken and disordered, turned to fall upon them, a single note of the horn brought them instantly together again, and the astonished Danes saw the phalanx which had proved so fatal to them prepared to receive their attack. This they did not attempt to deliver, but took to flight, the Saxons, as before, pursuing, and twice as many of the Danes were slain in the retreat as in the first attack.
The pursuit was continued for many miles, and then, fearing that he might come across some fresh body of the enemy, Edmund called off his men. Great was the triumph of the Saxons. A few of them had suffered from wounds more or less serious, but not one had fallen. They had defeated a body of Danes four times their own force, and had killed nearly half of them, and they felt confident that the tactics which they had adopted would enable them in future to defeat any scattered bodies of Danes they might meet.
For a week after the battle they rested, spending their time in further improving themselves in their drill, practicing especially the alterations of the position of the spears requisite when changing from a defensive attitude, with the pikes at right angles to each face, to that of an attack, when the spears of both faces of the advancing wedge were all directed forward. A messenger arrived from the king, to whom Edmund had sent the news of his various successes, and Alfred sent his warmest congratulations and thanks for the great results which had been gained with so small a force, the king confessing that he was unable to understand how with such disproportionate numbers Edmund could so totally have routed the force of so distinguished a leader as Haffa.
For some weeks Edmund continued the work of checking the depredations of the Danes, and so successful was he that the freebooters became seized with a superstitious awe of his band. The rapidity of its maneuvering, the manner in which men, at one moment scattered, were in another formed in a serried mass, against which all their efforts broke as waves against a rock, seemed to them to be something superhuman. In that part of Wessex, therefore, the invaders gradually withdrew their forces across the frontier; but in other parts of the country, the tide of invasion being unchecked, large tracts of country had been devastated, and the West Saxons could nowhere make head against them. One day a messenger reached Edmund telling him that a large Danish army was approaching Sherborne, and urging him to return instantly to the defence of his earldom.
With rapid marches he proceeded thither, and on arriving at his house he found that the Danes were but a few miles away, and that the whole country was in a state of panic. He at once sent off messengers in all directions, bidding the people hasten with their wives and families, their herds and valuables, to the fort. His return to some extent restored confidence. The news of the victories he had gained over the Danes had reached Sherborne, and the confidence of their power to defeat the invaders which his followers expressed as they scattered to their respective farms again raised the courage of the people.
All through the night bands of fugitives poured into the fort, and by morning the whole of the people for many miles round were assembled there. Egbert and Edmund busied themselves in assigning to each his duty and station. All the men capable of bearing arms were told off to posts on the walls. The old men and young boys were to draw water and look after the cattle; the women to cook and attend to the wounded. The men of his own band were not placed upon the walls, but were held in readiness as a reserve to move to any point which might be threatened, and to take part in sorties against the enemy.
Soon smoke was seen rising up in many directions, showing that the enemy were at their accustomed work. Cries broke from the women, and exclamations of rage from the men, as they recognized by the direction of the smoke that their own homesteads and villages were in the hands of the spoilers. About mid-day a party of mounted Danes rode up towards the fort and made a circuit of it. When they had satisfied themselves as to the formidable nature of its defences they rode off again, and for the rest of the day none of the enemy approached the fort.
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{
"id": "3674"
}
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6
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THE SAXON FORT
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A strict watch was kept all night, and several scouts were sent out. These on their return reported that the Danes were feasting, having slain many cattle and broached the casks of mead which they found in the cellars of Edmund's house. This they had not burned nor the houses around it, intending, as the scouts supposed, to make it their headquarters while they attacked the fort.
Edmund and Egbert agreed that it would be well to show the Danes at once that they had an active and enterprising foe to deal with; they therefore awakened their band, who were sleeping on skins close to the gate, and with them started out.
It was still two hours before dawn when they approached the house. Save a few men on watch, the great Danish host, which the messengers calculated to amount to ten thousand men, were asleep. Cautiously making their way so as to avoid stumbling over the Danes, who lay scattered in groups round the house, the Saxons crept forward quietly until close to the entrance, when a sleepy watchman started up.
"Who are ye?"
The answer was a blow from Egbert's battle-axe. Then the leaders with twenty of their men rushed into the house, while the rest remained on guard at the entrance.
The combat was short but furious, and the clashing of arms and shouts of the Danes roused those sleeping near, and the men who escaped from the house spread the alarm. The fight lasted but three or four minutes, for the Danes, scattered through the house, and in many cases still stupid from the effects of the previous night's debauch, were unable to gather and make any collective resistance. The two jarls fought in a manner worthy of their renown, but the Saxon spears proved more than a match for their swords, and they died fighting bravely till the last. Between Saxon and Dane there was no thought of quarter; none asked for mercy on either side, for none would be granted. The sea rovers never spared an armed man who fell into their hands, and the Saxons were infuriated by the sufferings which the invaders had inflicted upon them, and had no more pity upon their foes than if they had been wild animals. Besides the jarls some thirty of their minor leaders were in the house, and but five or six of them escaped. It was well for the Danes that the detachment which lay there was not their principal body, which was still a few miles in the rear, for had it been so two of their kings and six jarls, all men of famed valour, would have been slain. The instant the work was done the Saxons rejoined those assembled at the entrance.
Already the Danes were thronging up, but at present in confusion and disorder, coming rather to see what was the matter than to fight, and hardly believing that the Saxons could have had the audacity to attack them. In an instant the Saxons fell into their usual formation, and overturning and cutting down those who happened to be in their path, burst through the straggling Danes, and at a trot proceeded across the country.
It was still quite dark, and it was some time before the Danes became thoroughly aware of what had happened; then missing the voices of their leaders, some of them rushed into the house, and the news that the two jarls and their companions had been slain roused them to fury. At once they set off in pursuit of the Saxons in a tumultuous throng; but the band had already a considerable start, and had the advantage of knowing every foot of the country, of which the Danes were ignorant. When once fairly through the enemy, Edmund had given the word and the formation had broken up, so that each man could run freely and without jostling his comrades. Thus they were enabled to proceed at a rapid pace, and reached the fort just as day was breaking, without having been discovered or overtaken by the Danes.
The news of this successful exploit raised the spirits of the garrison of the fort. The Danes swarmed nearly up to the walls, but seeing how formidable was the position, and being without leaders, they fell back without making an attack, some of the more impetuous having fallen from the arrows of the bowmen.
About mid-day a solid mass of the enemy were seen approaching, and the banners with the Black Raven on a blood-red field showed that it contained leaders of importance, and was, in fact, the main body of the Danes. It was an imposing sight as it marched towards the fort, with the fluttering banners, the sun shining upon the brass helmets and shields of the chiefs, and the spear-heads and swords of the footmen. Here and there parties of horsemen galloped about the plain.
"Their number has not been exaggerated," Egbert said to Edmund, "there must be ten thousand of them. There are full twice as many as attacked us on the field of Kesteven."
The sight of the great array struck terror into the minds of a great part of the defenders of the fort; but the confident bearing of their young ealdorman and the thought of the strength of their walls reassured them. The Danes halted at a distance of about a quarter of a mile from the walls, and three or four of their chiefs rode forward. These by the splendour of their helmets, shields, and trappings were clearly men of great importance. They halted just out of bowshot distance, and one of them, raising his voice, shouted: "Dogs of Saxons, had you laid down your arms, and made submission to me, I would have spared you; but for the deed which you did last night, and the slaying of my brave jarls, I swear that I will have revenge upon you, and, by the god Wodin, I vow that not one within your walls, man, woman, or child, shall be spared. This is the oath of King Uffa."
"It were well, King Uffa," Edmund shouted back, "to take no rash oaths; before you talk of slaying you have got to capture, and you will need all the aid of your false gods before you take this fort. As to mercy, we should as soon ask it of wolves. We have God and our good swords to protect us, and we fear not your host were it three times as strong as it is."
The Saxons raised a great shout, and the Danish king rode back to his troops. The lesson which had been given them of the enterprise of the Saxons was not lost, for the Danes at once began to form a camp, raising an earthen bank which they crowned with stakes and bushes as a defence against sudden attacks. This work occupied them two days, and during this time no blow was struck on either side, as the Danes posted a strong body of men each night to prevent the Saxons from sallying out. On the third day the work was finished, and the Danish kings with their jarls made a circuit round the walls, evidently to select the place for attack.
The time had passed quietly in the fort. In one corner the priests had erected an altar, and here mass was said three times a day. The priests went among the soldiers exhorting them to resist to the last, confessing them, and giving them absolution.
The pains which the Danes had taken in the preparation of their camp was a proof of their determination to capture the fort, however long the operation might be. It showed, too, that they recognized the difficulty of the task, for had they believed that the capture could be easily effected they would at once upon their arrival have advanced to the attack.
"To-morrow morning early," Egbert said, "I expect that they will assault us. In the first place probably they will endeavour to carry the fort by a general attack; if they fail in this they will set to construct engines with which to batter the wall."
At daybreak the following morning the Danes issued from their camp. Having formed up in regular order, they advanced towards the castle. They divided into four bands; three of these wheeled round to opposite sides of the fort, the fourth, which was as large as the other three together, advanced towards the entrance. The Saxons all took the posts previously assigned to them on the walls. Edmund strengthened the force on the side where the gate was by posting there in addition the whole of his band. Altogether there were nearly 350 fighting men within the walls, of whom the greater part had fought against the Danes in the battles of the previous year. The attack commenced simultaneously on all sides by a discharge of arrows by the archers of both parties. The Saxons, sheltered behind the parapet on the walls, suffered but slightly; but their missiles did considerable execution among the masses of the Danes. These, however, did not pause to continue the conflict at a distance, but uttering their battle-cry rushed forward.
Edmund and Egbert had but little fear of the attack on the other faces of the fort proving successful; the chief assault was against the gate, and it was here that the real danger existed.
The main body of the Danes covered themselves with their shields and rushed forward with the greatest determination, pouring through the gap in the outer bank in a solid mass, and then turned along the fosse towards the inner gate. Closely packed together, with their shields above their heads forming a sort of testudo or roof which protected them against the Saxons' arrows, they pressed forward in spite of the shower of missiles with which the Saxons on the walls assailed them. Arrows, darts, and great stones were showered down upon them, the latter breaking down the shields, and affording the archers an opportunity of pouring in their arrows.
Numbers fell, but the column swept along until it gained the gate. Here those in front began an attack upon the massive beams with their axes, and when they had somewhat weakened it, battered it with heavy beams of timber until it was completely splintered. While this was going on the Saxons had continued to shoot without intermission, and the Danish dead were heaped thickly around the gate. The Danish archers, assisted by their comrades, had scrambled up on to the outer bank and kept up a heavy fire on the defenders of the wall. The Saxons sheltered their heads and shoulders which were above the parapet with their shields; and between these, as through loopholes, their archers shot at the Danes.
Edmund and Egbert had debated much on the previous days whether they would pile stones behind the gate, but had finally agreed not to do so. They argued that although for a time the stones would impede the progress of the Danes, these would, if they shattered the door, sooner or later pull down the stones or climb over them; and it was better to have a smooth and level place for defence inside. They had, however, raised a bank of earth ten feet high in a semicircle at a distance of twenty yards within the gate.
When it was seen that the gates were yielding Edmund had called down his own band from the walls and formed them in a half-circle ten yards from the gate. They were four deep, as in their usual formation, with the four lines of spears projecting towards the gate. The mound behind them he lined with archers.
At last the gates fell, and with an exulting shout the Danes poured in. As they did so the archers on the mound loosed their arrows, and the head of the Danish column melted like snow before the blast of a furnace. Still they poured in and flung themselves upon the spearmen, but they strove in vain to pierce the hedge of steel. Desperately they threw themselves upon the pike-heads and died there bravely, but they were powerless to break a passage.
The archers on the mound still shot fast among them, while those on the wall, turning round, smote them in the back, where, unprotected by their shields, they offered a sure and fatal mark. Soon the narrow semicircle inside the gate became heaped high with dead, impeding the efforts of those still pressing in. Several of the bravest of the Danish leaders had fallen. The crowd in the fosse, unaware of the obstacle which prevented the advance of the head of the column and harassed by the missiles from above, grew impatient, and after half an hour of desperate efforts, and having lost upwards of three hundred of his best men, the Danish king, furious with rage and disappointment, called off his men.
On the other three sides the attack equally failed. The Danes suffered heavily while climbing the steep side of the inner mound. They brought with them faggots, which they cast down at the foot of the wall, but this was built so near the edge of the slope that they were unable to pile sufficient faggots to give them the height required for a successful assault upon it. Many climbed up on their comrades' shoulders, and so tried to scale the wall, but they were thrust down by the Saxon spears as they raised themselves to its level, and in no place succeeded in gaining a footing. Over two hundred fell in the three minor attacks.
There were great rejoicings among the Saxons, on whose side but twenty-three had been killed. A solemn mass was held, at which all save a few look-outs on the walls attended, and thanks returned to God for the repulse of the pagans; then the garrison full of confidence awaited the next attack of the enemy.
Stones were piled up in the gateway to prevent any sudden surprise being effected there. The Danes in their retreat had carried off their dead, and the next morning the Saxons saw that they were busy with the ceremonies of their burial. At some little distance from their camp the dead were placed in a sitting position, in long rows back to back with their weapons by their sides, and earth was piled over them until a great mound fifty yards long and ten feet high was raised.
Three jarls and one of their kings were buried separately. They were placed together in a sitting position, with their helmets on their heads, their shields on their arms, and their swords by their sides. Their four war-horses were killed and laid beside them; twenty slaves were slaughtered and placed lying round them, for their spirits to attend them in the Walhalla of the gods. Golden drinking-vessels and other ornaments were placed by them, and then a mound forty feet in diameter and twenty feet high was piled over the whole.
The whole force were occupied all day with this work. The next day numbers of trees were felled and brought to the camp, and for the next two days the Danes were occupied in the manufacture of war-engines for battering down the walls. Edmund and Egbert utilized the time in instructing the soldiers who did not form part of the regular band, in the formation of the quadruple line of defence which the Danes had found it so impossible to break through, so that if more than one breach was effected, a resistance similar to that made at the gate could be offered at all points. The skins of the oxen killed for the use of the garrison were carefully laid aside, the inside being thickly rubbed with grease.
The Danish preparations were at length completed, the war-engines were brought up and began to hurl great stones against the wall at three points. The Saxons kept up a constant fire of arrows at those employed at working them, but the Danes, though losing many men, threw up breastworks to protect them.
The Saxons manufactured many broad ladders, and in the middle of the night, lowering these over the walls, they descended noiselessly, and three strong bodies fell upon the Danes guarding the engines. These fought stoutly, but were driven back, the engines were destroyed, and the Saxons retired to their walls again and drew up their ladders before the main body of Danes could arrive from the camp. This caused a delay of some days in the siege, but fresh engines having been constructed, the assault on the walls was recommenced, this time the whole Danish army moving out and sleeping at night close to them.
After three days' battering, breaches of from thirty to fifty feet wide were effected in the walls. The Saxons had not been idle. Behind each of the threatened points they raised banks of earth ten feet high, and cut away the bank perpendicularly behind the shattered wall, so that the assailants as they poured in at the gaps would have to leap ten feet down.
Each night the masses of wall which fell inside were cleared away, and when the breach was complete, and it was evident that the assault would take place the next morning, the hides which had been prepared were laid with the hairy side down, on the ground below. Through them they drove firmly into the ground numbers of pikes with the heads sticking up one or two feet, and pointed stakes hardened in the fire. Then satisfied that all had been done the Saxons lay down to rest.
In the morning the Danes advanced to the assault. This time they were but little annoyed in their advance by the archers. These were posted on the walls at each side of the gaps to shoot down at the backs of the Danes after they had entered. On the inner semicircular mounds the Saxon force gathered four deep.
With loud shouts the Danes rushed forward, climbed the outer mounds, and reached the breaches. Here the leaders paused on seeing the gulf below them, but pressed by those behind they could not hesitate long, but leapt down from the breach on to the slippery hides below.
Not one who did so lived. It was impossible to keep their feet as they alighted, and as they fell they were impaled by the pikes and stakes. Pressed by those behind, however, fresh men leapt down, falling in their turn, until at length the hides and stakes were covered, and those leaping down found a foothold on the bodies of the fallen. Then they crowded on and strove to climb the inner bank and attack the Saxons. Now the archers on the walls opened fire upon them, and, pierced through and through with the arrows which struck them on the back, the Danes fell in great numbers. Edmund commanded at one of the breaches, Egbert at another, and Oswald, an old and experienced warrior, at the third.
