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VOLUME I.
[p©[E¥KY a
HOPE AND MEMORY.
BV SAMUEL WOODWORTH.
Oh, ccnso !msy Fancy to conjure up pleasures,
That flit like bright phantoms o’er memory’s glass,
And teach us to yearn for the forfeited treasures,
Which rise but to mock us, so sweetly they pass,
Which fade and dissolve into air, like a dream,
Or bubbles that glitter and break on the stream.
And yet it is sweet, in our moments of sadness,
To gaze on the picture of former delights.
‘Till bounding again to the measure of gladness,
The heart has forgotten the sorrow that blights,
And revels a moment in joys that are past,
But wakes to a bitterer pang than the last.
Yet Hope shall illumine the gloom of our sorrow,
The cherub whose smile is a life-giving ray ;
Whose flattering promise of brightness to-morrow,
With ruddiness tinges the clouds of to-day.
Though Memory’s visions may heighten our pain,
Yet Hope's sunny smile can assuage it again.
Moß©[E[L[L^OT a
From Graham’s Magazine.
THE LADY AND THE PAGE.
A STORY OF MOORISH SPAIN.
ItY MARY S. PEASE.
Many years ago there dwelt, not far from
Seville, in a castle so old it was a wonder
what kept it from tumbling down, a Spanish
hidalgo, remarkable for but two things—a
very beautiful daughter, and the very strict
manner in which he secluded her from the
world. In every other respect, this hidalgo
was like other hidalgos, full of pride, sport
ing a pair of Spanish mustachios, and wear
ing a stiletto by his side.
The wondeiful beauty of his daughter,
the Dona Ysnbel, h id somehow, in spite of
the seclusion in which she was kept, be
come proverbial, and tlie fame thereof had
spread from Gibraltar to the Pyrenees. Not
a caballero of that chivalric country but
would have given his best steed for one
glance from the eyes of the hidalgo’s daugh
ter eyes which shrouded under their long
lashes, were like diamonds shining across
the midnight. Her hair was silky and soft,
darker and more glossy than the raven’s
wing—and in such luxuriance did it grow
that'she might almost have hid herself in it,
as did “ the lady of the golden locks” in the
fairy tale. Her face was fitful as an Apiil
day. It was the clear and faithful mirror to
the wannest, purest heart in all Spain. And
never did a young heart beat within a light
er and more graceful form than that of the
Dona Ysabel.
The castle where the hidalgo resided with
his daughter was built on a rocky eminen.ee,
in one oi the wildest parts of the count! y.
Tradition said it had been erected by a pow
erful and wealthy Moor, from whom it had
been conquered by the strong arm of one of
the present occupant’s ancestors. The fath
er of Ysabel had resided there but rarely
until the death of his wife ; but, after that
event, he had retired almost broken-hearted
to this wild retreat. Here, from early child
hood, the Lady Ysabel had been brought
tip. Wanting the care of a mother, she
had always been left to have her own way,
and a more self-willed, impetuous sylph
never dashed the dew from the wild flowers
that grew so luxuriantly around the Moorish
castle.
One day, when the Dona Ysabel had
nearly attained her seventh year, the Count
de Llenaro, her father, stood within the
deep embrasure of the richly carved corri
dor, absorbed in thought. His eyes were
fixed on the shadows that played so fanciful
ly on the rocks below. A light step was
heard and a fairy form entered the apart-
ment.
“ Celia mi cara nina, I was thinking of
thee, I would speak with thee.” And the
gentle girl stood beside the proud lord.
‘ What wouldst thou my father V The mai
den’s voice was low and silvery soft. Her
dark eye looked up into the father’s with an
expression soft and confiding as childhood.
One little snow-white hand rested upon his
shoulder, while the other nestled within his
own.
‘ How old are you, \ sy V
• I shall be seventeen come next Michael
mas.’
