Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol IV. No. XX. January, 1852.

A week had scarcely elapsed since the occurrences of that unhappy evening, when an event took place which wrought a fearful revolution in that happy family. Surely the “evil eye” had looked upon that house.

Mrs. Wilson and her sister went to make a call upon a friend. As they expected to return almost immediately, they left the babe slumbering in its cradle, and sent the servant on some trifling errand. Circumstances retarded their return. The anxious mother hastened to the nursery to tend upon her babe. She looked into the room, but all was still. Surely the child was slumbering. She must not rouse it from its peaceful dreams. But all continued still. There was a death-like silence in the room. She could not even hear her infant breathe. She sat a while by the flickering light of the expiring fire, for the shades of evening had gathered over the darkening horizon. At length she rose; she went to look upon her child; she lifted up the coverlid. No child was there. An indescribable dread took possession of her soul; she rushed like a maniac from room to room. At last she heard a noise; she flew to the spot. Yes, three of her children were there, but the other, her babe, her newest born, the flower of her heart, was gone.

“My child! my child!” she screamed, and fell upon the floor. Her sister heard the fall, and rushed up stairs. She knelt beside the stricken woman, bathed her temples with cold water, and with a start Mrs. Wilson awoke from her swoon.

“My child! my child!” she sobbed.

“What of the child?” her sister cried.

“Gone – lost – stolen from its mother!” screamed the wretched woman.

“Oh, impossible! Be calm; the child will soon be found,” her sister said. “Some neighbor, perhaps – ”

“Perhaps – perhaps,” hurriedly replied the mother, and she rushed from house to house. The people thought her mad. No child was there. Her sister led her home. She followed her calmly, unresistingly. Was her spirit broken? She was placed upon a chair; she sat as one bereft of reason; her face was pale; and perspiration, the deep dews of agony, gathered upon her brow. Not even a feather would have stirred before her breath. It looked like death.

At last she started from her seat. Her brows were knit, and her whole face convulsed with the fearful workings of her soul. “John! John!” she cried. “Where is my husband. Send him to me.”

And they went to seek him, but he was not to be found. They told her so, and she was silent. There were evidently some frightful thoughts laboring within her breast – some terrible suspicions, which her spirit scarce dared to entertain. For about an hour she sat, but never opened her lips. It was a fearful silence. At last his knock was heard; the stair creaked beneath his well known tread; he entered. The mother sprang upon her feet.

“John!” she screamed, “give me my child! Where have you put her? Where is my child?”

Her husband started. “Woman, are you mad?” he cried.

“Give me my child!”

“Wife, be calm.”

“I will not be calm. My child! You spoke coarsely to me the other night for nothing, John. She was a burden on you, was she? But why did you take her from me? I would have worked for her – drudged, slaved, to win her bread. Oh, why did you kill my child?”

The man looked stupidly upon his wife, and sank into a chair. The room was filled with neighbors; they looked at him, and then to one another, and whispered.

“Give me my child!” the mother screamed. He sat buried in thought, and covering his face with both his hands.

“Take him away!” she cried, and the people laid their hands upon him.

He started to his feet, and dashed the foremost to the ground. There was a look about the man that terrified, and they quailed before him. He strode before his wife. “Woman,” said he, “your lips accused me. Bitterly, ay, bitterly, shall you rue this night’s work. Come, neighbors, I am ready.” And they took him to a magistrate.

“My child!” the wretched woman shrieked, and swooned away. Before a few hours had passed, she was writhing in the agonies of a burning fever.

And where was her husband then? Walking to and fro upon the cold flagstones of a felon’s cell, upon a charge of murdering his child, his own child; doomed thither by his own wife. A close investigation of every matter connected with this mysterious affair was set on foot. No proof of Mr. Wilson’s guilt could be obtained. He was arraigned before his country’s laws, and, after a patient trial, was discharged, as his judge emphatically pronounced, without a stain upon his character. Discharged, forsooth, to what? To meet the frowns and suspicions of a too credulous world; to see the people turn and stare behind him, as he passed along the streets; to see the children shrink from him and flee, as from some monster; and to dwell in a desolate home, his own offspring trembling as he touched them, and his wife – that wife who had accused him – looking with cold, suspicious, unhappy eye upon the being she had sworn to love and cherish with her life. Such was his fate! who had wrought it? His wife recovered from her illness; and her sister went her way back to her home in France.