At each point the scene was similar. The Danes struggled up the mounds only to fail to break through the hedge of spears which crowned them, fast numbers dying in the attempt, while as many more fell pierced with arrows. For an hour the Danes continued their desperate efforts, and not until fifteen hundred had been slain did they draw off to their camp, finding it impossible to break through the Saxon defences.
Loud rose the shouts of the triumphant Saxons as the Danes retired, and it needed all the efforts of their leaders to prevent them from pouring out in pursuit; but the events of the preceding year had taught the Saxon leaders how often their impetuosity after success had proved fatal to the Saxons, and that once in the plain the Danes would turn upon them and crush them by their still greatly superior numbers. Therefore no one was allowed to sally out, and the discomfited Danes retired unmolested.
The next morning to their joy the Saxons saw that the invaders had broken up their camp, and had marched away in the night. Scouts were sent out in various directions, and the Saxons employed themselves in stripping and burying the Danes who had fallen within the fort, only a few of the most distinguished having been carried off. The scouts returned with news that the Danes had made no halt, but had departed entirely from that part of the country. Finding that for the present they were free of the invaders, the Saxons left the fort and scattered again, to rebuild as best they might their devastated homes.
But if in the neighbourhood of Sherborne the Danes had been severely repulsed, in other parts of the kingdom they continued to make great progress, and the feeling of despair among the Saxons increased. Great numbers left their homes, and taking with them all their portable possessions, made their way to the sea-coast, and there embarked for France, where they hoped to be able to live peaceably and quietly.
Edmund placed no hindrance in the way of such of his people who chose this course, for the prospect appeared well-nigh hopeless. The majority of the Saxons were utterly broken in spirit, and a complete conquest of the kingdom by the Danes seemed inevitable. In the spring, however, of 877 King Alfred again issued an urgent summons. A great horde of Danes had landed at Exeter and taken possession of that town, and he determined to endeavour to crush them. He sent to Edmund begging him to proceed at once to Poole, where the king's fleet was ready for sea, and to embark in it with what force he could raise, and to sail and blockade the entrance to the river Exe, and so prevent the Danes from reinforcing their countrymen, while he with his forces laid siege to Exeter.
Edmund would have taken his own vessel, but some time would have been lost, and the king's ships were short of hands. He was not sorry, indeed, that his men should have some practise at sea, and taking his own band, in which the vacancies which had been caused in the defence of the fort had been filled up, he proceeded to Poole. Here he embarked his men in one of the ships, and the fleet, comprising twenty vessels, put to sea.
The management of the vessels and their sails was in the hands of experienced sailors, and Edmund's men had no duties to perform except to fight the enemy when they met them.
The news of the siege of Exeter reached the Danes at Wareham, which was their head-quarters, and 120 vessels filled with their troops sailed for the relief of Exeter.
The weather was unpropitious, heavy fogs lay on the water, dissipated occasionally by fierce outbursts of wind. The Saxon fleet kept the sea. It was well that for a time the Danish fleet did not appear in sight, for the Saxons, save the sailors, were unaccustomed to the water, and many suffered greatly from the rough motion; and had the Danes appeared for the first week after the fleet put to sea a combat must have been avoided, as the troops were in no condition to fight.
Presently, however, they recovered from their malady and became eager to meet the enemy; Edmund bade his men take part in the working of the ship in order to accustom themselves to the duties of seamen. The fleet did not keep the sea all the time, returning often to the straits between the Isle of Wight and the mainland, where they lay in shelter, a look-out being kept from the top of the hills, whence a wide sweep of sea could be seen, and where piles of wood were collected by which a signal fire could warn the fleet to put to sea should the enemy's vessels come in sight.
A full month passed and the Saxons began to fear that the Danes might have eluded them, having perhaps been blown out to sea and having made the land again far to the west. One morning, however, smoke was seen to rise from the beacon fire. The crews who were on shore instantly hurried on board. From the hills the Danish fleet was made out far to the west and was seen to be approaching the land from seaward, having been driven far out of its course by the winds.
The weather was wild and threatening and the sailors predicted a great storm. Nevertheless the fleet put to sea and with reefed sails ran to the west. Their vessels were larger than the Danish galleys and could better keep the sea in a storm. Many miles were passed before, from the decks, the Danish flotilla could be seen. Presently, however, a great number of their galleys were discerned rowing in towards Swanage Bay.
In spite of the increasing fury of the wind the Saxons spread more sail and succeeded in intercepting the Danes. A desperate fight began, but the Danes in their low, long vessels had all they could do to keep afloat on the waves. Many were run down by the Saxons. The showers of arrows from their lofty poops confused the rowers and slew many. Sweeping along close to them they often broke off the oars and disabled them. Sometimes two or three of the Danish galleys would try to close with a Saxon ship, but the sea was too rough for the boats to remain alongside while the men tried to climb up the high sides, and the Saxons with their spears thrust down those who strove to do so. Confusion and terror soon reigned among the Danes, and fearing to try to escape by sea in such a storm made for the shore, hotly pursued by the Saxons.
But the shore was even more inhospitable than their foes. Great rocks bordered the coast, and upon these the galleys were dashed into fragments. The people on shore, who had gathered at the sight of the approaching fleets, fell upon such of the Danes as succeeded in gaining the coast, and everyone who landed was instantly slain. Thus, partly from the effects of the Saxon fleet but still more from that of the storm, the whole of the Danish fleet of one hundred and twenty vessels was destroyed, not a single ship escaping the general destruction.
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{
"id": "3674"
}
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7
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THE DRAGON
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The Danes at Exeter, being now cut off from all hope of relief, asked for terms, and the king granted them their lives on condition of their promising to leave Wessex and not to return. This promise they swore by their most solemn oaths to observe, and marching northward passed out of Wessex and settled near Gloucester. Some of the Saxons thought that the king had been wrong in granting such easy terms, but he pointed out to the ealdormen who remonstrated with him that there were many other and larger bands of Danes in Mercia and Anglia, and that had he massacred the band at Exeter--and this he could not have done without the loss of many men, as assuredly the Danes would have fought desperately for their lives--the news of their slaughter would have brought upon him fresh invasions from all sides.
By this time all resistance to the Danes in Mercia had ceased. Again and again King Burhred had bought them off, but this only brought fresh hordes down upon him, and at last, finding the struggle hopeless, he had gone as a pilgrim to Rome, where he had died. The Danes acted in Mercia as they had done in Northumbria. They did not care, themselves, to settle down for any length of time, and therefore appointed a weak Saxon thane, Ceolwulf, as the King of Mercia. He ruled cruelly and extorted large revenues from the land-owners, and robbed the monasteries, which had escaped destruction, of their treasures.
The Danes suffered him to pursue this course until he had amassed great wealth, when they swooped down upon him, robbed him of all he possessed, and took away the nominal kingship he had held. As there was now but little fresh scope for plundering in England many of the Danes both in Anglia and Mercia settled down in the cities and on the lands which they had taken from the Saxons.
The Danes who had gone from Exeter were now joined by another band which had landed in South Wales. The latter, finding but small plunder was to be obtained among the mountains of that country, moved to Gloucester, and joining the band there proposed a fresh invasion of Wessex. The Danes, in spite of the oaths they had sworn to Alfred, and the hostages they had left in his hands, agreed to the proposal; and early in the spring of 878 the bands, swollen by reinforcements from Mercia, marched into Wiltshire and captured the royal castle of Chippenham on the Avon. From this point they spread over the country and destroyed everything with fire and sword. A general panic seized the inhabitants. The better class, with the bishops, priests, and monks, made for the sea-coasts and thence crossed to France, taking with them all their portable goods, with the relics, precious stones, and ornaments of the churches and monasteries.
Another party of Danes in twenty-three ships had landed in Devonshire. Here the ealdorman Adda had constructed a castle similar to that which Edmund had built. It was fortified by nature on three sides and had a strong rampart of earth on another. The Danes tried to starve out the defenders of the fort; but the Saxons held out for a long time, although sorely pressed by want of water. At last they sallied out one morning at daybreak and fell upon the Danes and utterly defeated them, only a few stragglers regaining their ships.
A thousand Danes are said to have been slain at Kynwith; but this was an isolated success; in all other parts of the kingdom panic appeared to have taken possession of the West Saxons. Those who could not leave the country retired to the woods, and thence, when the Danes had passed by, leaving ruin and desolation behind them, they sallied out and again began to till the ground as best they could. Thus for a time the West Saxons, formerly so valiant and determined, sank to the condition of serfs; for when all resistance ceased the Danes were well pleased to see the ground tilled, as otherwise they would speedily have run short of stores.
At the commencement of the invasion Edmund had marched out with his band and had inflicted heavy blows upon parties of plunderers; but he soon perceived that the struggle was hopeless. He therefore returned to Sherborne, and collecting such goods as he required and a good store of provisions he marched to the place where the ship had been hidden. No wandering band of Danes had passed that way, and the bushes with which she had been covered were undisturbed. These were soon removed and a passage three feet deep, and wide enough for the ship to pass through, was dug from the deep hole in which she was lying to the river.
When the last barrier was cut the water poured in, and the Saxons had the satisfaction of seeing the vessel rise gradually until the water in the dock was level with that in the river. Then she was taken out into the stream, the stores and fittings placed aboard, and she was poled down to the mouth of the river. Egbert had gone before and had already engaged fifteen sturdy sailors to go with them. The Danes had not yet reached the sea-coast from the interior, and there was therefore no difficulty in obtaining the various equipments necessary. In a week her masts were up and her sails in position.
The Dragon, as she was called, excited great admiration at the port, all saying that she was the finest and largest ship that had ever been seen there. While her fitting out had been going on she was hove up on shore and received several coats of paint. Edmund was loath to start on his voyage without again seeing the king, but no one knew where Alfred now was, he, on finding the struggle hopeless, having retired to the fastnesses of Somerset to await the time when the Saxons should be driven by oppression again to take up arms.
At last all was ready, and the Dragon put out to sea. She was provided with oars as well as sails, but these were only to be used when in pursuit, or when flying from a superior enemy. As soon as she had been long enough at sea to enable the band again to recover from the effects of sickness the oars were got out and the men practised in their use.
As in the models from which she had been built, she rowed two banks of oars, the one worked by men upon deck, the others through small port-holes. The latter could only be used when the weather was fine; when the sea was high they were closed up and fastened. The lower-deck oars were each rowed by one man, while the upper bank, which were longer and heavier, had each two men to work it.
Before starting Edmund had increased the strength of his band to ninety men, that number being required for the oars, of which the Dragon had fifteen on each bank on each side. At first there was terrible splashing and confusion, but in time the men learned to row in order, and in three weeks after putting to sea the oars worked well in time together, and the Dragon, with her ninety rowers, moved through the water at a great rate of speed.
During this time she had never been far from land keeping but a short distance from the port from which she had sailed, as Edmund did not wish to fall in with the Danes until his crew were able to maneuver her with the best effect. When, at last, satisfied that all knew their duty he returned to port, took in a fresh supply of provisions, and then sailed away again in search of the enemy. He coasted along the shore of Hampshire and Sussex without seeing a foe, and then sailing round Kent entered the mouth of the Thames. The Dragon kept on her way until she reached the point where the river begins to narrow, and there the sails were furled and the anchor thrown overboard to wait for Danish galleys coming down the river.
On the third day after they had anchored they perceived four black specks in the distance, and these the sailors soon declared to be Danish craft. They were rowing rapidly, having ten oars on either side, and at their mast-heads floated the Danish Raven. The anchor was got up, and as the Danes approached, the Golden Dragon, the standard of Wessex, was run up to the mast-head, the sails were hoisted, the oars got out, and the vessel advanced to meet the approaching Danes.
These for a moment stopped rowing in astonishment at seeing so large a ship bearing the Saxon flag. Then they at once began to scatter in different directions; but the Dragon, impelled both by the wind and her sixty oars, rapidly overtook them. When close alongside the galley nearest to them the men on the upper deck, at an order from Edmund, ran in their oars, and seizing their bows poured a volley of arrows into the galley, killing most of the rowers. Then the Dragon was steered alongside, and the Saxons, sword in hand, leaped down into the galley. Most of the Danes were cut down at once; the rest plunged into the water and swam for their lives. Leaving the deserted galley behind, the Dragon continued the pursuit of the others, and overtook and captured another as easily as she had done the first.
The other two boats reached the shore before they were overtaken, and those on board leaping out fled. The Saxons took possession of the deserted galleys. They found them, as they expected, stored full of plunder of all kinds--rich wearing apparel, drinking goblets, massive vessels of gold and silver which had been torn from some desecrated altar, rich ornaments and jewels and other articles. These were at once removed to the Dragon. Fire was applied to the boats, and they were soon a mass of flames. Then the Dragon directed her course to the two galleys she had first captured. These were also rifled of their contents and burned. The Saxons were delighted at the success which had attended their first adventure.
"We shall have rougher work next time," Egbert said. "The Danes who escaped will carry news to London, and we shall be having a whole fleet down to attack us in a few days."
"If they are in anything like reasonable numbers we will fight them; if not, we can run. We have seen to-day how much faster we are than the Danish boats; and though I shall be in favour of fighting if we have a fair chance of success, it would be folly to risk the success of our enterprise by contending against overwhelming numbers at the outset, seeing that we shall be able to pick up so many prizes round the coast."
"We can beat a score of them," Egbert grumbled. "I am in favour of fighting the Danes whenever we see them."
"When there is a hope of success, Egbert, yes; but you know even the finest bull can be pulled down by a pack of dogs. The Dragon is a splendid ship, and does credit alike to King Alfred's first advice, to the plans of the Italian shipbuilders, and to the workmanship and design of the shipwright of Exeter, and I hope she will long remain to be a scourge to the Danes at sea as they have been a scourge to the Saxons on shore; and it is because I hope she is going to do such good service to England that I would be careful of her. You must remember, too, that many of the Danish galleys are far larger than those we had to do with to-day. We are not going to gobble them all up as a pike swallows minnows."
The Dragon had now anchored again, and four days elapsed before any Danish galleys were seen. At the end of that time six large Danish war-ships were perceived in the distance. Edmund and Egbert from the top of the lofty poop watched them coming.
"They row thirty oars each side," Egbert said, "and are crowded with men. What say you, Edmund, shall we stop and fight them, or shall the Dragon spread her wings?"
"We have the advantage of height," Edmund said, "and from our bow and stern castles can shoot down into them; but if they lie alongside and board us their numbers will give them an immense advantage. I should think that we might run down one or two of them. The Dragon is much more strongly built than these galleys of the Danes, and if when they close round us we have the oars lashed on both sides as when we are rowing, it will be next to impossible for them to get alongside except at the stern and bow, which are far too high for them to climb."
"Very well," Egbert said, "if you are ready to fight, you may be sure I am."
The anchor was got up and the oars manned, and the Dragon quietly advanced towards the Danish boats. The men were instructed to row slowly, and it was not until within a hundred yards of the leading galley that the order was given to row hard.
The men strained at the tough oars, and the Dragon leapt ahead to meet the foe. Her bow was pointed as if she would have passed close by the side of the Danish galley, which was crowded with men. When close to her, however, the helmsman pushed the tiller across and the Dragon swept straight down upon her. A shout of dismay rose from the Danes, a hasty volley of arrows and darts was hurled at the Dragon, and the helmsman strove to avoid the collision, but in vain. The Dragon struck her on the beam, the frail craft broke up like an egg-shell under the blow, and sank almost instantly under the bows of the Dragon.
Without heeding the men struggling thickly in the water, the Dragon continued her course. Warned by the fate of the first boat, the next endeavoured to avoid her path. Her commander shouted orders. The rowers on one side backed while those on the other pulled, but she was not quite quick enough. The Dragon struck her a few feet from the stern, cutting her in two.
The other galleys now closed in alongside. The Saxons hastily fastened their oars as they had been rowing and then betook themselves to their posts, those with spears and swords to the sides to prevent the enemy from climbing up, the archers to the lofty castles at either end. The Danes had the greatest difficulty in getting alongside, the oars keeping the galleys at a distance. For some time the combat was conducted entirely by the archers on both sides, the Danes suffering much the most heavily, as the Saxons were protected by the bulwarks, while from their lofty positions they were enabled to fire down into the galleys.