‘’Tis even as [ thought. Thou art get
ting to be a great girl, Belle, I have some
thing to say to thee ; wilt thou listen V
4 Dear papa, thy word is my law.’
* Is it so V and the father fixed his eyes
upon the girl with a look so penetrating
that her own eye fell, and the rich warm
blood rushed from her young heart and
burnt upon her brow.
Llenaro seated himself upon a low turco,
and drawing his child towards him, he fond
ly kissed her glowing cheek.
4 1 fear, Belle,’ said he, putting back the
world of curls that had fallen over her
brow, 1 thy will hath never yet been broken.
Thou art but a wild one.’ Count Alcaros
fell into a long fit of musing. The silver
breathing tones of the Dona’s soft voice
broke the stillness.
4 What wouldst thou with thy child, papal
my birds, and young flowers, even now
mourn my absence.’
4 And canst thou not give an hour unto
thy father, Ysy 1 What will thy birds and
flowers do when I bring thee a right noble
bird, an eagle among birds, for thine own 1
Wilt thou then give up all others and love
but only that V
4 What does ray papa mean V trembling
ly replied the maiden.
‘ I mean that thou art to be a child no
longer.’
‘ But, papa, all my pretty birds andj—
-1 Thou shall, have a bird worth the whole,
a right proud gallant bird. Ysy, dost thou
remember the Marquis of Talavera V
‘ What of him, dearest papa V
‘ Dost thou remember him !’
* Yes, papa.’
‘ This Marquis hath sought thee, Belle, in
marriage, and I have said thou slialt be his
bride.’
The girl started to the ground in unfeign
ed surprise.
‘ Why, papa ! he is old enough to be my
grandfather, and besides, he is ugly enough
to’—
* He is just the age of thy father, Ysabel.
His years will serve thy wayward ones. He
is all that is brave and noble, besides being
orie of the richest, and most powerful lords
iu Spain. You may know, Belle, how well
I think of him—he is almost the only one
of my many friends, that I admit into this
our wild retreat.’
“ But, papa’—
Nay, Belle, I will have no huts. It must
he as I say.’
‘ But, papa.’ The Count’s brow darken
ed. * But, papa, Ido not love him.’
‘ Love, pah !’
‘ Papa, I cannot.]oxc him.’
‘ Pali !’
‘Papa, I will not love him !’ and the
Dona’s eyes grew bright and large.
‘ Ysabel !’
‘ Dear papa, I mean I cannot’— and the
little lady burst into tears.
* Ysabel, hear me ; I have said thou shalt
become the bride of the Marquis of Talave
ra. What I say I never unsay, that thou
knowest. Two weeks from this. It must,
it shall he so ! Wilt thou Jo thy father’s bid
ding, Belle V
The girl answered not a word but lier
eye lit up and her little mouth was tightly
compressed. Every line of her statue-like
form expressed firmness arid resolution.
‘ Wilt thou do thy father’s bidding, Ysa
bel ?’ again demanded the Count.
‘ Thou hast ever been an indulgent fath
er to me, never hast thou crossed my slight
est wish, and now, father, I must say firmly
no! I never can become tlie bride of him
thou namest.’
‘Girl! thou shalt not even be consulted.
Thou hast had thine own way seventeen
years, now I will have mine. Thou shalt
wed the Talavera if I have to drag thee to
the altar. Nay, no fawning.’ The girl had
twined her soft round arras about her fath
er’s neck—her eyes looked beseechingly in
to his. But he pu.sired hot from him, saying,
‘Goto thy room, Ysabel, and there remain
until thy reason conies to thee. Dost thou
hear me V
The Spaniard strode from the room, and
the weeping lady sought, with abeavy heart,
her own turret.
It was tlie first time her father had been
unkind to her, and she threw herself down,
on a low couch, in all thatutter hopelessness
of grief youth alone can feel. It was her
first sorrow.
