Let Charles then toil, dear Everard, for you
As well as for himself; and you shall go-
Not being in trade-to his kind cousinship,
And he will aid you, may be with advice ;
But that you will bear bravely, well I know.
Again, my Everard: fathers have keen eyes;
You love the curate's daughter, Ermengarde ;
Remember, parsons too possess shrewd sight
When pelf is in the question. Fare you well;
And you, dear Charles, farewell.
You both hold truth and courage, health and youth— Fairer possession than ill-gotten gold
And what through my mishaps has holpen me,
I can bequeath ye-honest poverty."
Then the old lion shook his silver mane,
And sank to slumber.
While Ermengarde-fair, dove-eyed Ermengarde,
Grows toward Everard, as a tender plant
Draws to the sunlight-to his prayer complies,
And he reads life and love but from her eyes.
One dreary evening, when the wailing wind
Was sobbing through the woods, and tears of rain
Were softly trickling from each budding bough,-
An anxious maiden peered into the night,
And, from her lattice window, strained her eyes
Across the wolds, where wound a well-known path.
"O Everard," she sighed, " my staunch and true,
The bravest knight that ever couched his lance,
When odds were all unequal, fought as thou,
Against that giant, fell Adversity.
If I might run beside thy charger's hoof
Bare-footed o'er the crags, or dare the tide
Of swollen rivers, break my bursting heart
In doing thy behest, I'd follow thee,
So that I aid thee in the battle's toil!
This night I know my fate, O Everard, come!
And with her summons as at faëry spell,
Sounds the quick clanging of a pealing bell.
And Everard entered. All his hair was wet With glistening rain-drops, and a feverish heat Had flushed his face to crimson, and he cried— The while the curate starts from off his chair"I come to beg of you a very boon :
But have no fear, I ask you not for gold
I flung that to the winds an hour ago,
When yon proud duke drew forth his lingering
I crave a higher gift. You must have marked.
My love for Ermengarde, not passed it by,
As love of boy for girl; for in fair truth,
My love of her doth eat away my heart.
Give me permission, as an honest man
To woo her as I would-to win my way
To place and fortune, lighted by the love
That beams from her true eyes: I cannot act
Deceitfully by him, whom she calls sire ;
And stolen meetings, though, alas, so sweet,
Nor you, nor I, could deem to honour meet.
Thereat the curate pondered for a while,
Then slowly answered :-
Have been awaiting this untoward end,
For end it must be, to your foolish dream ;
Yet, you have pleaded with such honest heart,
Have shown such honour and sincerity,
I cannot use hard words, but candidly,
As man to man, advise you how to act.
I, in my youth, restrained the fiery flood
That seethes in boyhood's brain, and patiently,
Because my purse was poor, and she I loved
Held no possession, so constrained myself,
To live ascetic in my college rooms,
Feeding upon the fellowship I gained;
Till, when my hair grew grey, and she, poor soul,
Was pining friendless in an orphan home,
I put away my pride and married her,
And she assisted me in cure of souls,
To live on income such as he who bears
The wine-cup to my bishop would have spurned.
Then, Ermengarde was born, and wearied sore,
And broken-hearted at my poor success,
Her mother died, and left me all alone
To rear my nestling. She has food to eat,
A roof above her head, and yet an arm,
Though not too strong, on which her life may lean.
'Tis all I have to give,—but what have you?
You spoke of honour! Have you heart to tear
Such tender blossom from the parent stem,
To droop beneath the cold winds of the world?
No, Everard, it should not, shall not be !
Go forth alone, and battle till success
Shall crown your efforts, and in some far clime,
Where there is room to fight with poverty,
Add honours, fortune, to your noble name;
And then-but she, poor child, is yet so young—
And maidens hearts oft change-win home again;
For I know no man whom I more esteem :
But you must promise me, from this night forth,
You neither see, nor plead to her again,
Hold no communication, both be free,
Until the goal you aim at be attained.
For should another woo her, to my will,
During your absence-of a fair estate,
With wealth sufficient for my darling's weal,
And should her heart pass to him, then, I say,
I bind nor her nor me. Nay, do not frown;
My girl's a jewel that might grace a crown !
Then Everard answers (all the ruddy hue
Had faded from his cheek): "Your terms are hard,
And cold the comfort that your counsels bring;
Even the history of your heart-chilled youth
Bears evil omen. Be it as you will.
I swear for her sweet sake, by every vow,
To bide unarmed, alone, life's fiercest foe,
Rather than see one tress of her soft hair
Roughed by the cold blasts of adversity :
I but entreat to bid her one farewell,
To hear her voice again, before I go
To such stern exile-clasp the little hand
That trembles at my touch, and to my heart,
Hold her, once more, and bless her ere we part.”
So, Ermengarde, soft summoned by her sire,
Trips from her chamber: then, her tiny feet
Pause, as in fear, to bear her to his side.
He whispers her his will, and like a flower-
Suddenly smitten by an icy blast-
Her fair head droops, and on her tender breast,
Quivering with anguish, glitter stormy tears;
And Everard tries to cheer her with brave words,
And holds her to his heart, and though his grief
Almost unmans him, fights with his despair.
Then from her rosy finger Ermengarde
Drew, tremblingly, a little golden ring,
That once, had been her mother's--small in worth,
But priceless in her eyes. "Everard," she sobbed,
"Keep this for me, and bear it as a gage
That I will never, dear, be false to thee,
Nor cease to love thee as I love thee now,
Until my heart be pulseless.
Thy lot too hard to bear, or need my aid,
Send me this ring, instruct me where to go-
And if it bid me to the farther Ind,
I swear, by all that's true, to fly to thee,
As, on my gift is graven-Constancy."
And so they parted bravely. Everard
Passed through the weeping night, and thoughtfully--
Her gage of love pressed to his aching heart-
Wound through the wood, and reached the humble home,
Where Charles, all-anxious, greets him at the porch.
"Welcome—though late come, trusty brother mine!
How goes his Grace the Duke? Not well, I ween,
When we beg favour! By my budding beard,
I'd rather work my fingers to the bone,
And wear my heart out, than ask aid of him!
And how proceeds your suit for 'Ladye fair'?
I doubt that curate of the grizzly hair—”
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