At last one of the Danish vessels rowed straight at the broadside of the Dragon, and breaking her way through the oars her bow reached the side. Then the Danes strove to leap on board, but the Saxons pursued the tactics which had succeeded so well on land, and forming in a close mass where the Danish vessel touched the Dragon, opposed a thick hedge of spears to those who strove to board her.
The Danes fought desperately. Several notable leaders, hearing that a great Saxon ship had appeared on the Thames, had come down to capture her, and leading their followers, strove desperately to cut their way to the deck of the Dragon. Taking advantage of the strife, the other galleys repeated the maneuver which had succeeded, and each in turn ran their stem through the Saxon oars, and reached the side of the Dragon. In this position, however, they had the immense disadvantage that only a few men at once could strive to board, while the Saxons were able to oppose all their strength at these four points.
For a time the Saxons repulsed every effort, but as the lashings of the oars gave way under the pressure of the Danish ships, these drifted alongside, and they were thus able to attack along the whole length of the bulwarks between the castles. The Saxons were now hard put to it, but their superior height still enabled them to keep the Danes in check.
All this time the five vessels had been drifting down the river together. Presently, when the conflict was hottest, the chief of the sailors made his way to Edmund.
"If we get up the sails we may be able to draw out from the galleys."
"Do so," Edmund said, "and at once, for we are hardly pressed; they are four to one against us."
The sailors at once sprang to the halliards, and soon the great sail rose on the mast. Almost instantly the Dragon began to glide away from the galleys. The Danes with ropes endeavoured to lash themselves to her sides, but these were severed as fast as thrown, and in two or three minutes the Dragon had drawn herself clear of them. The Danes betook themselves to their oars, but many of these had been broken between the vessels, and rowing their utmost they could only just keep up with the Dragon, for the wind was blowing freely. Fully half the oars of the Dragon were broken, but the rest were soon manned, and she then rapidly drew away from her pursuers.
"I am not going to run further," Edmund said. "Now that we have once shaken them off, let us turn and meet them again."
As the vessel's head was brought up into the wind the Danes ceased rowing. The fate which had befallen their two galleys at the commencement of the fight was still before them. They had lost great numbers of men in the attempt to board from the Saxon pikes and arrows, and their desire to renew the fight vanished when they saw that the Saxons were equally ready. Therefore, as the Dragon approached them, they sheered off on either side of her and rowed for the mouth of the Medway.
The Saxons did not pursue. They had lost eight men killed, and seventeen wounded by the Danish arrows, and were well content to be quit of their opponents, upon whom they had inflicted a severe blow, as each of the galleys sunk had contained fully a hundred and fifty men, and great numbers of the Danes on board the other ships had fallen.
They now left the Thames and sailed to Sandwich. The town had been shortly before burned by the Danes, but these had left, and some of the inhabitants had returned. Here the Dragon waited for a week, by the end of which time the traces of the conflict had been obliterated, and new oars made. Edmund found no difficulty in filling up the vacancies caused in the fight, as many of the young Saxons were burning to avenge the sufferings which the Danes had inflicted, and could have obtained several times the number he required had there been room for them. He was therefore enabled to pick out sturdy fellows accustomed to the sea. When the Dragon again set sail her head was laid to the northward, as Edmund intended to cruise off East Anglia, from whose shores fleets were constantly crossing and recrossing to Denmark.
They picked up several prizes at the mouths of the eastern rivers, scarcely having to strike a blow, so surprised were the Danes at the appearances of the great Saxon galley. Whenever the Danes surrendered without resistance Edmund gave them quarter and landed them in small boats on the shore; their ships, after being emptied of the booty they contained, were burned. When off Yarmouth, where they had captured four Danish vessels sailing out unsuspicious of danger, the wind veered round to the north-east and began to blow very strongly.
The long line of sandbanks off the coast broke somewhat the violence of the sea, and the Dragon rode all night to her anchors; but in the morning the wind continued to rise. The sea became more and more violent, and the anchors began to drag. Edmund and Egbert, after a consultation, agreed that their only chance of saving the vessel was to enter the river. The tide was running in, but the sea was so heavy on the bar of the river that the efforts of the crew at the oars barely sufficed to keep her on her course. At length, however, she made her way safely between the posts which marked the entrance, and rowing up until they passed a turn, and were sheltered from the force of the gale, they again anchored.
The oars were all lashed out firmly to keep any boats from approaching her sides. Bales of goods with which her hold was filled were brought on deck, and piled high along the bulwarks so as to afford a shelter from missiles. Even as they entered the harbour numbers of Danes had assembled at the point; for the capture and destruction of their ships had of course been seen, and the crews set ashore had spread the news that the strange vessel was a Saxon. The Norfolk bank being somewhat higher than the Suffolk, the boat was anchored rather nearer to the latter, as it was from the town of Yarmouth that an attack was anticipated.
As soon as the anchors were let go the Danes began to fire their arrows; but so powerful was the gale that the greater part of them were swept far away. As the day went on the numbers of Danes on the bank increased largely, and vast numbers of arrows were discharged at the Dragon. The crew kept under shelter, and although she was often struck no damage was done.
In the afternoon a fleet of galleys was seen coming down the river. The Danes possessed a large number of these boats at Yarmouth, and in these they navigated the inland waters far into the interior. The wind had shifted until it was blowing nearly due east, and Edmund and Egbert had agreed upon the best course to be pursued. In case of attack they could hardly hope finally to beat off the assault of a large fleet of galleys, and would besides be exposed to attack by boats laden with combustibles. Therefore as soon as the galleys were seen approaching the oars were unlashed, the great sail hoisted, and at her best speed the Dragon advanced up the river to meet her foes. The Danes gave a shout of alarm as the vessel advanced to meet them with the water surging in a white wave from her bows, and the greater part of them hurried towards one bank or the other to escape the shock. Some, slower in movement or stouter in heart, awaited the attack, while from all a storm of missiles was poured upon the advancing boat.
Heedless of these she continued her way. Her sharp bow crashed right through the side of the Danish boats, and having destroyed seven of them on her way she passed through the flotilla and continued her course. The dragon waved triumphantly from her mast as she passed under the walls of Yarmouth. These were crowded with Danes, who vainly showered arrows and javelins as she flew past, with the fleets of galleys rowing in her wake. A few minutes and she was out on the broad sheet of water beyond. The Danish galleys paused at the entrance. In so wild a storm they would have had difficulty in keeping their boats straight, while the great galley with her sails and oars would be able to maneuver freely, and could strike and run them down one by one.
"What is that pile of buildings on the rising knoll of ground some three miles away?" Edmund asked.
"It is Bamborough Castle," Egbert replied, "a Roman stronghold of immense strength."
"Let us run up thither," Edmund said. "If, as is likely enough, it is unoccupied, we will land there and take possession. Are the walls complete?"
"Assuredly they are," Egbert said. "They are of marvellous strength, such as we cannot build in our days. They run in a great semicircle from the edge of the water round the crest of the knoll and down again to the water. There is but one gateway in the wall on the land side, and this we can block up. We need not fear an attack from the land, for between the river and the castle there are wide swamps; so that unless they row up and attack us from the water we are safe."
"I think that they will not do that," Edmund said, "after the taste which the Dragon has given them of her quality. At any rate I think we are safe till the storm abates."
By this time, running rapidly before the wind, the Dragon was approaching the great Roman fort, whose massive walls struck Edmund with astonishment. No one was to be seen moving about in the space inclosed by them. The sail was lowered and the vessel brought to the bank. The anchors were taken ashore and she was soon solidly moored. Then the crew leapt on to the land and ascended the bank to the great level inclosure.
The walls were, as Egbert had said, intact--and indeed, except on the side facing the river, remained almost unbroken to the present day. An hour's labour sufficed to block the gateway, where a pair of massive doors were in position, for the place had been defended by the Saxons against the Danes at their first landing on the coast. A few men were placed as sentries on the walls, and, feeling now perfectly safe from any attack on the land side, Edmund and his followers returned on board the Dragon for the night.
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{
"id": "3674"
}
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8
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THE CRUISE OF THE DRAGON
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The night passed without alarm. The gale continued to blow with fury, and until it abated Edmund had little fear that the Danes would venture upon an attack. They had indeed no reason for haste. The Saxon vessel was in their waters, and could not return so long as the storm continued to blow from the east. The next day parties of Danes were seen making their way across the swampy country from the direction of Yarmouth.
As soon, however, as these approached near enough to see the Saxons in readiness on the walls of the castle they retired at once, knowing that the place could be captured by nothing short of a prolonged and desperate siege. On the fourth day the storm abated, and the Saxons prepared to make their way seaward again. The wind still blew, but lightly, from the same quarter, and the sails would therefore be of no use. With their great oar-power they were confident that, once through the Danish flotilla, they could defy pursuit.
Accordingly they again embarked, and loosing their moorings rowed down towards Yarmouth. They had chosen a time when the tide was running in; for although this would hinder their progress it would equally impede their pursuers, while it would enable them to check their vessel in time did they find any unforeseen obstacle in their way. They entered the river and rowed along quietly until they neared the walls of the town. Here the river was at its narrowest, and they saw the Danish galleys gathered thickly in the stream.
Edmund and Egbert were on the forecastle, and presently gave the signal for the men to cease rowing.
"It is just as I expected," Egbert said; "they have formed a boom across the river of trunks of trees and beams lashed together. We cannot make our way down until that obstacle is removed. What say you Edmund?"
"I agree with you," Edmund replied.
"We had best keep along close to the right bank until within a short distance of the boom; then we must land the greater part of our men. These must march along the bank in their phalanx; the others must keep the boat moving close alongside, and from the forecastle they will be able to fire down upon the Danes and aid those on shore to drive them back and make their way to the end of the boom. They have but to cut the lashings there and the whole will swing round. But now we see the nature of the obstacle, and what is to be done, it were best to wait until the tide turns. In the first place, fewer men will be needed on board the ship, as she will advance by herself abreast of the men on shore. In the second place, when the lashing is cut the boom will then swing down the stream, will cause confusion among the boats behind it, and will open a clear space for us to make our way down."
Edmund agreed, a light anchor was dropped, and the Dragon rode quietly in the stream. Great animation was evident among the Danes, large numbers crossed the river, and a strong force gathered at either end of the boom and in boats close behind it, to prevent the Saxons from attempting to cut the lashings. There was little uneasiness on board the Dragon, the Saxons were confident now of the power of their close formation to force its way through any number of the enemy, and they would gain such assistance from the fire from the lofty forecastle that they doubted not that they should be able to drive back the Danes and destroy the boom. In an hour the tide no longer rose. They waited till it ran down with full force, then the anchor was hauled up, and the Dragon rowed to the bank.
Sixty of the fighting men headed by Egbert leapt on shore. Edmund with the remainder took his place on the forecastle. The oars next to the bank were drawn in, and some of those on the outward side manned by the sailors. Then in its usual order the phalanx moved slowly forward while the ship floated along beside them close to the bank. The Danes with loud shouts advanced to meet them, and the arrows soon began to fly thickly. Covered by the long shields of the front rank the Saxons moved forward steadily, while, as the Danes approached, the archers on the forecastle opened a destructive fire upon them.
The confidence of the Saxons was justified, for the combat was never in doubt. Although the Northmen fought bravely they were unable to withstand the steady advance of the wedge of spears, and very many fell beneath the rain of arrows from above. Steadily the wedge made its way until it reached the end of the boom. A few blows with their axes sufficed to cut the cables which fastened it in its place. As soon as this was done Edmund gave a shout, and the Saxons at once sprang on board the ship, which before the Danes could follow them was steered out into the stream.
As Egbert had foreseen, the boom as it swung round swept before it a number of the Danish boats, and imprisoned them between it and the shore. The oars were soon run out, and while the men on the forecastle continued their fire at the Danish boats, the others seizing the oars swept the Dragon along the stream. The Danes strove desperately to arrest her progress. Some tried to run alongside and board, others dashed in among the oars and impeded the work of the rowers, while from the walls of the town showers of missiles were poured down upon her. But the tide was gaining every moment in strength, and partly drifting, partly rowing, the Dragon, like a bull attacked by a pack of dogs, made her way down the river. Every effort of the Danes to board was defeated, and many of their boats sunk, and at last she made her way into the open sea. There her sails were hoisted, and she soon left her pursuers behind. Once at sea her course was again turned north, and picking up some prizes on the way she took up her station off the mouth of the Humber.
Several ships were captured as they sailed out from the river. After the spoil on board was taken out, these, instead of being burnt, as had always been the case before, were allowed to proceed on their way, since had they been destroyed the crews must either have been slain or landed. The first course was repugnant to Edmund, the second could not be adopted, because they would have carried the news to the Danes, that the Dragon was off the river and no more ships would have put to sea; and indeed, so large was the number of Danish vessels always up the Humber that a fleet could easily have been equipped and sent out, before which the Dragon must have taken flight.
One day a large sailing ship was seen coming out. The Dragon remained with lowered sail until she had passed; then started in pursuit, and speedily came up with the Danish vessel. Edmund summoned her to surrender, and was answered by a Norseman of great stature and noble appearance, who from the poop hurled a javelin, which would have pierced Edmund had he not leapt quickly aside. A few other darts were thrown and then the Dragon ran alongside the enemy and boarded her.
The opposition of the Northmen was speedily beaten down, but their leader desperately defended the ladder leading to the poop. He was struck by two arrows, and fell on one knee, and Edmund was about to climb the ladder when the door of the cabin in the poop opened, and a Norse maiden some sixteen years old sprang out. Seeing her father wounded at the top of the ladder and the Saxons preparing to ascend it, while others turned their bows against the wounded Northman, she sprang forward and throwing herself upon her knees before Edmund besought him to spare her father's life. Edmund raised his hand and the bows were lowered.
"I have no wish to slay your father, maiden," he said gently; "we slay only those who resist, and resistance on the part of a single man, and he wounded, against a whole ship's crew is madness. We are no sea-wolves who slay for the pleasure of slaying, but are Saxons, who fight for our country against the oppressions and rapine of your people. Little right have they to mercy seeing they show none; but our religion enjoins us to have pity even upon our enemies. You had best ascend to your father and see to his wounds, none will harm you or him."
The girl with an exclamation of thanks sprang up the ladder. Edmund superintended the searching of the ship. She contained a great store of valuables, which were speedily transferred to the Dragon. When this had been done Edmund ascended to the poop. The jarl was sitting in a great chair placed there. Edmund had already learnt from the crew that he was Jarl Siegbert, a noted leader of the Northmen. His daughter had drawn out the arrows and bandaged the wounds.
"Jarl Siegbert," Edmund said as he approached him, "you have been a bitter enemy of the Saxons, and small mercy have you shown to those who have fallen into your hands, but learn now that we Christian Saxons take no vengeance on a defenceless foe. You are free to pursue your voyage with your daughter and your ship to Norway. Your stores we have made free with, seeing that they are all plunder taken from the Saxons, and we do but reclaim our own."
"And who are you, young sir?" the jarl asked.
"I am one of King Alfred's ealdormen of Wessex, Edmund by name."
"I have heard of you," the Dane said, "as one who has taught the Saxons new tactics, fighting in a close body which has more than once pierced our lines and caused our overthrow; but you are a mere lad."
"I am young," Edmund replied, "and had it not been for the invasions and oppressions of your countrymen, might have still accounted myself as scarce a man; but you have made warriors of every West Saxon capable of bearing a sword. Remember, jarl, that your life has been in Saxon hands, and that they have spared it, so come not hither to our shores again."
"I purpose not doing so," the Northman replied. "I have seen enough of stricken fields, and was returning to my own country to hang up my sword, content with the fame I have gained, until Woden called me to join his warriors and feast in his halls. Since we may not meet there, young Saxon--for they say that you Christians look to a place where arms will be laid aside and the sound of feasting be unheard--I will say farewell. For myself, I thank you not for my life, for I would rather have died as I have lived with my sword in my hand; but for my daughter's sake I thank you, for she is but young to be left unprotected in the world."
A few minutes later, the Danish vessel continued on her way, and the Dragon again took her station on the look-out. She was now deep in the water, and after picking up one or two more small prizes, Edmund and Egbert determined to return home.