There came a soft rap at the door, but
she heeded it not ; and not until a hand,
soft as woman’s, held her down, and a voice,
whose deep, low tones were breathing mu
sic, whispered in her ear, did she know her
father’s handsome page was kneeling by
her.
‘ Weep not, mi caia Ysabel,’ soothingly
said he, ‘or rather let me share thy grief. I
know it all—thy father hath told me, and
sent me here to bring thee to reason, as he
sa id. Can I do it sweet lady 1’ and the
handsome page smiled.
It was wicked in him to smile when her
heart was so full of grief, and so the lady
thought. But she had learned to love, and
when love is warm and new, all the loved
one says or does is more than right.
“ Love flings a halo round the dear one’s head,
Faultless, immortal”
The Dona Ysabel loved her father’s page,
loved him as an ardent-souled daughter of
sunny Spain knows how to love. The fath
er ! he did not even dream of such
wickedness. (If he had he could not have
slept for at least six months) —the unpardon
able wickedness of a daughter of his, his
bright beautiful Ysabel, the high born lady
of Llenaro, loving her father’s page, a
nameless page ! and so he slept secure.
The thought was too preposterous. And
the Dona Ysabel loved. Love is all trustful
ness, all watchfulness, all hopefulness. The
page was handsome; the page was graceful,
witty, accomplished. He was indeed an
uucommon page ; and so thought Dona’s
father, and so thought her father’s daughter.
He could sing to the music of Ysabel’s gui
tar, most divinely ; he could dance, fence,
was perfectly skilled in all horsemanship,
moreover ho was acquainted with all the
then lore of bright Spain. He wrote poe
try too ; and sang the words of his own
composing. In sooth he was a most mar
vellous page—a perfect paragan of a page;
and then his eye, why it was wilder than
lightning shot from a midnight sky. The
servants all feared and hated him. To Ysa
bel alone was he all that was gentle, and to
her father, for her sake. He was her teach
er. They drank together at the pure well
of learning, a well too often untasted in
those days of fair-Spain.
‘ Weep not, sweetest; thy noble father
would see thee wed with the Marquis of
Talavera, and thou canst not love him. And
it is for that thou weepest. Is it not so
sweet lady V
‘I was happy,’ said the sorrowing girl.
4 1 did not dream of love, or that I had a
heart. I only felt that I was happy. And
now’—
PUBLISHED WEEKLY, BY C. R. IIANLEITER, AT TWO DOLLARS AND FIFTY CENTS PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE.
MADISON, GEORGIA, TUESDAY, APRIL 19, 1842.
‘ And now, my gentle Ysabel V
‘And now,’ said the Senorita, deeply
blushing, ‘now 1 feel 1 have no heart to
give.’
‘ Bless thee, dearest, for those words.
Ysabel, hear me, for L must speak. I love thee
Ysabel—l am other than I seem. lam no
hireling—l am the heir of a noble house.
One year having heard so much of thy won
drous beauty, and full of curiosity and dar
ing, I contrived to get admitted into this cas
tle as thy father’s page. To see, is to love
thee, but to be near thee day after day, to
read thy gentle thoughts—to gaze in thy
liquid, truthful, soul-beaming eyes —to fed
thy soft hand within my own. Ysabel, a
being cut from granite to see thee thus could
not help loving thee. I love a soul —a soul
thou hast, sweet Ysabel, a reflecting, gentle,
trustful, ardent, heart-ful soul. Ysabel I
love thee, wilt thou love me V
‘ Jose, I will, I-do love thee,’ and the
girl’s eyes were soft as she rested them in
his. •
He took her hand, her little, warm, white
baud, and covered it with kisses. Then
drawing her gently towards him, lie clasped
her silently to his heart. She nestled like
a bird in his bosom, and rested her head
there. At. intervals a low sob swelled her
little heart, like that of a wearied infant,
worn out with much crying. At length her
sighs came less and less frequent;. and
when the page bent over to gaze upon her
face, she had sunk into a calm, gentle sleep.
A bright tear still glistened on her silky lash
—that long black fringe that reposed so
quietly on her pale, fair cheek.
There is something inexpressively touch
ing in the quiet and calm repose of a beau
tiful girl. And when we feel that that
youth and beauty is all we love on earth,
that it is near us, nestling in sweet trust
within our arms, our all, our own, life of
our life, heart of our heart, soul of our soul,
what other happiness can earth give more
pure, more holy, more unalloyed 1
The page Jose almost wished the Dona
might never awake, but she did awake.
And when she did, she looked up into his
eyes and smiled. There was every thing
in that smile, love, hope, faith, gentleness,
truth, trust, joy. It was a droll smile too ;
there was archness in it; Jose never forgot
that smile ! Strange, that an outward sym
bol of the inner world can express so much.
The page attempted to kiss the bright
smile into his own heart, but the lady’s
mood had changed. Half ashamed, half in
sport, she broke from liim with a laugh, her
own peculiar laugh, bird-like in its silvery
clearness ; and like a bird, as wild, and
sweet.
* Sit down, dear Ysabel; I would talk !
with thee calmly, wilt thou be mine 1 Ysa-!
bel I love thee. Oh ! how I love thee.
Naught on earth is half so dear as thou—
life—ten thousand lives, were they mine,
would 1 give for thy love. Wilt thou he
mine, my own V
The girl put both her little hands in his,
that was her only answer. And then the
page drew her again to his heart and kissed
her brow and lips. And then, and then,
and then, why then, and there, right up be
fore them, with curled lip and cloudy brow,
stood the castle’s lord ! the proud hidalgo !
the Count Alcaros de Llenam! the Dona
Ysahel’s father! the handsome page’s mas
ter !
‘Ha !’ exclaimed he, ‘is this the way ye .
obey my commands 1 Ah, I see ! Thou’rt
doing my bidding, sir page. Hast thou won
the self-willed lady to think as I do 1 Away,
girl ! Back, Isay ! Away with thee, page !’
Pale, drooping, quailing beneath her fath
er’s angry glance, the gentle girl silently
twined her arms around his frame, and
strove to kiss away the angry spot upon his
brow.
‘ Back ! Judas !’ exclaimed he, pushing
her rudely from him. ‘ When thou hast
learned to do thy father’s wishes, then will.
he accept thy caresses.’
Frightened, crushed, she shrunk within
herself, like the sensitive plant at some rude
touch, nor dared to raise her gentle eye to
the fire-darting ones of her angry sire.
And the pego 1
The father glanced from the drooping
form of his daughter to the unbending one
of the presumptuous lover.
* And so, sir menial, thou art aspiring; we
like ambition. Thou thitikest to love my
daughter, the daughter of the noble house
of Llenaro —good !’
‘ Count of Llenaro, hear me. I ask of
thee thy daughter. My house, proud lord,
is full as noble as thy own, perhaps more
ancient. lam no page —I am the only son
of-
1 1 will not even hear who thou art, wort
thou the monarch of the universe, thou
shouldst not wed my daughter. I have
sworn she- shall become the bride of the
Talavera; I never recall an oath.’
The group as they stood there would
have made a picture for the pencil of a Sal
vator. The proud, determined figure of
Llenaro, standing with his arms folded, look
ing lightning on the no less proud form of
the handsome pnge, as he stood in the glow
of his young manhood’s strength and beauty.
Then the shrinking form of the Dona Ysa
bel, slightly leaning forward, with clasped
hands, her head partly raised, the speech
less, imploring.agony of her lovely face.