It was probable that the Danes would soon take the alarm and despatch a fleet to attack them. Laden down as the Dragon was, her speed under oars was materially affected, and it was advisable to stow away their booty before proceeding with further adventures. Her head was turned south, and she coasted down the eastern shores of England without adventure. Several Danish vessels were seen arriving at or quitting the coast, but the Dragon continued her course without heeding them, and rounding the Forelands, sailed along the south coast and made her way up the Parrot.
Upon inquiry they learnt that no event of any importance had taken place during their absence. The Danes were complete masters of the country. King Alfred was in hiding, none knew where. The greater portion of the Danes were at their camp at Chippenham, but parties roamed here and there through the land.
Dressed as countrymen, Edmund and Egbert made their way to Exeter, and there arranged with some traders for the purchase of the less valuable portion of the Dragons cargo. This consisted of rich clothing, silks and other stuffs, wine, vestments, and altar hangings from churches, arms and armour, hides and skins. The prices obtained were far below the real value of the articles, for money was scarce, and none could say when the Danes might again swoop down and clear out the contents of the warehouses. Nevertheless the sum obtained was a large one for those days, and this did not include the value of the gold and silver goblets, salvers, vases, and utensils used in the celebration of religious services.
Of these, spoiled from the houses of the wealthy, and the churches and monasteries, they had obtained a considerable number. These were buried in the wood near the lonely spot at which the Dragon was moored, the rest of the cargo was sent in wagons--the more valuable portions hidden under the hides and skins--to Exeter. The amount which had been obtained from the cargo was divided as agreed before starting: twenty-five shares were set apart for the king, twenty-five shares were divided between the two leaders, and each soldier and sailor had one share. All were well satisfied with the success of the adventure, and with the damage which they had inflicted upon the Danes.
A fortnight's leave was given, for the men to visit their homes, and the money which they had gained in their trip was of great use to their friends in enabling them to repair the damages effected by the Danes. Not a man was absent at the appointed time, and the Dragon again made her way down to the sea.
It was midwinter now, and they cruised along the southern coast of England without perceiving a single hostile sail. They lay for a week off the mouth of the Thames, and then saw four large Danish vessels making their way down the river. They were all vessels of the largest size, strongly built, and full of men, and the Saxons judged them to be too strong to be attacked in company. The Northmen, on seeing the golden dragon flying at the mast-head of the Saxon ship, at once made towards her, keeping in a close body; but the Dragon with sails and oars easily left them behind, and the Danes giving up the pursuit continued on their way.
The Dragon fell into their wake and followed at a distance, hoping that one might prove slower than the others, or that they might in the night get separated. At nightfall, however, the Danes lit cressets of tar and hemp, which enabled them not only to keep close together, but sent out a wide circle of light, so that they could perceive the Dragon should she venture to approach.
For two days and nights the Dragon followed patiently.
"The weather is about to change," Egbert said on the third morning. "Methinks that there is a storm brewing, and if this be so the Northmen may well get separated, and we may pick up one away from her fellows."
Darker and darker grew the sky, and the wind soon blew in furious gusts, raising a sea so heavy that the Saxons were obliged to lay in their oars. By nightfall it was blowing a furious gale. In the gathering darkness and the flying scud the ships of the Danes were lost sight of; but this was of little consequence now, for the attention of the Saxons was directed to their own safety.
For the next three days their position was one of the greatest danger. With only a rag of sail set they ran before the gale from the south-west. Every wave as it overtook them threatened the destruction of the ship; but the Dragon, light and buoyant, and ably handled, rode safely over the waves. On the fourth morning the wind was still blowing fiercely, although its force had in some degree moderated. As the daylight dawned Edmund and Egbert, who had hardly left the poop since the storm began, looked anxiously ahead.
"Surely, Edmund, I see a dark mass ahead?" Egbert exclaimed.
For a minute or two Edmund gazed silently ahead.
"It is so, Egbert," he said; "it is a rocky coast. Do you not see a white fringe below where the waves strike against it?"
As the light became clearer the imminence of their peril grew more distinct. A lofty iron-bound coast rose in front of them, and extended as far as the eye could reach on either hand. The seas broke with terrible force against its base, sending its spray far up on the cliffs.
"Could we bring her about?" Edmund asked the chief of the sailors.
"It would be useless," the man said. "She could not make her way in the teeth of this gale."
"That I see," Edmund said; "but at present we are rushing on to destruction. If we bring her to the wind we may run some distance along the coast before we are driven ashore, and may perceive some spot towards which we may direct her with a chance of making land ere she goes to pieces."
The sail was still further lessened and the ship's head brought round parallel with the coast.
The Dragon laboured tremendously as the sea struck her full on the beam, and every wave flooded her low waist. Each sea which struck her lifted her bodily to leeward, and for every foot she sailed forward she was driven one towards the coast. This was now but three miles distant, and another hour would ensure her destruction; for none there hoped that the anchors, even should they find bottom, could hold her for an instant in the teeth of the gale. Every eye was directed towards the shore, but no break could be seen in the wall of rock which rose almost perpendicularly from the water.
"I fear it is hopeless," Edmund said to Egbert; "the strongest swimmer would be dashed to pieces in an instant against those rocks."
"He would indeed," Egbert replied. "I wish now that we had boldly engaged the four Danish ships. Far better would it have been for us to have died fighting for England on her decks than to have perished here."
The time passed slowly. Every minute the Dragon was swept nearer and nearer towards the rocks.
"She will just make that headland," the master sailor said, "and that is all. Once round it we had best turn her head to the rocks. If the cliffs rise as here sheer from the water, the moment she strikes will be the last for all of us; but if the rocks are, as in some places, piled high at the foot of the cliffs, a few may possibly manage to leap from her forecastle as she strikes and to clamber up."
Scarce a word was spoken on board the Dragon as she came abreast of the headland. It was but a few hundred yards away. The roar of the seas as they struck its base sounded high above the din of the storm. Great sheets of foam were thrown up to a vast height, and the turmoil of the water from the reflux of the waves was so great that the Dragon was tossed upon it like a cock-boat, and each man had to grasp at shroud or bulwark to retain his footing.
Suddenly a cheer burst from end to end of the ship. Beyond the headland a great gap was visible a quarter of a mile wide, as if the cliffs had been rent in sunder by some tremendous convulsion, and a fiord was seen stretching away in the bosom of the hills as far as the eye could reach. The Dragon's head was turned, and soon she was flying before the wind up the inlet. A mile farther and the fiord widened to a lake some two miles across between steep hills clothed from foot to summit with trees.
Its course was winding and they were soon sheltered from the gale and were gliding quietly over comparatively tranquil water. Ten miles up the anchor was let go in a sheltered inlet, and Edmund summoned the whole crew to return thanks to God for their marvellous escape.
The Dragon had suffered severely in her conflict with the elements, her large sails had been split or blown away, the bulwarks at her waist had been shattered, and considerable damage done to her gear and fittings. Four-and-twenty hours were allowed to the men for rest after their labours, and then all hands were set to work to refit.
The next morning Edmund said to his kinsman: "I will take two of the men and go ashore to hunt; there should be wild boar and deer in these forests, and all would be glad of some fresh meat."
"Be careful, Edmund; remember you are in the country of our enemies, for without doubt this land to which we have been blown is Norway; and although we can see no signs of habitations there may well be villages somewhere among these hills."
"I will be careful," Edmund said, laughing; "and if I do not return in two days do you set sail without me. I should like to discover the abode of some Northern jarl; it would indeed be a grand retaliation to give them a taste of the sufferings they have inflicted upon us."
"That would be good work," Egbert said; "nevertheless I own that at present I am anxious to be at sea again."
"Two days will be sufficient to refit," Edmund said, "and then we will spread our wings. Good-bye, Egbert, I will be back by sunset, and I hope with a deer or two."
Selecting a couple of followers, both skilled with the bow, and all being armed with spears, Edmund leapt ashore, for the water was deep up to the rocks, and the Dragon had been moored alongside for the convenience of taking on board the wood for the repairs.
Although those on board the Dragon guessed it not, many eyes were watching them. A small fishing village lay at the edge of the fiord a mile or two beyond the inlet in which the ship was moored. Hidden as they were among the trees the huts had not been noticed by the Saxons, but the strange ship had been seen by some of those in the village, and the fishermen at once pronounced that whencesoever she might have come she was assuredly no Northman's ship. Messengers had immediately been sent to the villages among the hills. These were widely scattered, and it was not until the day after the ship's arrival that a force was collected which was deemed sufficient to attack it. Already, as Edmund leapt ashore, the Norsemen were making their way quietly through the forest towards the Dragon.
Edmund had advanced but a few hundred yards up the hillside when a large party of Norsemen suddenly sprang upon him. Two Saxon arrows flew true to their marks, then the Danes rushed upon them. So far no words had been spoken, but Edmund placed to his lips the whistle with which he gave orders on board the ship and blew a long shrill note, and then shouted at the top of his voice: "The Danes! the Danes! push off!"
The instant afterwards he was attacked. He and his men fought bravely, but in a few seconds the latter were cut down and Edmund was levelled to the ground by a tremendous blow from a club.
A minute later the din of battle rose by the water's side; Edmund's whistle and shout had been heard, and the Saxons on shore sprang on board and seized their spears and bows just as the Danes poured down through the trees. For a time the Saxons defended the ship against the desperate attempts of the Danes to gain footing on her; but seeing the number of its assailants, and being certain that Edmund was killed or captured, Egbert ordered the ropes to be cut, and the Dragon was thrust away from the rocks. The oars were then got out and she rowed out of bow-shot from the shore. Then Egbert held a consultation with the leading men among the Saxons.
All on board were filled with grief at the loss of their young leader, but they felt that nothing could be done for him, and it would be but courting danger to remain longer in the fiord. Since so large a force had been collected in the forest news might have been sent to the ports, and at any moment they might see a fleet of the Northmen's galleys barring their retreat; therefore with bitter grief and lamentation the Dragon's sails were hoisted and she made her way to sea.
"My only consolation is," Egbert said, "that if the brave lad is not killed at once he may yet find his way back to England. He is ready of wit and full of invention that, if any can possibly extricate themselves from such a strait, it is assuredly he; but I fear that he fell in the first onslaught. Brave lad, even in the moment of his own peril he thought first of us. Had it not been for his timely warning we should have been taken unawares, and many must have been killed even if the Dragon herself escaped capture."
The storm had entirely abated, and the waters sparkled brightly in the cold January sun as the Dragon sailed out between the two headlands into the sea. Very different were the feelings of the crew to those which had animated them when, two days before, they had passed through the channel; then every heart beat with joy and thankfulness; now the deepest depression and grief reigned on board.
Edmund was adored by his followers. His kindness as their ealdorman, his skill and bravery as a leader, his cheerfulness and brightness under every danger and peril had immensely endeared him to their hearts, and each man felt that he had sustained an irretrievable loss, and that with their chief the spirit which had animated the Dragon and directed their enterprises was gone.
Egbert was a valiant warrior, and was an admirable second to an enterprising leader; but he was altogether without initiative, and, except when excited by danger, was dull and silent. Although all esteemed him and honoured him for his strength and bravery, they felt that he would be a poor substitute indeed for the leader they had lost.
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{
"id": "3674"
}
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9
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A PRISONER
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When Edmund recovered his senses he found that he was being carried along on a rough litter through the forest. It was some little time before he realized his position and recalled the circumstances of the attack. After the Dragon had moved safely out into the fiord, its assailants had returned to the spot where they had attacked the three Saxons who had landed. Two of them were without life, but they found that the third, who, from his habiliments was evidently of higher rank, and whom they judged, although still but a youth, to be the commander of the Saxon party, had only been stunned by the blow of the club which had felled him.
It was at once resolved to carry him to the jarl of the district, who would assuredly wish to learn from him the meaning of the coming of the strange ship. That the Dragon was a Saxon vessel the Northmen were sure. Many of them had been on expeditions across the seas, and knew the Saxons both from their dress and manner of wearing their hair, but the ship was unlike anything they had seen before, and it seemed above all things strange that when, as they understood, England had been completely conquered, Saxon warships should be entering a northern fiord.
For many hours Edmund was carried through the forest. He wondered to himself whether he would be slain on his arrival or kept as a slave, for the Norse and Saxon tongues were so similar that he was perfectly able to understand the language of his captors. A party of twelve men accompanied him, four of whom bore the litter, and were relieved at intervals by the others. After some hours the feeling of giddiness and weakness passed off, and on the men stopping to change bearers he expressed his readiness to walk.
Hitherto he had lain with his eyes closed, as he thought it better to remain as he was until he felt perfectly able to keep up with his captors in a journey which might, for aught he knew, be a long one. The Northmen expressed their satisfaction at finding that their burden need no longer be carried, and throwing aside the boughs which had formed the litter, proceeded with him on their way. They asked him many questions concerning the Dragon. Most of these he answered readily enough, but he evaded those as to the place where she had been built, or the port from which she had sailed. It was not until late in the afternoon that they arrived at the abode of the Jarl Bijorn.
It was a rough abode constructed of timber, thatched with rushes, for as yet the Northmen were scarcely a settled people, the tribes for the most part wandering in the forests hunting when not engaged in those warlike expeditions which they loved above all other things. Only the leaders dwelt in anything like permanent abodes, the rest raising huts of boughs at such places as they might make any stay at.
One of Edmund's conductors had gone on ahead, and as the party approached the building Bijorn came out from his house to meet them. He was, like almost all Northmen, a man of great stature and immense strength. Some fifty years had passed over his head, but he was still in the prime of his life; for the Northmen, owing to their life of constant activity, the development of their muscles from childhood, and their existence passed in the open air, retained their strength and vigour to a great age.
So assiduous was their training, and so rapidly did their figures develop in consequence, that at the age of fifteen a young Northman received arms and was regarded as a man, although he did not marry until many years afterwards, early wedlock being strongly discouraged among them. By Bijorn's side stood his son, who, though but twenty-two years old, rivalled him in stature and in muscular development, although lacking the great width of shoulder of the jarl.
As Edmund approached, a war-horse of the jarl fastened up to a post close to the entrance of the house neighed loudly. Bijorn looked surprised. The neighing of a horse among the Northmen was regarded as the happiest of auguries, and in their sacred groves horses were tied up, as the neighing of these animals was considered an infallible proof that a propitious answer would be given by the gods to the prayer of any petitioner who sought their aid.
"By Thor!" Bijorn exclaimed, "my good war-horse welcomes the stranger. As I said to you anon, Sweyn, I had intended to offer him as a sacrifice to Odin; but as the gods have thus declared him welcome here I must needs change my intentions. Who are you, young Saxon?" he asked as Edmund was brought before him, "and whence do you come? And how is it that a war-ship of your people is found upon our coasts?"
"I am Edmund," the young man said steadily, "an ealdorman of King Alfred of the West Saxons. The ship which was seen on your coast is mine; I built it to attack the Northmen who harry our coasts. I am here because, when in chase of four of your ships, a storm arose and blew us hither."
"You speak boldly," the jarl said, "for one in the hands of his foes. How old are you?"
"I am twenty-two," Edmund replied.
"The same age as you, Sweyn. Stand side by side and let me compare you. Ay," he went on, "he lacks nigh three inches of your height, but he is more than that bigger across the shoulders--a stalwart young champion, indeed, and does brave credit to his rearing. These West Saxons have shown themselves worthy foemen, and handled us roughly last year, as this will testify," and he pointed to the scar of a sword-cut across his face. "Doubtless this is the son of that Saxon earl who more than once last summer inflicted heavy losses upon us. Is that so, young Saxon?"
"I am the Ealdorman Edmund himself," the young man replied quietly. "My successes were won not by my own strength or courage, but by the valour of those under me, who, fighting in a novel manner, gained advantage over your Northmen."
"By Thor!" Bijorn exclaimed, "and this is the youth who attacked us at night and drove off the cattle we had taken and slew many of our followers, Sweyn! Truly he would be a rare sacrifice to offer to Odin; but the god has himself welcomed him here."
"It may be that he welcomed him as a sacrifice, father," Sweyn suggested.
"Ah! that may be so," the jarl replied. "We must consult the omens to find out the true meaning of my charger's neighing. Nevertheless in either case I shall be content, for if he be not welcomed as a sacrifice he is welcome as bringing good fortune; and in truth he will make a noble cup-bearer to me. It is not every jarl who is waited upon by a Saxon ealdorman. But till the omens have spoken let him be set aside and carefully watched. In a day or two we will journey to Odin's temple and there consult the auguries."
Three days passed, during which Edmund was well fed and treated. At the end of that time he was ordered to accompany the jarl on a journey. Two days' travelling brought them to a temple of Odin. It was a rough structure of unhewn stones situated in a wood. Bijorn and his son entered, while Edmund remained without under a guard. Presently the jarl and his son came out with a priest. The latter carried a white bag in his hand with twelve small pieces of wood. On half of these four small nicks were cut, on the others five nicks. All were placed in the bag, which was then shaken.
"Now," the priest said, "you will see the will of Odin; the first three sticks drawn out will declare it. If two of the three bear an even number of nicks, the neigh of your horse signifies that Odin accepted the sacrifice; if two of them bear unequal numbers, then it meant that his coming was propitious to you."
The bag was again shaken. Edmund looked on calmly, for Saxons and Northmen alike disdained to show the slightest fear of death; even the colour did not fade from his cheek as he watched the trial upon which his life depended.
The first stick drawn out bore five marks; the priest showed it to the jarl, and without a word dropped it in the bag again. This was again shaken and another stick drawn out; this bore but four notches; the chances were even. The silence was unbroken until the third twig was drawn.
"Odin has spoken," the priest said. "The neigh of the horse indicated that the coming of this Saxon was propitious to your house."
The jarl gave an exclamation of satisfaction, while Sweyn's brow darkened. Bijorn had indeed set his heart upon retaining this famous young Saxon leader as his slave and cup-bearer, and it was probable that in his interview with the priest before the drawing his inclinations had been clearly shown, for a slight difference between the thickness of the sticks might well have existed and served as an index to the priest in drawing them.
Bijorn, in his gratification at the answer of the god, bestowed a handsome present upon the priest, and then rode back to his abode well content with his journey. Edmund was at once installed in his new duties. Hitherto he had not entered the house nor seen the females of the family. Ulfra, the jarl's wife, was a woman of commanding stature and appearance. Like most of the northern women she had accompanied her husband in his many wanderings, and shared his dangers and privations. The wives of the Norsemen occupied a far more exalted position in the households of their lords than did those of the people of southern Europe; they were not only mistresses of the house, but were treated with respect as well as with affection; they were not, as in the south, regarded as puppets for the amusements of an idle hour, but were the companions and advisers of their husbands, occupying a position at least as free and respected as at the present day.
There were two daughters, who both bade fair to resemble their mother in stature and dignity of demeanour, for both were models of female strength and activity. Edmund's duties were light. In the morning he gathered firewood for the household; at the meals he handed the dishes, and taking his station behind the jarl's chair, refilled his goblet with mead as often as it was empty. Usually a large party sat down to supper, for an expedition to France was talked of in the spring, and the jarls and warriors often met to discuss the place of starting, the arrangements for the voyage, and the numbers which each leader would place in the field. The feasts were kept up to a late hour, and, as was the invariable custom of the Northmen, the arrangements decided upon overnight were rediscussed at a morning meeting; for they held that while over the wine-cup each man would speak the truth frankly and honestly, the colder counsels and greater prudence which the morning brought were needed before any matter could be finally settled.
A month thus passed, and Bijorn, his family and followers then moved south, as there was to be a great conference near the southern point of the country, at which a large number of the chiefs from Denmark were to be present.
Edmund observed that for some reason Sweyn was looking forward anxiously to this meeting, and his sisters more than once joked him about his anxiety.
"Pooh! pooh!" the jarl said one day in answer to such an observation. "Sweyn is but a lad yet. I know what you are driving at, and that Sweyn is smitten with the charms of my old companion's daughter, the pretty Freda; I noted it when we were in camp together; but it will be fully another ten years yet before Sweyn can think of marrying. He has got to win for himself the name of a great warrior before a jarl's daughter of proper spirit would so much as think of him. When he has the spoils of France to lay at her feet it will be time enough."
Sweyn made no reply, but Edmund saw that he was far from pleased at his father's words, and a look of surly determination on his face showed the young Saxon that he would go his own way in the matter if it lay in his power.
After ten days' travelling the party arrived at the rendezvous. Here drawn up on the shore were a vast number of galleys of all sizes, for the greater part of those who had assembled had journeyed by sea. Great numbers of huts of boughs and many tents constructed of sails had been erected. Edmund and the other slaves, these being either Saxon or Franks captured in war, soon erected bowers for the jarl and his family.
Edmund had been looking forward to the meeting with much anxiety, for he had judged that some mode of escape might there open to him. Among the Saxon slaves were several young men of strength and vigour, and Edmund had confided to them his project of stealing a boat and sailing away in it, and they, knowing that he had experience in navigation, had readily consented to join him in making an effort for freedom.
The jarl and his family were warmly welcomed by many of their companions in arms, and the day after their arrival Bijorn told Edmund to accompany him to a banquet at which he and his family were to be present. At four in the afternoon they set out and presently arrived at a large tent. Edmund waited without until the attendants carried in the dishes, when he entered with them and prepared to take his place behind his master's seat. From a few words which had passed between Sweyn and his sisters Edmund doubted not that the companion with whom Bijorn was going to dine was the father of the maiden about whom they had joked him. He was not surprised when on entering he saw Sweyn talking earnestly with a damsel somewhat apart from the rest.
The entrance of the viands was the signal for all to take their places at the table. There were in all sixteen in number, and as nearly half were women the meeting was evidently of a family character, as upon occasions of importance or when serious discussions were to take place men alone sat down. As Edmund advanced to take his place, his eye fell upon the jarl who seated himself at the head of the table, and as he did so he gave a slight start of surprise, for he at once recognized in him the Northman Siegbert, whose ship he had stopped at the mouth of the Humber. From him his eye glanced at the girl by whose side Sweyn was on the point of seating himself, and recognized in her the maiden who had besought her father's life. The dinner commenced and proceeded for some little time, when Edmund saw the girl looking fixedly at him.
"Who is that who is standing behind your father's chair?" she asked Sweyn.
"A Saxon slave," he answered. "His vessel was well-nigh wrecked on our coast. Our people captured him and slew some of his followers, and the ship speedily took to flight."
"Father," the girl said in a clear voice, which at once attracted the attention of all, "unless my eyes deceive me the young Saxon standing behind Jarl Bijorn is he whose ship captured us as we left England, and who suffered no harm to be done to us."
The Northman turned in his chair.
"It is he, Freda, surely enough, though how he comes to be a slave here to my comrade Bijorn I know not. Bijorn, my friend, I owe this youth a deep debt of gratitude; he had my life and the life and honour of Freda in his hands, and he spared both, and, slave though he may be of yours at present, yet I hail him as my friend. Tell me how came he in your hands? He is Edmund, the valiant young Saxon who smote us more than once so heavily down in Wessex."
"I know it," Bijorn replied, "and will tell you how he came into my hands, and in truth he was captured by accident and not by any valour of my arm." The jarl then related the circumstances under which Edmund had been captured, and the narrow escape he had had of being offered as a sacrifice to Odin. And Siegbert then told his guests at length the incidents of his capture by the Dragon.
"He let me go free and without a ransom," he concluded, "and that part of my obligation I should be glad to repay, though for his gentleness to Freda I must still remain his debtor. What say you, Bijorn, will you sell him to me? Name your price in horses, arms, and armour, and whatever it be I will pay it to you."
"In truth, Siegbert," Bijorn said, "I like not to part with the lad; but since you are so urgent, and seeing that you cannot otherwise discharge the obligation under which, as you say, he has laid you, I cannot refuse your prayer. As to the price, we will arrange that anon."
"Then it is settled," Siegbert said. "You are a free man, Ealdorman Edmund," and he held out his hand to the youth. "Now seat yourself at the table with my guests; there are none here but may feel honoured at dining with one of King Alfred's bravest thanes."
The transformation in Edmund's position was sudden indeed; a moment since he was a slave, and although he had determined upon making an effort for freedom, he had known that the chances of escape were small, as swift galleys would have been sent off in pursuit, and it was probable that he would have been speedily overtaken and brought back. Now he was free, and would doubtless be allowed to return home with the first party who sailed thither.
Siegbert at once tried to make Edmund feel at home, addressing much of his conversation to him. Bijorn, too, spoke in a friendly manner with him, but Sweyn was silent and sullen; he was clearly ill-pleased at this change of fortune which had turned his father's slave into a fellow-guest and equal. His annoyance was greatly heightened by the fact that it was Freda who had recognized the young Saxon, and the pleasure which her face evinced when her father proposed to purchase him from Bijorn angered him still more. In his heart he cursed the horse whose welcoming neigh had in the first instance saved Edmund's life, and the trial by augury which had confirmed the first omen. After the banquet was over Siegbert requested Edmund to relate his various adventures.
The telling of tales of daring was one of the favourite amusements of the Danes; Siegbert and his friends quaffed great bumpers of mead; and the ladies sat apart listening while Edmund told his story.
"You have a brave record, indeed," Siegbert said when he had finished, "for one so young; and fond as are our youths of adventure there is not one of them of your age who has accomplished a tithe of what you have done. Why, Freda, if this youth were but one of us he would have the hearts of all the Norse maidens at his feet. In the eyes of a Danish girl, as of a Dane, valour is the highest of recommendations."
"I don't know, father," Freda said, colouring at being thus addressed, "that we should be as bold as that, although assuredly it is but right that a maiden should esteem valour highly. It is to her husband she has to look for protection, and she shares in the honour and spoil which he gains by his valiant deeds, so you have always taught me."
"And rightly too, girl. Next to being a great hero, the greatest honour is to be the wife of one. I pledge you, Ealdorman Edmund, and should be right proud were you a son of mine. You have told your story modestly, for many of the battles and adventures of which you have spoken are known to me by report, and fame has given you a larger share in the successes than you claim for yourself. 'Tis a pity you were not born a Northman, for there is little for you to do in Saxon England now."
"I do not despair yet," Edmund replied. "Things have gone badly with us, but the last blow is not struck yet. You will hear of King Alfred in the spring, unless I am mistaken."
"But they say your King Alfred is half a monk, and that he loves reading books more than handling the sword, though, to do him justice, he has shown himself a brave warrior, and has given us far more trouble than all the other Saxon kings together."
"King Alfred fights bravely," Edmund said, "because he is fighting for his country and people; but it is true that he loves not war nor strife. He reads much and thinks more, and should he ever come to his kingdom again he will assuredly be one of the wisest and best monarchs who has ever sat on a throne. He has talked to me much of the things which he has at heart, and I know he intends to draw up wise laws for the ruling of his people."
"We love not greatly being ruled, we Northmen," Bijorn said, "but for each to go his own way as he wills, provided only he inflicts no ill upon his neighbour. We come and we go each as it pleases him. Our fleets traverse the sea and bring home plunder and booty. What need we of laws?"
"At present you have no great need of laws," Edmund replied, "seeing that you lead a wandering life; but when the time shall come--and it must come to you as it has come to other nations--when you will settle down as a rich and peaceful community, then laws will become necessary."
"Well," Bijorn said, "right glad am I that I live before such times have come. So far as I can see the settling down you speak of, and the abandonment of the ancient gods has done no great good either to you Saxons or to the Franks. Both of you were in the old time valiant people, while now you are unable to withstand our arms. You gather goods, and we carry them off; you build cities, and we destroy them; you cultivate the land, and we sweep off the crops. It seems to me that we have the best of it."
"It seems so at present," Edmund said, "but it will not last. Already in Northumbria and in East Anglia the Danes, seeing that there is no more plunder to be had, are settling down and adopting the customs of the Saxons, and so will it be in Mercia and Wessex if you keep your hold of them, and so will it be in other places. The change is but beginning, but it seems to me certain to come; so I have heard King Alfred say."
"And does he think," Sweyn said scoffingly, speaking almost for the first time, "that we shall abandon the worship of our gods and take to that of your Christ?"
"He thinks so and hopes so," Edmund replied quietly. "So long as men's lives are spent wholly in war they may worship gods like yours, but when once settled in peaceful pursuits they will assuredly recognize the beauty and holiness of the life of Christ. Pardon me," he said, turning to Siegbert, "if it seems to you that I, being still young, speak with over-boldness, but I am telling you what King Alfred says, and all men recognize his wisdom and goodness."
"I know not of your religion myself," Siegbert replied, "but I will own willingly that though its teachings may be peaceful, it makes not cowards of those who believe in it. I have seen over and over again old men and young men die on the altars of their churches as fearlessly and calmly as a Viking should do when his time comes. No Northman fears death, for he knows that a joyous time awaits him; but I am bound to say that your Christians meet death to the full as calmly. Well, each his own way, I say, and for aught I know there may be a Christian heaven as well as the Halls of Odin, and all may be rewarded in their own way for their deeds."
Bijorn and his party now rose to take leave. "I will come across to your tent in the morning," Siegbert said, "and we can then discuss what payment I shall make you for this young Saxon. I fear not that you will prove over hard to your old comrade."
After Bijorn had departed Siegbert assigned to Edmund a place in his tent as an honoured guest. Slaves brought in bundles of rushes for the beds. Freda retired to a small tent which had been erected for her adjoining the larger one, and the jarl and Edmund lay down on their piles of rushes at the upper end of the tent. Siegbert's companions and followers stretched themselves along the sides, the slaves lay down without, and in a few minutes silence reigned in the tent.
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{
"id": "3674"
}
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10
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THE COMBAT
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"I was thinking much of what you said last night," Freda said at breakfast. "How is it that you, whose religion is as you say a peaceful one, can yet have performed so many deeds of valour and bloodshed?"
"I am fighting for my home, my country, and my religion," Edmund said. "Christianity does not forbid men to defend themselves; for, did it do so, a band of pagans might ravage all the Christian countries in the world. I fight not because I love it. I hate bloodshed, and would rather die than plunder and slay peaceful and unoffending people. You have been in England and have seen the misery which war has caused there. Such misery assuredly I would inflict on none. I fight only to defend myself and my country men and women. Did your people leave our land I would gladly never draw sword again."
"But what would you do with yourself?" Freda asked in tones of surprise. "How would you pass your time if there were no fighting?"
"I should have plenty to do," Edmund said smiling; "I have my people to look after. I have to see to their welfare; to help those who need it; to settle disputes; to rebuild the churches and houses which have been destroyed. There would be no difficulty in spending my time."
"But how could a man show himself to be a hero," the Danish girl asked, "if there were no fighting?"
"There would be no occasion for heroes," Edmund said, "at least of heroes in the sense you mean--that is, of men famous principally for the number they have slain, and the destruction and misery they have caused. Our religion teaches us that mere courage is not the highest virtue. It is one possessed as much by animals as by men. Higher virtues than this are kindness, charity, unselfishness, and a desire to benefit our fellow-creatures. These virtues make a man a truer hero than the bravest Viking who ever sailed the seas. Even you, Freda, worshipper of Odin as you are, must see that it is a higher and a better life to do good to your fellow-creatures than to do evil."
"It sounds so," the girl said hesitatingly; "but the idea is so new to me that I must think it over before I can come to any conclusion."
Freda then went about her occupations, and Edmund, knowing that Siegbert would not return for some time, as he was going with Bijorn to a council which was to be held early in the day, strolled down to look at the galleys ranged along on the beach. These varied greatly in form and character. Some of the sailing ships were large and clumsy, but the galleys for rowing were lightly and gracefully built. They were low in the water, rising to a lofty bow, which sometimes turned over like the neck of a swan, at other times terminated in a sharp iron prow, formed for running down a hostile boat. Some of them were of great length, with seats for twenty rowers on either side, while all were provided with sails as well as oars. When the hour for dinner approached he returned to Siegbert's tent. The jarl had not yet come back from the council. When he did so Edmund perceived at once that he was flushed and angry.
"What has disturbed you, father?" Freda asked, as on hearing his voice she entered the tent. "Has aught gone wrong at the council?"
"Yes," the jarl replied, "much has gone wrong. Bijorn and I had not concluded our bargain when we went to the council. We had, indeed, no difficulty about the terms, but we had not clasped hands over them, as I was going back to his tent after the council was over. At the council the expedition against France was discussed, and it was proposed that we should consult the gods as to the chances of the adventure. Then the Jarl Eric rose and proposed that it should be done in the usual way by a conflict between a Dane and a captive. This was of course agreed to.