The room contributed not a little to the
scene, all around was purely, beautifully
feminine. The low damask ottomans ; the
bright eyed birds in their glittering gold
cages; the rich, mellow paintings hanging
around the room. Among them was her
own soft-eyed mother. The sweet, dreamy
eyes of the Italian seemed to look down on
the father of her daughter reproachfully for
his harshness to that daughter. The part
ing beams of the sun, as he bade adieu to
his love the fair earth, streamed in the room,
gilding with their warm glow*the expres
sive faces of the three. A ray more soften
ed full on the calm, angel face of liis wife,
the mother.
‘ Alcaros de Llenaro, I entreat thee to
listen to mo. On my knees I supplicate
thee to give me thy daughter. Doom her
not to misery. She loves me. Think upon
thy child’s mother, on the love vows given
and taken before thy child was born. When
she, the mother, the wife, was all in all to
thee. Thou didst love once, and she thou
didst love, was the mother of the child
thou’rt dooming to wretchedness, and now
that mother looks down upon thee, implor
ing happiness on bcrchil<|.’
Alcaros glanced at the image of liis wife.
He fancied, as the warm, red sunlight fell
upon it, the gentle eyes lopked a reproach
ful gaze on him. He was not a hard-heart
ed man. Pride was his ruling passion.
False pride it might have been ; whether
false or true, it fastened on him then, driv
ing back the kindlier feelings the memory
of his wife had roused within him. He
checked the tear before it came to his eyes,
and putting on a heavy frown— ‘ liise, sir
minion,’ said'he, ‘ I have told thee my daugh
ter shall wed tlie Talavera, and she shall!’
* Never! as I live, never !’ said the girl.
‘ Never shall a Llenaro become the bride of
the man she cannot love ! never !’
The lady looked her father’s child, as
though she had been born to be obeyed.
The softness of the mother had gone. Her
slight, round figure, straight as a young In
dian’s, had lisen to its full height. Her eyes
dilated, those eyes, where shone her soul,
those warm, black eyes, whose every glance
kept time to the throbbings of her impulsive
heart.
‘ Ysabel,’ said Llenaro, sadly, after a
pause, ‘ thou forgetest I am thy father.’
‘ My father ! dearest papa ! my own fath
er, forgive me. Thou art my father ! hut
do not,’ her tones were low and earnest, ‘oh!
do not force this hated match on thy child.
She will do anything; all thou wishest, but
oh ! do not seal her misery forever.’
The count permitted the ardent caresses
of the maiden, then putting her gently from
him, he told lier to remain in her turret. He
had much to say to her. He would seek
her when he was ready to tell her that he
had to say. Then turning to Jose, he add
ed, Follow me, sir page, 1 have somewhat
to say to thee also.’
The maiden watched the receding forms
of the two until they had disappeared, and
then she murmured, ‘He spoke kindly to
me,’and Hnj>e warmed her heart. A bright
Hope! Hope the deceiver! What would
the world be without thee, fairy Hope 1
Thou comest like a dream, whispering in
our soul’s ear thy witching fancies, until
they seem realities, and the is to he stands
before us a living now ! Great is thy power,
fair Hope, and thou knowest it, and so thou
goest on deluding mortals, making the dim
shadowy perspective a - glorious foreground.
So, when our hearts feel sad and weary, and
long to burst the chain that binds them to
this dark earth, thou comest with the dews
of heaven fresh glistening on thy lips. And
we believe thee, syren, and let thee deceive
us again and again.
The lady Ysabel rested her wild, black
.eyes, beaming with a thousand thoughts,
upon her mother’s picture, and kneeling be
fore it, she clasped her little hands and im
plored her gentle mother to look down kind
ly on her daughter. ‘ And mother,’ contin
ued she, her lute-like voice scarce audible,
‘ask Him, the mighty one? whose throne is
in high heaven, to forgive the erring child,
if she forgets, in her love for the creature,
the Creator. God fotgive me if I love him
more than I ought, for I cannot love him
less.’
The Lady Ysabel watched all that even
ing for her father, and the next day, and the
next, and the next, and then her cheek be
gan to pale, and her eye grew dim with
weeping. For Hope had grown weary and
fled. She could not dream either why the
page came not; a little indignation mingled
with her sorrow.