"He then said that he understood that there was in the camp a young Saxon of distinguished valour, and that he proposed that Sweyn, the son of Bijorn, should fight with him. Sweyn had expressed to him his willingness to do so should the council agree. I rose at once and said that the Saxon was no longer a captive, since I had ransomed him because he had once done me a service; but upon being pressed I was forced to admit that the bargain had not been concluded. I must acquit Bijorn of any share in the matter, for it came upon him as much by surprise as it did upon me. It seems that it is all Sweyn's doing. He must have taken the step as having a private grudge against you. Have you had any quarrel with him?"
"No," Edmund replied. "He has ever shown himself haughty and domineering, but we have come to no quarrel."
"At any rate he wants to kill you," Siegbert said. "I did my best to prevent it, pointing out that the combat ought to take place between a Frank and a Dane. However, the Northmen are always glad to see a good fight, and having satisfied themselves that in point of age and strength you were not unfairly matched, they decided that the conflict should take place. He is taller, and I think somewhat stronger than you, and has proved himself a valiant fighter, and I would give much if the combat could be avoided."
"I fear him not," Edmund said quietly, "though I would fain that this could be avoided. Had I met Sweyn upon a battle-field in England I would have slain him as a natural enemy; but to fight him in cold blood, either as a matter of augury or to furnish amusement for the assembly, likes me not. However, I must of course defend myself, and if harm comes to him it is no blame of mine."
"You will have no easy victory, I can tell you," Siegbert said, "for none among our young Danes bears a higher reputation."
"But after the combat is over how shall I stand?" Edmund asked; "for if I defeat or slay Sweyn I shall still be his father's slave."
"That will you not," Siegbert replied. "In these cases the captive if victorious is always restored to liberty; but at any rate you shall fight as a free man, for when I have finished my dinner I will go to Bijorn and conclude our bargain. Do not look so cast down, Freda; a Northman's daughter must not turn pale at the thought of a conflict. Sweyn is the son of my old friend, and was, before he took to arms, your playfellow, and since then has, methought, been anxious to gain your favour, though all too young yet for thinking of taking a wife; but never mind, there are as good as he to be found; and if our young Saxon here proves his conqueror other suitors will come, never fear."
Freda was silent, but her face flushed painfully, and Edmund saw the tears falling down her cheeks as she bent over her plate.
After the meal was over Siegbert again went out, and Edmund, approaching Freda, said, "Do not fret, Freda; if it should be that I find my skill in arms greater than that of Sweyn, I promise you that for your sake I will not wound him mortally."
"I care not," the girl said passionately; "spare him not for my sake, for I hate him, and were there no other Norseman in the world I would never be wife of his."
So saying she left the tent. Edmund now regretted the chance which had assigned him to Siegbert, for he would rather have taken his chance of escape by sea than have awaited the conflict with Sweyn. But he could not carry his plan of escape into effect now, for it would seem as if he had fled the conflict. That this would be a desperate one he did not doubt. The course which Sweyn had taken showed a bitter feeling of hatred against him, and even were it not so the young Northman would, fighting in the presence of the leaders of his nation, assuredly do his best to conquer. But Edmund had already tried his strength with older and more powerful men than his adversary and had little fear of results.
The news of the approaching conflict caused considerable excitement in the Danish camp, and Edmund's figure was narrowly scrutinized as he wandered through it. All who had been engaged in the war in Wessex had heard of Edmund, and there was no slight curiosity, when the news went abroad that the Saxon leader was a captive in the camp, to see what he was like.
At first when it was bruited abroad that Sweyn, the son of Jarl Bijorn, was to fight this noted Saxon champion the idea was that the enterprise was a rash one, strong and valiant as Sweyn was known to be for a young man; but when it was seen that Edmund was no older than he, and to the eye less strong and powerful, they felt confident in the power of their champion to overcome him.
Siegbert spared no pains to see that his guest had an even equal chance. He procured for him a strong and well-made helmet which fitted him comfortably, and gave him the choice out of a large number of shields and swords. Edmund selected a weapon which answered nearly in weight and balance that which he was accustomed to wield. There was feasting again that night in Siegbert's tent; but he did not allow Edmund to join in it, insisting after the meal was over that he should retire to a small hut hard by.
"You will want your head and your nerves in good order to-morrow," he said. "Feasting is good in its way, and the night before battle I always drink deeply, but for a single combat it were best to be prudent." As Edmund left the tent Freda, who had not appeared at dinner, came up to him.
"I have been crying all day," she said simply. "I know not why, for I have often seen my father go out to battle without a tear. I think you must have upset me with your talk this morning. I hope that you will win, because it was wrong and unfair of Sweyn to force this battle upon you; and I hate him for it! I shall pray Odin to give you victory. You don't believe in him, I know; still my prayers can do you no harm."
"Thank you," Edmund said. "I shall pray to One greater and better than Odin. But weep not any longer, for I trust neither of us will be killed. I shall do my best to guard myself, and shall try not to slay him; for this fight is not for my nation or for my religion, but concerns myself only."
The following morning the Northmen assembled. The jarls and other leading men formed the inner line of a circle some thirty yards in diameter, the others stood without; Jarl Eric entered the ring with Sweyn, while Edmund, accompanied by Siegbert, entered at the other side of the circle.
"I protest," Siegbert cried in a loud voice, "against this conflict taking place. Edmund the Saxon is no captive here, but a free man, and my guest; moreover, being a Saxon, the issue of this fight between him and a Northman can serve no purpose as an augury as to the success of our expedition against the Franks. Therefore do I protest against the conflict."
There was again a consultation between the leaders, for a murmur of approbation had run round the ranks of the spectators, who it was evident were impressed in favour of the young Saxon, and considered that the jarl's words were just and reasonable. Eric spoke for a minute with Sweyn.
"I feel," he said in a loud voice, "that what Jarl Siegbert says is reasonable, that no augury can be drawn from the fight, and that, since Edmund is no longer a captive, and a friend of Siegbert's, he cannot be forced into fighting in order that we may have an augury. But the Saxon, though so young, has won a reputation even among us, the enemies of his race; and my friend Sweyn, who has shown himself one of the bravest of our young men, considers that he has cause of quarrel with him, and challenges him to fight--not necessarily to the death, or till one is slain, but till the jarls here assembled do pronounce one or the other to be the victor. This is a fair challenge--first, there is a private quarrel; next, there is emulation between these young men, who may fairly claim to be the champions of the youth of the two races. Such a challenge the Saxon will hardly refuse."
In accordance with the customs of the day it would have been impossible for Edmund to have refused such a challenge without disgrace, and he did not for a moment think of doing so.
"I am ready to fight Sweyn," he said. "I have no great cause of quarrel with him; but if he conceives that he has grounds of quarrel with me, that is enough. As to championship of the Saxons, we have no champions; we fight not for personal honour or glory, but for our homes, our countries, and our religion, each doing his best according to the strength God has given him, and without thought of pride on the one hand or envy on the other because the strength or courage of one may be somewhat greater than that of another. Still, as a Saxon standing here as the only representative of my nation in an assembly of Northmen, I cannot refuse such a challenge, for to do so would be to infer that we Saxons are less brave than you. Therefore I am ready for the combat."
The Northmen clashed their weapons against their shields in token of their approval of the young Saxon's words, and the young champions prepared for the combat. They were naked to the waist save for shield and helmet; below the waist each wore a short and tightly-fitting garment covered with plates of brass; the legs were naked, and each wore a pair of light sandals; their weapons were long straight swords. The weapon Edmund had chosen was considerably lighter than that of his opponent, but was of toughest steel, on which were engraved in rough characters, "Prayers to Woden for victory."
The difference in height between the combatants was considerable. Edmund stood five feet ten, but looked shorter from the squareness and width of his shoulders. Sweyn was nearly four inches taller, and he too was very strongly built. His muscles indeed stood out in stronger development than did those of Edmund, and if pure strength was to win the day few of those who looked on doubted that the Dane would be the victor.
The combat was a long one. For some time Edmund contented himself with standing upon the defensive and guarding the tremendous blows which Sweyn rained upon him. In spite of the efforts of the Northman, he could neither beat down the Saxon's guard nor force him to fall back a single step.
Again and again the rattle of the spectators' arms clashed an approval of Edmund's steady resistance to his opponent's assaults. The Norsemen delighted beyond all things in a well-fought encounter. Each man, himself a warrior, was able to appreciate the value of the strokes and parries. The betting at the commencement had run high upon Sweyn, and horses, armour, arms, and slaves had been freely wagered upon his success; but as the fight went on the odds veered round, and the demeanour of the combatants had as much to do with this as the skill and strength shown by Edmund in his defence. The Dane was flushed and furious; his temper gave way under the failure of his assaults. The Saxon, on the contrary, fought as calmly and coolly as if practicing with blunted weapons; his eyes never left those of his adversary, a half smile played on his lips, and although drops of perspiration from his forehead showed how great were his exertions, his breathing hardly quickened.
Twice Sweyn drew back for breath, and Edmund each time, instead of pressing him, dropped the point of his sword and waited for him to renew the combat. At present he had scarce struck a blow, and while his own shield was riven in several places and his helmet dinted, those of Sweyn were unmarked.
At the third assault Sweyn came up determined to end the conflict, and renewed the attack with greater fury than before. Three times his sword descended with tremendous force, but each time it met the blade of the Saxon; the fourth time his arm was raised, then there was a flash and a sudden shout from the crowd.
With a mighty blow Edmund had smitten full on his opponent's uplifted arm, and, striking it just above the elbow, the sword clove through flesh and bone, and the severed limb, still grasping the sword, fell to the ground.
A loud shout of approval burst from the Danes. Although the conqueror was their enemy they appreciated so highly the virtues of coolness and courage that their applause was no less hearty than if the victor had been a countryman. Sweyn had fallen almost the instant the blow had been struck. The ring was at once broken up, and his friends ran to him. The Norsemen were adepts at the treatment of wounds, and everything had been prepared in case of emergencies.
A bandage was instantly tied tightly round the upper part of the arm to stop the rush of blood, and the stump was then dipped into boiling pitch, and Sweyn, who had become almost instantly insensible from the loss of blood, was carried to his father's tent. According to custom handsome presents of swords and armour were made to Edmund by those who had won by his success.
It would have been considered churlish to refuse them, and Edmund had no thought of doing so, for he needed money, and these things in those days were equivalent to wealth.
"You have done well and gallantly indeed, my young friend," Siegbert said as, followed by several slaves bearing Edmund's presents, they returned to the tent. "I am glad you did not slay him, for I think not that he will die. Such a blow given in battle would assuredly have been fatal, but here the means of stanching the blood were at hand, and I trust for Bijorn's sake that he will recover; but whether or no he brought it on himself."
On reaching the tent Freda ran out radiant.
"I hear that you have conquered," she said, "and I am glad indeed; it serves him right, for all say that he forced the fight upon you."
"I did not know that your sympathies were so strongly against Sweyn," Siegbert said in a somewhat reproachful tone. "He has always been your devoted follower."
"He has always been my tyrant, father, for he has always insisted on my doing his pleasure; but if he had been ten times my follower, and had been a valiant warrior instead of a youth, and I a maiden of twenty instead of a girl of fifteen, I should still be glad that he was conquered, because without any reason for quarrel he has sought to slay this Saxon youth who did us such great service, and to whom as he knew we were so indebted."
Siegbert smiled. "Hitherto I have wondered, daughter mine, at the reason which induced Sweyn to challenge Edmund, but now methinks I understand it. Sweyn has, as his father has told me, youth as he is, set his heart on winning your hand when you shall reach the age of womanhood, and it is just because Edmund has done you and me service that he hates him. You are young, child, for your bright eyes to have caused bloodshed; if you go on like this there will be no end to the trouble I shall have on your account before I get you fairly wedded."
Freda coloured hotly.
"That is nonsense, father; another five years will be soon enough to begin to think of such things. At any rate," she said with a laugh, "I am rid of Sweyn, for he can hardly expect me ever to love a one-armed man."
"There have been brave warriors," Seigbert said, "with but one arm."
"It makes no difference," Freda laughed; "if he had fifty arms I should never love him."
Edmund now entreated Siegbert to repay himself from the presents he had received for the goods he had the evening before given to Bijorn as the price of his liberty, but this the jarl would not hear of. Edmund then begged him to buy with them, of Bijorn, the four Saxon slaves with whom he had agreed to attempt an escape, and to expend the rest of the presents in freeing as many other Saxon prisoners as he could.
This Siegbert did, and by the evening Edmund had the satisfaction of finding around him twelve Saxons whose freedom he had purchased. He remained as the guest of Siegbert until the expedition sailed in the last week of March. Then with the twelve Saxons he embarked in Siegbert's ship, which, instead of keeping with the others, sailed for the mouth of the Thames. The wind was favourable and the passage quick, and three days after sailing Edmund and his companions were disembarked on the coast of Kent. His adieus with Siegbert were hearty and earnest.
"I would you had been a Northman," the jarl said, "for I love you as a son, and methinks that when the time comes, had you been so inclined, you might have really stood in that relation to me, for I guess that my little Freda would not have said no had you asked her hand; but now our paths are to part. I shall never war again with the Saxons, for indeed there is but scant booty to be gained there, while you are not likely again to be cast upon our shores; but should the fates ever throw us together again, remember that you have a friend for life in Jarl Siegbert."
Freda, who had accompanied her father as usual, wept bitterly at the parting, which, however, she did not deem to be as final as it appeared to her father; for the evening before, as she was standing on the poop with Edmund, he had said to her, "You will not forget me, Freda; we are both very young yet; but some day, when the wars are over, and England no longer requires my sword, I will seek you again."
"Is that a promise, Edmund?"
"Yes, Freda, a solemn promise."
"I will wait for you," she said simply, "if it were till the end of my life."
The youth and girl ratified the promise by a kiss, and Freda, as through her tears she watched the boat which conveyed Edmund and his companions to shore, felt sure that some day she should see her Saxon hero again.
On landing, Edmund soon learned that the Danes were everywhere masters, and that since the autumn nothing had been heard of the king, who was supposed to be somewhere in hiding.
In every village through which they passed they found evidence of the mastership of the Danes. Many of the houses were burnt or destroyed, the people were all dressed in the poorest garb, and their sad faces and listless mien told of the despair which everywhere prevailed. In every church the altars had been thrown down, the holy emblems and images destroyed, the monks and priests had fled across the sea or had been slain.
The Danish gods, Thor and Woden, had become the divinities of the land, and the Saxons, in whom Christianity had but recently supplanted the superstitions of paganism, were fast returning to the worship of the pagan gods. Edmund and his companions were shocked at the change. On reaching home they found that the ravages of the Danes had here been particularly severe, doubtless in revenge for the heavy loss which had been sustained by them in their attack upon Edmund's fortification. His own abode had been completely levelled to the ground, and the villages and farm-houses for the most part wholly destroyed. His people were lying in rude shelters which they had raised, but their condition was very much better than that of the people in general.
The news of Edmund's return spread like wildfire, and excited the most extreme joy among his people, who had long given him up for lost. He found to his delight that the Dragon had returned safely, and that she was laid up in her old hiding-place. The great amount of spoil with which she was loaded had enabled her crew largely to assist their friends, and it was this which had already raised the condition of the people above that of their neighbours. Houses were being gradually rebuilt, animals had been brought from districts which had been less ravaged by the Danes, and something approaching comfort was being rapidly restored.
Upon the day after Edmund's return Egbert arrived. Feeling sure of Edmund's death he had taken no steps towards rebuilding the house, but was living a wild life in the woods, when the news reached him that Edmund had reappeared. His own large share of the booty with that of Edmund he had buried, with the portion set aside for the king, in the wood near the spot where the Dragon was laid up.
They had passed up the Parrot at night unobserved by the Danes, and after taking the masts out of the Dragon, and dismantling her, they had laid her up in the hole near the river where she was built. There was little fear of her discovery there, for the Danes were for the most part gathered in winter quarters at the great camp near Chippenham.
Egbert's delight at the reappearance of Edmund was unbounded, for he loved him as a son, and it was a long time before their joy at the meeting was sufficiently calmed down to enable them to tell each other the events which had happened since they parted three months before. Egbert's narrative was indeed brief. He had remained two or three days off the coast of Norway in the lingering hope that Edmund might in some way have escaped death, and might yet come off and join him. At the end of a week this hope had faded, and he sailed for England. Being winter, but few Danish galleys were at sea, and he had encountered none from the time he set sail until he arrived off the coast at the mouth of the Parrot.
He had entered the river at night so as to be unseen by any in the village at its mouth, and had, after the Dragon was laid up, passed his time in the forest. Edmund's narration was much more lengthy, and Egbert was surprised indeed to find that his kinsman owed his freedom to the jarl whose vessel they had captured at the mouth of the Humber.
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{
"id": "3674"
}
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11
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THE ISLE OF ATHELNEY
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Edmund spent a month on his lands, moving about among his vassals and dwelling in their abodes. He inspired them by his words with fresh spirit and confidence, telling them that this state of things could not last, and that he was going to join the king, who doubtless would soon call them to take part in a fresh effort to drive out their cruel oppressors. Edmund found that although none knew with certainty the hiding-place of King Alfred, it was generally reported that he had taken refuge in the low lands of Somersetshire, and Athelney was specially named as the place which he had made his abode.
"It is a good omen," Edmund said, "for Athelney lies close to the Parrot, where my good ship the Dragon is laid away."
After visiting all the villages in his earldom Edmund started with Egbert and four young men, whom he might use as messengers, for the reported hiding-place of the king. First they visited the Dragon, and found her lying undisturbed; then they followed the river down till they reached the great swamps which extended for a considerable distance near its mouth. After much wandering they came upon the hut of a fisherman. The man on hearing the footsteps came to his door with a bent bow. When he saw that the new-comers were Saxons he lowered the arrow which was already fitted to the string.
"Can you tell us," Edmund said, "which is the way to Athelney? We know that it is an island amidst these morasses, but we are strangers to the locality and cannot find it."
"And you might search for weeks," the man said, "without finding it, so thickly is it surrounded by deep swamps and woods. But what want ye there?"
"Men say," Edmund replied, "that King Alfred is hidden there. We are faithful followers of his. I am Ealdorman Edmund of Sherborne, and have good news for the king."
"If ye are indeed the Ealdorman of Sherborne, of whose bravery I have heard much, I will right willingly lead you to Athelney if you will, but no king will you find there. There are a few fugitives from the Danes scattered here and there in these marshes, but none, so far as I know, of any rank or station. However, I will lead you thither should you still wish to go."
Edmund expressed his desire to visit the island even if the king were not there. The man at once drew out a small boat from a hiding-place near his hut. It would hold four at most. Edmund and Egbert stepped in with one of their followers, charging the others to remain at the hut until they received further instructions. The fisherman with a long pole took his place in the bow of the boat and pushed off. For some hours they made their way through the labyrinth of sluggish and narrow channels of the morass. It was a gloomy journey. The leafless trees frequently met overhead; the long rushes in the wetter parts of the swamp rustled as the cold breezes swept across them, and a slight coating of snow which had fallen the previous night added to the dreary aspect of the scene. At last they came upon sharply rising ground.
"This is Athelney," the fisherman said, "a good hiding-place truly; for, as you see, it rises high over the surrounding country, which is always swampy from the waters of the Parrot and Theme, and at high tides the salt water of the sea fills all these waterways, and the trees rise from a broad sheet of sea. No Dane has ever yet set foot among these marshes; and were there but provisions to keep them alive, a safe refuge might be found on this island for hundreds of fugitives. Will you be returning to-night?"
"That I cannot tell you," Edmund replied; "but at any rate I will hire you and your boat to remain at my service for a week, and will pay you a far higher price than you can obtain by your fishing."
The fisherman readily agreed, and Edmund and his companions made their way into the heart of the island. It was of some extent, and rose above the tree-tops of the surrounding country. Presently they came to a cottage. A man came out.
"What do you seek?" he asked.
"You have fugitives in refuge here," Edmund said. "Know you if among them is our good King Alfred?" The man looked astonished.
"A pretty place to seek for a king!" he replied. "There are a few Saxons in hiding here. Some live by fishing, some chop wood; but for the most part they are an idle and thriftless lot, and methinks have fled hither rather to escape from honest work or to avoid the penalties of crimes than for any other reason."
"How may we find them?" Edmund asked.
"They are scattered over the island. There are eight or ten dwellers here like myself, and several of them have one or more of these fellows with them; others have built huts for themselves and shift as they can; but it is a hard shift, I reckon, and beech-nuts and acorns, eked out with an occasional fish caught in the streams, is all they have to live upon. I wonder that they do not go back to honest work among their kinsfolk."
"Ah!" Edmund said, "you do not know here how cruel are the ravages of the Danes; our homes are broken up and our villages destroyed, and every forest in the land is peopled with fugitive Saxons. Did you know that you would speak less harshly of those here. At any rate the man I seek is young and fair-looking, and would, I should think"--and he smiled as he remembered Alfred's studious habits--"be one of the most shiftless of those here."
"There is such a one," the man replied, "and several times friends of his have been hither to see him. He dwells at my next neighbour's, who is often driven well-nigh out of her mind--for she is a dame with a shrewish tongue and sharp temper--by his inattention. She only asks of him that he will cut wood and keep an eye over her pigs, which wander in the forest, in return for his food; and yet, simple as are his duties, he is for ever forgetting them. I warrant me, the dame would not so long have put up with him had he not been so fair and helpless. However bad-tempered a woman may be, she has always a tender corner in her heart for this sort of fellow. There, you can take this path through the trees and follow it on; it will take you straight to her cottage."
The description given by the man tallied so accurately with that of the king that Edmund felt confident that he was on the right track. The fact, too, that from time to time men had come to see this person added to the probability of his being the king. Presently they came upon the hut. A number of pigs were feeding under the trees around it; the door was open, and the shrill tones of a woman's voice raised in anger could be heard as they approached.
"You are an idle loon, and I will no longer put up with your ways, and you may seek another mistress. You are worse than useless here. I do but ask you to watch these cakes while I go over to speak with my neighbour, and inquire how she and the child born yestereven are getting on, and you go to sleep by the fire and suffer the case to burn.
"You were not asleep, you say? then so much the worse. Where were your eyes, then? And where was your nose? Why, I smelt the cakes a hundred yards away, and you sitting over them, and as you say awake, neither saw them burning nor smelt them! You are enough to break an honest woman's heart with your mooning ways. You are ready enough to eat when the meal-time comes, but are too lazy even to watch the food as it cooks. I tell you I will have no more of you. I have put up with you till I am verily ashamed of my own patience; but this is too much, and you must go your way, for I will have no more of you."
At this moment Edmund and Egbert appeared at the door of the hut. As he had expected from the nature of the colloquy Edmund saw King Alfred standing contrite and ashamed before the angry dame.
"My beloved sovereign!" he cried, running in and falling on his knees.
"My trusted Edmund," Alfred exclaimed cordially, "right glad am I to see you, and you too, my valiant Egbert; truly I feared that the good ship Dragon had long since fallen into the hands of our enemy."
"The Dragon lies not many miles hence, your majesty, in the hole in which she was built, by the river Parrot; she has done bravely and has brought home a rich store of booty, a large share of which has been hidden away for your majesty, and can be brought here in a few hours should you wish it."
"Verily I am glad to hear it, Edmund, for I have long been penniless; and I have great need of something at least to pay this good woman for all the trouble she has been at with me, and for her food which my carelessness has destroyed, as you may have heard but now."
Edmund and Egbert joined in the king's merry laugh. The dame looked a picture of consternation and fell upon her knees.
"Pardon me, your majesty," she cried; "to think that I have ventured to abuse our good King Alfred, and have even in mine anger lifted my hand against him!"
"And with right good-will too," the king said laughing. "Never fear, good dame, your tongue has been rough but your heart has been kindly, or never would you have borne so long with so shiftless a serving-man. But leave us now, I pray ye, for I have much to say to my good friends here. And now, Edmund, what news do you bring? I do not ask after the doings of the Dragon, for that no doubt is a long story which you shall tell me later, but how fares it with my kingdom? I have been in correspondence with several of my thanes, who have from time to time sent me news of what passes without. From what they say I deem that the time for action is at last nigh at hand. The people are everywhere desperate at the oppression and exactions of the Danes, and are ready to risk everything to free themselves from so terrible a yoke. I fled here and gave up the strife because the Saxons deemed anything better than further resistance. Now that they have found out their error it is time to be stirring again."
"That is so," Edmund said; "Egbert and I have found the people desperate at their slavery, and ready to risk all did a leader but appear. My own people will all take up arms the instant they receive my summons; they have before now proved their valour, and in my crew of the Dragon you have a body which will, I warrant me, pierce through any Danish line."
"This tallies with what I have heard," Alfred said, "and in the spring I will again raise my banner; but in the meantime I will fortify this place. There are but two or three spots where boats can penetrate through the morasses; were strong stockades and banks erected at each landing-place we might hold the island in case of defeat against any number of the enemy."
"That shall be done," Edmund said, "and quickly. I have a messenger here with me, and others waiting outside the swamp, and can send and bring my crew of the Dragon here at once."
"Let that be one man's mission," the king said; "the others I will send off with messages to the thanes of Somerset, who are only awaiting my summons to take up arms. I will bid them send hither strong working parties, but to make no show in arms until Easter, at which time I will again spread the Golden Dragon to the winds. The treasure you speak of will be right welcome, for all are so impoverished by the Danes that they live but from hand to mouth, and we must at least buy provisions to maintain the parties working here. Arms, too, must be made, for although many have hidden their weapons, the Danes have seized vast quantities, having issued an order that any Saxon found with arms shall be at once put to death. Money will be needed to set all the smithies to work at the manufacture of pikes and swords. Hides must be bought for the manufacture of shields. It will be best to send orders to the ealdormen and thanes to send hither privately the smiths, armourers, and shield-makers in the villages and towns. They cannot work with the Danes ever about, but must set up smithies here. They must bring their tools and such iron as they can carry; what more is required we must buy at the large towns and bring privately in carts to the edge of the morass. The utmost silence and secrecy must be observed, that the Danes may obtain no news of our preparations until we are ready to burst out upon them."
A fortnight later Athelney presented a changed appearance. A thousand men were gathered there. Trees had been cut down, a strong fort erected on the highest ground, and formidable works constructed at three points where alone a landing could be effected. The smoke rose from a score of great mounds, where charcoal-burners were converting timber into fuel for the forges. Fifty smiths and armourers were working vigorously at forges in the open air, roofs thatched with rushes and supported by poles being erected over them to keep the rain and snow from the fires. A score of boats were threading the mazes of the marshes bringing men and cattle to the island. All was bustle and activity, every face shone with renewed hope. King Alfred himself and his thanes moved to and fro among the workers encouraging them at their labours.
Messengers came and went in numbers, and from all parts of Wessex King Alfred received news of the joy which his people felt at the tidings that he was again about to raise his standard, and of the readiness of all to obey his summons. So well was the secret kept that no rumour of the storm about to burst upon them reached the Danes. The people, rejoicing and eager as they were, suffered no evidence of their feelings to be apparent to their cruel masters, who, believing the Saxons to be finally crushed, were lulled into a false security. The king's treasure had been brought from its hiding-place to Athelney, and Edmund and Egbert had also handed over their own share of the booty to the king. The golden cups and goblets he had refused to take, but had gladly accepted the silver.
Edmund and Egbert had left Athelney for a few days on a mission. The king had described to them minutely where he had hidden the sacred standard with the Golden Dragon. It was in the hut of a charcoal-burner in the heart of the forests of Wiltshire. Upon reaching the hut, and showing to the man the king's signet-ring, which when leaving the standard he had told him would be the signal that any who might come for it were sent by him, the man produced the standard from the thatch of his cottage, in which it was deeply buried, and hearing that it was again to be unfurled called his two stalwart sons from their work and at once set out with Edmund and Egbert to join the army.
Easter came and went, but the preparations were not yet completed. A vast supply of arms was needed, and while the smiths laboured at their work Edmund and Egbert drilled the fighting men who had assembled, in the tactics which had on a small scale proved so effective. The wedge shape was retained, and Edmund's own band claimed the honour of forming the apex, but it had now swollen until it contained a thousand men, and as it moved in a solid body, with its thick edge of spears outward, the king felt confident that it would be able to break through the strongest line of the Danes.
From morning till night Edmund and Egbert, assisted by the thanes of Somerset who had gathered there, drilled the men and taught them to rally rapidly from scattered order into solid formation. Unaccustomed to regular tactics the ease and rapidity with which these movements came to be carried out at the notes of Edmund's bugle seemed to all to be little less than miraculous, and they awaited with confidence and eagerness their meeting with the Danes on the field.
At the end of April messengers were sent out bidding the Saxons hold themselves in readiness, and on the 6th of May Alfred moved with his force from Athelney to Egbertesstan (now called Brixton), lying to the east of the forest of Selwood, which lay between Devonshire and Somerset. The Golden Dragon had been unfurled. On the fort in Athelney, and after crossing the marshes to the mainland it was carried in the centre of the phalanx.
On the 12th they reached the appointed place, where they found a great multitude of Saxons already gathered. They had poured in from Devonshire, Somerset, and Wiltshire, from Dorset and Hants. In spite of the vigorous edicts of the Danes against arms a great proportion of them bore weapons, which had been buried in the earth, or concealed in hollow trees or other hiding-places until the time for action should again arrive.
As they saw the king approaching at the head of his band, with the Golden Dragon fluttering in the breeze, a great shout of joy arose from the multitude, and they crowded round the monarch with shouts of welcome at his reappearance among them, and with vows to die rather than again to yield to the tyranny of the Northmen. The rest of the day was spent in distributing the newly fashioned arms to those who needed them, and in arranging the men in bands under their own thanes, or, in their absence, such leaders as the king appointed.
Upon the following morning the army started, marching in a north-easterly direction against the great camp of the Danes at Chippenham. That night they rested at Okeley, and then marched on until in the afternoon they came within sight of the Danes gathered at Ethandune, a place supposed to be identical with Edington near Westbury.
As the time for Alfred's reappearance approached the agitation and movement on the part of the people had attracted the attention of the Danes, and the news of his summons to the Saxons to meet him at Egbertesstan having come to their ears, they gathered hastily from all parts under Guthorn their king, who was by far the most powerful viking who had yet appeared in England, and who ruled East Anglia as well as Wessex. Confident of victory the great Danish army beheld the approach of the Saxons. Long accustomed to success, and superior in numbers, they regarded with something like contempt the approach of their foes.
In the centre Alfred placed the trained phalanx which had accompanied him from Athelney, in the centre of which waved the Golden Dragon, by whose side he placed himself. Its command he left in the hands of Edmund, he himself directing the general movements of the force. On his right were the men of Somerset and Hants; on the left those of Wilts, Dorset, and Devon.
His orders were that the advance was to be made with regularity; that the whole line were to fight for a while on the defensive, resisting the onslaught of the Danes until he gave the word for the central phalanx to advance and burst through the lines of the enemy, and that when these had been thrown into confusion by this attack the flanks were to charge forward and complete the rout. This plan was carried out. The Danes advanced with their usual impetuosity, and for hours tried to break through the lines of the Saxon spears. Both sides fought valiantly, the Danes inspired by their pride in their personal prowess and their contempt for the Saxons; the Saxons by their hatred for their oppressors, and their determination to die rather than again submit to their bondage. At length, after the battle had raged some hours, and both parties were becoming wearied from their exertions, the king gave Edmund the order.
Hitherto his men had fought in line with the rest; but at the sound of his bugle they quitted their places, and, ere the Danes could understand the meaning of this sudden movement, had formed themselves into their wedge, raised a mighty shout, and advanced against the enemy. The onslaught was irresistible. The great wedge, with its thick fringe of spears, burst its way straight through the Danish centre carrying all before it. Then at another note of Edmund's bugle it broke up into two bodies, which moved solidly to the right and left, crumpling up the Danish lines.
Alfred now gave the order for a general advance, and the Saxon ranks, with a shout of triumph, flung themselves upon the disordered Danes. Their success was instant and complete. Confounded at the sudden break up of their line, bewildered by these new and formidable tactics, attacked in front and in flank, the Danes broke and fled. The Saxons pursued them hotly, Edmund keeping his men well together in case the Danes should rally. Their rout, however, was too complete; vast numbers were slain, and the remnant of their army did not pause until they found themselves within the shelter of their camp at Chippenham.