The duenna did all she could to restore
her young lady to her right mind, as she
said. .At length she brought her a letter,
saying—
‘ Take it, mi senorifa, a holy friar gave it
me for thee. Learn from it, Senorita Ysa
bel, to control thy # too great grief. It is sin
ful and wrong to indulge in sorrow us thou
dost.’
The Lady Ysabel knew the writing,
tremblingly she broke the seal, and read,
“Mi/ gentle Ysabel—Thy father hath
forbidden me, the castle, or ever to see thee
again, but fear not, dearest, tin/ father can
not withstand, /hi/ gentleness, thy gijodness.
Thou were not made to be unhappy ; thou art
too good, too kind, too true. God will not see
thee made wretched. He watches over thee.
He will, not desert thee, and, dearest, remem
ber there is one heart that beats for thee, and
thee alone ; whose entry pulse is thine. Sun
shine is midnight without the light of thine
eyes to tell where shincth the sun, and when,
gentlest, I would see thee, I would press thy
hands upon my heart, that its wild throb
bings might be stilled. I would look into the
clear depths of thy truthful eyes, and learn
there a lesson of calmness, of faith to bear,
and hope to look beyond. Thy duenna,
siccefeit, more than mistrusts my disguise, but
a golden bait has lured stronger minds than
hers from the clear waters of truth. I cannot
quit the castle grounds for in it is all that is
dear to me an earth. Write, dearest, if thou
canst, to thine men J o3E.”
The lady sat before her scrutoire to write
to him she loved, when she heard her fath
er’s step. She had only time to crumple
his letter in her bosom as the father entered.
Ever obedient to her heart’s impulse, she
sprang towards him, and throwing her white
arms about his neck, she called him her
dear, dear papa, and bust into tears.
‘ Calm thyself, my Ysabel. I will tell
thee frankly why I ask thee to sacrifice thy
self ; to seal thy misery, as thou sayest.’ He
led her gently to an ottoman, and seated
himself beside her.
‘ Ysabel, wouldst thou see lliy father pen
niless, homeless, a beggar 1’
‘ I’apa !’ looked the wondering eyes of
Ysabel.
‘ I repeat it, Ysy, wouldst thou see thy
father resign all these fair acres, and starve
a houseless beggar! Wouldst tliou, l Ysy 1
‘What meanest thou, papa! in merev
tell me.’,
‘lf by one act of thine, it were in thy
power to make thy father’s happiness,
wouldst thou not do that act V
‘ Dear papa, thou knowest I would, but
oh! tell me all. What am Ito do! And
yet I know, but why ? tell me why’—
‘ Ysabel, by becoming his bride, thou canst
save thy father from becoming a beggar.’
The girl shuddered but said in a low
calm voice,
‘Father, tell me why—tell me all. Make
a confidant of thy child. I can bear any
thing. See ! lam calm.’
‘ Ysabel, I will ! in as few words as pos
sible. A year ago, you may remember,
Talavera was here. He has not been here
since. A short time after that, his last visit,
the page came, though it is not of him 1
would speak. We played, Talavera and I.
At first I won, in the success of the moment
I staked high, and lost. I still played on* —
every throw swept off acre after acre of the
lands my fathers owned. Midnight saw me
without a farthing, and without a foot of
earth to call my own. Then came a bond.
I signed it. It gave me back my broad
lands, my wealth, hut it deprived me of the
only thing I had on earth to love—of you,
my Ysabel ! See ! here is the bond.’
The lady’s heart was still—very still—so
still it almost frightened her. Her cheek,
lips, hands, were cold and bloodless. It
seemed as though her blood had all gone to
her heart, and frozen there ! Her eye was
passionless, it was so calm. She held the
open paper before her, and without reading
or seeing, she read and saw enough to know
tliatjthe fair grounds and* castle L os Ysolo-
Rosse, where she had lived from her infan
cy —where her father had loved her mother
—were to go into the hands of the Talave
ra, unless she became his bride.