No quarter was given by the Saxons to those who fell into their hands, and pressing upon the heels of the flying Danes the victorious army of King Alfred sat down before Chippenham. Every hour brought fresh reinforcements to the king's standard. Many were already on their way when the battle was fought; and as the news of the victory spread rapidly every man of the West Saxons capable of bearing arms made for Chippenham, feeling that now or never must a complete victory over the Danes be obtained.
No assault was made upon the Danish camp. Confident in his now vastly superior numbers, and in the enthusiasm which reigned in his army, Alfred was unwilling to waste a single life in an attack upon the entrenchments, which must ere long surrender from famine. There was no risk of reinforcements arriving to relieve the Danes. Guthorn had led to the battle the whole fighting force of the Danes in Wessex and East Anglia. This was far smaller than it would have been a year earlier; but the Northmen, having once completed their work of pillage, soon turned to fresh fields of adventure. Those whose disposition led them to prefer a quiet life had settled upon the land from which they had dispossessed the Saxons; but the principal bands of rovers, finding that England was exhausted and that no more plunder could be had, had either gone back to enjoy at home the booty they had gained, or had sailed to harry the shores of France, Spain, and Italy.
Thus the position of the Danes in Chippenham was desperate, and at the end of fourteen days, by which time they were reduced to an extremity by hunger, they sent messengers into the royal camp offering their submission. They promised if spared to quit the kingdom with all speed, and to observe this contract more faithfully than those which they had hitherto made and broken. They offered the king as many hostages as he might wish to take for the fulfilment of their promises. The haggard and emaciated condition of those who came out to treat moved Alfred to pity.
So weakened were they by famine that they could scarce drag themselves along. It would have been easy for the Saxons to have slain them to the last man; and the majority of the Saxons, smarting under the memory of the cruel oppression which they had suffered, the destruction of home and property, and the slaughter of friends and relations, would fain have exterminated their foes. King Alfred, however, thought otherwise.
Guthorn and the Danes had effected a firm settlement in East Anglia, and lived at amity with the Saxons there. They had, it is true, wrested from them the greatest portion of their lands. Still peace and order were now established. The Saxons were allowed liberty and equal rights. Intermarriages were taking place, and the two peoples were becoming welded into one. Alfred then considered that it would be well to have the king of this country as an ally; he and his settled people would soon be as hostile to further incursions of the Northmen as were the Saxons themselves, and their interests and those of Wessex would be identical.
Did he, on the other hand, carry out a general massacre of the Danes now in his power he might have brought upon England a fresh invasion of Northmen, who, next to plunder, loved revenge, and who might come over in great hosts to avenge the slaughter of their countrymen. Moved, then, by motives of policy as well as by compassion, he granted the terms they asked, and hostages having been sent in from the camp he ordered provisions to be supplied to the Danes.
The same night a messenger of rank came in from Guthorn saying that he intended to embrace Christianity. The news filled Alfred and the Saxons with joy. The king, a sincere and devoted Christian, had fought as much for his religion as for his kingdom, and his joy at the prospect of Guthorn's conversion, which would as a matter of course be followed by that of his subjects, was deep and sincere.
To the Saxons generally the temporal consequence of the conversion had no doubt greater weight than the spiritual. The conversion of Guthorn and the Danes would be a pledge far more binding than any oaths of alliance between the two kingdoms. Guthorn and his followers would be viewed with hostility by their countrymen, whose hatred of Christianity was intense, and East Anglia would, therefore, naturally seek the close alliance and assistance of its Christian neighbour.
Great were the rejoicings in the Saxon camp that night. Seldom, indeed, has a victory had so great and decisive an effect upon the future of a nation as that of Ethandune. Had the Saxons been crushed, the domination of the Danes in England would have been finally settled. Christianity would have been stamped out, and with it civilization, and the island would have made a backward step into paganism and barbarism which might have delayed her progress for centuries.
The victory established the freedom of Wessex, converted East Anglia into a settled and Christian country, and enabled King Alfred to frame the wise laws and statutes and to establish on a firm basis the institutions which raised Saxon England vastly in the scale of civilization, and have in no small degree affected the whole course of life of the English people.
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{
"id": "3674"
}
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12
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FOUR YEARS OF PEACE
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Seven weeks afterwards Guthorn, accompanied by thirty of his noblest warriors, entered Alfred's camp, which was pitched at Aller, a place not far from Athelney. An altar was erected and a solemn service performed, and Guthorn and his companions were all baptized, Alfred himself becoming sponsor for Guthorn, whose name was changed to Athelstan. The Danes remained for twelve days in the Saxon camp. For the first eight they wore, in accordance with the custom of the times, the chrismal, a white linen cloth put on the head when the rite of baptism was performed; on the eighth day the solemn ceremony known as the chrism, the loosing or removal of the cloths, took place at Wedmore. This was performed by the Ealdorman Ethelnoth.
During these twelve days many conferences were held between Alfred and Athelstan as to the future of the two kingdoms. While the Danes were still in the camp a witenagemot or Saxon parliament was held at Wedmore. At this Athelstan and many of the nobles and inhabitants of East Anglia were present, and the boundary of the two kingdoms was settled. It was to commence at the mouth of the Thames, to run along the river Lea to its source, and at Bedford turn to the right along the Ouse as far as Watling Street. According to this arrangement a considerable portion of the kingdom of Mercia fell to Alfred's share.
The treaty comprehended various rules for the conduct of commerce, and courts were instituted for the trial of disputes and crimes. The Danes did not at once leave Mercia, but for a considerable time lay in camp at Cirencester; but all who refused to become Christians were ordered to depart beyond the seas, and the Danes gradually withdrew within their boundary.
Guthorn's conversion, although no doubt brought about at the moment by his admiration of the clemency of Alfred, had probably been for some time projected by him. Mingling as his people did in East Anglia with the Christian Saxons there, he must have had opportunities for learning the nature of their tenets, and of contrasting its mild and beneficent teaching with the savage worship of the pagan gods. By far the greater proportion of his people followed their king's example; but the wilder spirits quitted the country, and under their renowned leader Hasting sailed to harry the shores of France. The departure of the more turbulent portion of his followers rendered it more easy for the Danish king to carry his plans into effect.
After the holding of the witan Edmund and Egbert at once left the army with their followers, and for some months the young ealdorman devoted himself to the work of restoring the shattered homes of his people, aiding them with loans from the plunder he had gained on the seas, Alfred having at once repaid him the sums which he had lent at Athelney. As so many of his followers had also brought home money after their voyage, the work of rebuilding and restoration went on rapidly, and in a few months the marks left of the ravages by the Danes had been well-nigh effaced.
Flocks and herds again grazed in the pastures, herds of swine roamed in the woods, the fields were cultivated, and the houses rebuilt. In no part of Wessex was prosperity so speedily re-established as in the district round Sherborne governed by Edmund. The Dragon was thoroughly overhauled and repaired, for none could say how soon fresh fleets of the Northmen might make their appearance upon the southern shores of England. It was not long, indeed, before the Northmen reappeared, a great fleet sailing up the Thames at the beginning of the winter. It ascended as high as Fulham, where a great camp was formed. Seeing that the Saxons and East Anglians would unite against them did they advance further, the Danes remained quietly in their encampment during the winter, and in the spring again took ship and sailed for France.
For the next two years England enjoyed comparative quiet, the Danes turning their attention to France and Holland, sailing up the Maas, Scheldt, Somme, and Seine. Spreading from these rivers they carried fire and sword over a great extent of country. The Franks resisted bravely, and in two pitched battles defeated their invaders with great loss. The struggle going on across the Channel was watched with great interest by the Saxons, who at first hoped to see the Danes completely crushed by the Franks.
The ease, however, with which the Northmen moved from point to point in their ships gave them such immense advantage that their defeats at Hasle and Saucourt in no way checked their depredations. Appearing suddenly off the coast, or penetrating into the interior by a river, their hordes would land, ravage the country, slay all who opposed them, and carry off the women and children captives, and would then take to their ships again before the leaders of the Franks could assemble an army.
Alfred spent this time of repose in restoring as far as possible the loss and damage which his kingdom had suffered. Many wise laws were passed, churches were rebuilt, and order restored; great numbers of the monks and wealthier people who had fled to France in the days of the Danish supremacy now returned to England, which was for the time freer from danger than the land in which they had sought refuge; and many Franks from the districts exposed to the Danish ravages came over and settled in England.
Gradually the greater part of England acknowledged the rule of Alfred. The kingdom of Kent was again united to that of Wessex; while Mercia, which extended across the centre of England from Anglia to Wales, was governed for Alfred by Ethelred the Ealdorman, who was the head of the powerful family of the Hwiccas, and had received the hand of Alfred's daughter Ethelfleda. He ruled Mercia according to its own laws and customs, which differed materially from those of the West Saxons, and which prevented a more perfect union of the two kingdoms until William the Conqueror welded the whole country into a single whole. But Ethelred acknowledged the supremacy of Alfred, consulted him upon all occasions of importance, and issued all his edicts and orders in the king's name. He was ably assisted by Werfrith, the Bishop of Worcester. The energy and activity of these leaders enabled Mercia to keep abreast of Wessex in the onward progress which Alfred laboured so indefatigably to promote.
Edmund, when not occupied with the affairs of his earldom, spent much of his time with the king, who saw in him a spirit of intelligence and activity which resembled his own. Edmund was, however, of a less studious disposition than his royal master; and though he so far improved his education as to be able to read and write well, Alfred could not persuade him to undertake the study of Latin, being, as he said, well content to master some of the learning of that people by means of the king's translations.
At the end of another two years of peace Edmund was again called upon to take up arms. Although the Danes attempted no fresh invasion some of their ships hung around the English coast, capturing vessels, interfering with trade, and committing other acts of piracy.
Great complaints were made by the inhabitants of the seaports to Alfred. The king at once begged Edmund to fit out the Dragon, and collecting a few other smaller ships he took his place on Edmund's ship and sailed in search of the Danes. After some search they came upon the four large ships of the Northmen which had been a scourge to the coast.
The Saxons at once engaged them, and a desperate fight took place. The Dragon was laid alongside the largest of the Danish vessels; and the king, with Edmund and Egbert by his side, leapt on to the deck of the Danish vessel, followed by the crew of the Dragon. The Danish ship was crowded with men who fought desperately, but the discipline even more than the courage of Edmund's crew secured for them the victory. For a time each fought for himself; and although inspired by the presence of the king they were able to gain no advantage, being much out-numbered by the Northmen.
Edmund, seeing this, sounded on his horn the signal with which in battle he ordered the men to form their wedge. The signal was instantly obeyed. The Saxons were all fighting with boarding-pikes against the Northmen's swords and axes, for they had become used to these weapons and preferred them to any other.
The instant Edmund's horn was heard, each man desisted from fighting and rushed to their leader, around whom they instantly formed in their accustomed order. The Danes, astonished at the sudden cessation of the battle, and understanding nothing of the meaning of the signal or of the swift movement of the Saxons, for a minute lowered their weapons in surprise.
Before they again rushed forward the formation was complete, and in a close body with levelled spears the Saxons advanced, Egbert as usual leading the way, with Edmund and the king in the centre.
In vain the Danes strove to resist the onset; in spite of their superior numbers they were driven back step by step until crowded in a close mass at one end.
Still the Saxon line of spears pressed on. Many of the Danes leapt into the sea, others were pushed over or run through, and in a few minutes not a Northman remained alive in the captured vessel.
In the meantime the battle was raging in other parts. Two of the small vessels were engaged with one of the Danes at close quarters, while the other ships hung around the remaining Danish vessels and kept up volleys of arrows and javelins upon them.
The Dragon at once went to the assistance of the two Saxon ships, whose crews were almost overpowered by the Northmen. Laying the ship alongside, Edmund boarded the Danes. The Northmen rushed back from the decks of the Saxon ship to defend their own vessel; and the Saxons, regaining courage, at once rallied and followed them. The combat was short but desperate. Attacked on three sides, the Danes were speedily overcome and were slaughtered to a man.
An attack was next made upon the two remaining vessels. These resisted for some time, but they were overwhelmed by the missiles from the Saxon flotilla; and the greater portion of their crews being killed or wounded, their commanders prayed for mercy, which was granted them by Alfred; and with the four captured vessels the fleet returned to England.
On reaching port Alfred begged Edmund to continue for a while with the Dragon, to cruise along the coasts and to stop the depredations of the Danes; and for some weeks the Dragon kept the seas. She met with considerable success, capturing many Danish galleys. Some of these contained rich spoil, which had been gathered in France, for cruising in the seas off Dover Edmund intercepted many of the Danish vessels on their homeward way from raids up the Seine, Garonne, and other French rivers.
One day in the excitement of a long pursuit of a Danish galley, which finally succeeded in making her escape, Edmund had paid less attention than usual to the weather, and, on giving up the chase as hopeless, perceived that the sky had become greatly overcast, while the wind was rising rapidly.
"We are in for a storm from the north, Egbert," he said, "and we must make for the mouth of the Thames for shelter."
The sails were lowered, and the Dragon's head turned west. Before two hours had passed the sea had risen so greatly that it was no longer possible to row.
"What had we best do?" Edmund asked the chief of the sailors. "Think you that we can make Dover and shelter under the cliffs there?"
"I fear that we cannot do so," the sailor replied, "for there are terrible sands and shallows off the Kentish coast between the mouth of the Thames and Dover, and the wind blows so strongly that we can do nought but run before it."
"Then let us do so," Edmund replied; "anything is better than being tossed at the mercy of the waves."
A sail was hoisted, and the Dragon flew along before the wind. The storm increased in fury, and for some hours the vessel ran before it. She was but a short distance from the French coast, and as the wind veered round more to the west her danger became great.
"I fear we shall be cast ashore," Edmund said to the sailor.
"Fortunately," the man answered, "we are but a mile or two from the mouth of the Seine, and there we can run in and take shelter."
It was an anxious time until they reached the mouth of the river, for they were continually drifting nearer and nearer to the coast. However, they cleared the point in safety, and, turning her head, ran up the river and soon anchored under the walls of Havre. As she came to an anchor armed men were seen crowding the walls.
"They take us for Danes," Egbert said. "We had best hoist the Dragon, and they will then know that we are a Saxon ship."
Soon after the flag was hoisted the gates of the town were seen to open, and an officer and some men issued out. These launched a boat and rowed out to the ship. The officer mounted to the deck. He was evidently in considerable fear, but as he saw the Saxons standing about unarmed he was reassured. "Is this really a Saxon ship," he asked, "as its flag testifies?"
"It is so," Edmund replied; "it is my vessel, and I am an ealdorman of King Alfred. We have been chasing the Danish pirates, but this storm having arisen, we were blown down the French coast and forced to seek shelter here."
"The governor bids you welcome," the officer said, "and bade me invite you to land."
"That will I gladly; the more so since my ship has suffered some damage in the gale, her bulwarks having been partly shattered; and it will need a stay of a few days here to repair her for sea. Will you tell the governor that in a short time I will land with my kinsman Egbert and accept his hospitality?"
An hour later Edmund and Egbert landed and were at once conducted to the governor, who welcomed them cordially.
They found there many whom they had known at the court of King Alfred. The wealthier men, the bishops and thanes, had for the most part journeyed to Paris or to other towns in the interior to escape the dreaded Northmen; but there were many detained at Havre from want of funds to journey farther.
"It is a sad pity," the governor said as they talked over the troubled state of Western Europe, "that your English king and our Frankish monarch did not make common cause against these sea robbers. They are the enemies of mankind. Not only do they ravage all our coasts, but they have entered the Mediterranean, and have plundered and ravaged the coasts of Provence and Italy, laying towns under ransom, burning and destroying."
"I would that I could meet some of their ships on their way back from Italy," Edmund said. "I warrant that we should obtain a rare booty, with gems of art such as would delight King Alfred, but are thrown away on these barbarians; but I agree with you that 'tis shameful that the coasts of all Europe should be overrun with these pirates."
"Yes," the governor replied, "if every country in Christendom would unite against their common foe, and send a quota of ships and men, we would drive the Black Raven from the seas, and might even land on the Danish shores and give them a taste of the suffering they have inflicted elsewhere. As it is, all seem paralysed. Local efforts are made to resist them; but their numbers are too great to be thus withstood. I wonder that the pope does not call Christendom to arms against these pagan robbers, who not only destroy towns and villages, but level to the ground the holy shrines, and slay the ministers of God on the altars."
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{
"id": "3674"
}
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