‘ Ysabel, I have sworn'thou sliult become
his bride, but I will recall my oath if thou
sayest so. What is thy decision !’
‘I will* wed him,’..replied the girl.
Llenaro clasped her to his heart, and
kissing her cold brow, he added,
‘ The day thoujart seventeen was the day
decided upon ; it will he here in a week.
But if’t will be too soon, no doubt the Mar
quis will*—
‘ ’Twill not be too soon.’
‘Ysabel, thou frightenest me, thou art so
pale—l will not force thee into what would
be thy unhappiness.’
‘jNay, papa, I had much rather be unhap
py myself thanjto see thee so. But I will
not be. To-morrow thou shalt see me more
cheerful.’
The wily lord had learned the way to
make his daughter’s will his own. He lov
ed that daughter, and felt a father’s pity for
her. But he thought although she suffered
then, and it pained fcitn to the soul to see it,
she would soon forget her youthful passion,
and, as the wife of Talavera, she would
gradually learn to be happy. Her future
husband was all that was noble and good ;
all this thought the father, and then he
thought ‘ the Castle of Ysolo Rosse will|still
be mine.’ The father’s conscience was al
most quieted.
‘I have foresworn playing, Belle,’ said he,
sadly, ‘ never, should 1 live forever, will an
other card pass through my hands. Ysabel,
my darling child ! do not look so sad, seek
the cool air, it will revive thee. Go and
gather thy favorite wild flowers : they will
divert thy mind from its sorrow. My noble,
generous girl.’ Ho fondly kissed his child
and then withdrew.
Ysabel left to herself meclmnicajly sought
the garden. She wandered over her favor
ite harmts, scarce knowing what she did.
Her heart, hei thoughts were still as the
grave. She reached her bower, the little
vine-clad bower, where the page and she
had so often sat listening to the music of
each other’s voices. And there, on the very
seat where they were wont to sit, was Jose !
the page!
* Ysabel! beloved !’ exclaimed he in un
feigned delight, and the girl was in his arms.
‘ Dearest, best, my gentle Ysabel! am I
once more permitted to see thee ? to clasp
thee to my heart 1 But, sweetest, how thou
hast changed. How pale thou art. Go
with me, dearest, I will he thy father, broth
er, husband, friend. Leave this hated cas
tle, now, speak, dear one, wilt thou go with
me I Dear, dear Ysabel, tell me.’
* Jose, I cannot, I have promised to be
come his bride !’
* But, dearest, they shall not force thco to
do what thou dost not wish,’
‘ Jose, I had my own.free choice,’
‘And thou didst choose’—
‘ To become his bride.’
‘ Will nothing induce thco to alter thy
determination V
* Nothing /’
* Good bye, Ysabel,’
‘Jose! dear Jose’— but the page was
gone.
The next morning found the lady Ysabel
in the spot where the page had left her.
Then followed many days of sickness. Her
life was despaired of. Day after day she
lay. pale, cold, insensible. Reason had for
saken her throne. Her sweet smiles were
gone; and the speaking glances of hci
dewy eyes had fled. Her voice too, for she
had not spoken since that night. Even the
pulsations of her heart were silent. Life
alone remained—life without its light. And
how her father watched over her, and how
bitterly he lamented, and cursed himself for
having brought her thus. At length light
shone in her eyes—the light of life. Morn
ing dawned iu upon tlie darkness of her
soul.
‘ Good bye, Ysabel,’ said she.
‘ My own child, what dost thou say V ask
ed tlie father, bending anxiously over he..
‘ Good bye, \ sabel’—and she looked up
in her father’s face and smiled. That smile!
it haunted him to his grave !
‘Are you better, my qwn Ysabel ! mv
dearest child !’
‘Yes, papa, lam well. What a strange
dream 1 have had. Ah ! now I recollect,’
and she sunk into a gentle sleep.
Day by clay she gained health and strength.
The father never left her side.
‘ Papa,’ said she one day, ‘ will you let
me see that paper again ! you know the
one I mean.’
‘A o, my child, you never need see or
think of it.’
‘Do let me take it, papa, you do not
know how well and strong I am, do, dearest
papa V And her father was prevailed up
on. She saw she could save her father from
ruin, and her mind was made.
* How old am I, papa V
‘ Three weeks ago saw you seventeen.’
‘ Does the—does my future husband
know of my illness V
‘He has sent repeatedly to inquire after
your health. His courier was here this
morning.’
‘ Will vou send him word*! am well, and
am ready in two weeks from now to become
his wife V
‘ Are you in earnest, Ysabel V
‘ Perfectly so.’
‘ It is your own free will you speak V
* k ta> papa. And thcfatlier was deceiv
ed, perhaps too willingly so.
I he Lady \ sabel was able now to revisit
her favorite haunts. Everything she saw
brought the page,vividly before her eyes.
Sometimes an inscription on a tree, tlie
walks, the flowers, the bower where last
they met, all, all brought with them the
memory of him. She strove to banish, as
high treason to her happiness, all thoughts
of him, and the firmness of her nature con
quered. She familiarised herself to ali the
old spots where she had loved to be with
him, and she thought she was happy; almost
—happy.
flit! day_at length came, clear, cloudless,
sunbright. And then the lady’s heart mis
gave her, she said not a word, however, hut
let them deck her in her bridal gear, scarce
knowing or caring what they did.
Evening came. The chapel was brilliant
ly lighted. The bright red wine flowed
freely, and joy danced in all hearts, save
one.
The Talavera had not yet come. All
was ready. The priest in his long flowing
robes, the father, the bridesmaid, the guests;
for the father bed invited many a nobie
house to witness his daughter’s nuptials.
All were ready, and still the bridegroom
came not. At length was heard a confused
movement, and, in the midst of that joyous
mass of life, the Marquis of Talavera had
been thrown from his carriage, and the ser
vants, in their fright and dismay, scarce
knowing what they did, had borne him in
his litter to the chapel.
The Lady Ysabel grew even more pale,
as she looked upon the bier. There lav the
lord who was to have been her husband !
She gazed on him in a sort of nightmare
fascination, a weight seemed taken from
her heart, a feeling of relief mingled with
the horror of the hour.
The Dona Ysabel enjoyed one short
month of tranquility, and then came news
from the castle of Talavera. The will of
the marquis had been read. He had be
queathed to his son and heir all the vast es
tates together with the lady Ysabel, should
he himself die before tbe marriage took
place. The icwoTstill held good !
A letter.came from the young marquis to
t'ue count, demanding his daughter’s hand
in marriage. The letter was gracefully
written, and told how he had long heard of
the wondrous beauty of the Dona Ysabel,
and how ardently he desired to become tbo
possessor of it. . ‘ Ays*
Again the lady yielded to her father’s
persuation. The present marquis was
young and handsome, so the objection of
age was removed. All Spain knew he was
noble, and I nave ; and all the bright-eyed
daughters of Spain might well look envy
on the favored Ysabel, that the young Tala
vera had chosen her.
He was than travelling in the interior of
Europe. His letter was dated, Vienna.
One year from the day of the eider Talave
ra’s death was the day fixed upon to cele
brate the bridals of the bravest cavalier and
loveliest flower in all Spain.
Ysabel yielded, and tried to seem cheer
ful, but her step grew slower and slower,
and her fair face paler and more pale. As
her days went oil did she each day lose some
part of this earth, earthly. So very gradual
was the change that neither her father nor
those around seemed to observe it. So pass
ed seven months. Four months more were
NUMBER 3.