Seldom did the poor man even speak: there was gloom about that desolate house. His trade fell off, and his credit declined; and why? because his heart was broken. Day after day he sat in his lone counting-house; there was no bustle there. His books were covered with a thick coat of dust; and, as one by one his customers stepped off, so poverty stepped in, until at last he found himself almost a beggar. He shut his office-doors, shut them for the last time, then wiped away a tear, the first he had shed for many a day. He went home, but not to the home he used to have. His furniture had been sold to supply the common necessaries of life; and poor indeed was their now humble abode. There was silence in that little house, scarcely a whisper. In the secret fountains of his wife’s heart there was still a depth of love for him; but, always when she would have breathed it forth, the strange horrid suspicion would flit across her brain – her child was not. He often looked at her, a long, earnest gaze, but he seldom spoke.

One evening, he was more than usually sad. He kissed his children fondly. He took his wife’s cold hand, and pressed it in his own. “Jessie,” said he, “as ye have sown, so shall ye reap; but I forgive you. God bless you, wife!” He lay down upon his hard pallet, and when they would have roused him in the morning, he was dead.

Time rolled on with rapid sweep, alas! bringing death and its attendant evils in his train. Two of the widow’s children died; and Jane was now about eighteen years of age. Sorrow, rather than age, had already blanched the widow’s hair. They were in great poverty; eked out a scanty livelihood with their needle. Indeed, their only certain dependence lay in the small assistance which Madame de Bourblanc sent from France. Perhaps, had that sister known the straits of her poor relatives, her paltry pittance might have been increased. They were perhaps too proud to make it known; as it was, she knew not, or, if she did, she heeded not.

About this time a letter reached the widow from her sister. Besides containing the usual remittance, the letter was unusually long. She requested Jane to read it to her, while she sat and sewed. What ailed the girl, her mother thought, as Jane gazed upon the page with some indescribable emotions depicted on her face. “Mother,” she cried, “my sister lives! your child is found again!” The widow tore the letter from her daughter’s hand, and read it eagerly, while her face grew paler every moment. She gasped for utterance; and the mystery was solved at last.

Yes, reader, at last was the mystery unraveled, and the criminal was her sister – she who had stood calmly by, and seen the agony of the bereaved mother – she who had beheld the injured father dragged as a felon to prison, when a word from her would have cleard it all – she was that wretch. Madame de Bourblanc was childless and her heart yearned for some one she could love. She saw the little cherub of her sister, and she envied it. She knew that, if she had asked the child, the mother’s heart would have spurned the offer, so she laid her plans to steal the infant. She employed a woman from France, who, as she prowled about the house, had seized the favorable moment, and snatched the infant from its cradle, and the child was safely housed in France before the tardy law began its investigations. Madame de Bourblanc remained beside her sister for a time; then hurried off to France, to lavish all her love upon the stolen child. It is true, she loved the child; but was it not a selfish love to see the bereaved mother mourn its loss, yet never soothe her troubled heart? and was it not a cruel love, to see a household broken up, affections desolated, and all to gratify a selfish whim of hers? It was worse than cruel – it was deeply criminal.

She brought up the infant as her own: she named it Amalie, and a pretty child she was. Did a pang never strike into the heart of that cruel woman, as the child would lift its little eyes to hers, and lisp “My mother?” She must have thought of the true mother, broken-hearted, in another land. Yes, a pang did pierce her heart; but alas! it came too late; the misery was already wrought. She wrote to her injured sister, begging her forgiveness, and at the same time offering a considerable sum, if she would permit the child to remain with her, still ignorant of her real parentage. But she was mistaken in her hope; for not only did the mother indignantly demand the restoration of her child, but she did more; she published the sister’s letter, and triumphantly removed the stains that lingered on her dead husband’s memory.

A few weeks after this, the widow went to pay a visit to the green grave of her broken-hearted husband: she knelt upon the verdant mound, and watered it with her tributary tears. All her unjust suspicions crowded on her mind: conscience reproached her bitterly. She knelt, and supplicated for forgiveness, seeming to commune with his spirit on the spot where his poor frail body reposed in its narrow bed. She felt a gentle touch upon her shoulder; it was her daughter Jane. One moment after, and she was clasped in the embrace of a stranger. Nature whispered to the mother’s heart her child was there, her long lost child. She too had come to look upon that lowly grave – the grave of a father.

After the first transports of meeting were over, the widow found leisure to observe her child. But what a poor young delicate flower was she, to brave the rude blasts of poverty. She was a lovely girl: like a lily, fragile and pale, the storms of life would wither her. Her mother took her home; but the contrast was too great, from affluence to poverty – Amalie wept. Poor Jane strove to comfort her; but she might only use the language of the eyes, for her foreign sister scarcely understood two words of English. Amalie struggled hard to love her new mother, and to reconcile her young heart to this sudden change, but the effort was too great, and she gradually sank. Early and late her mother and her sister toiled, to obtain for her, in her delicate state, some of those luxuries to which she had been accustomed; but their efforts were vain – she was not long for earth. The widow had indignantly refused all offers of assistance from her cruel sister though she felt that, unless Providence should interpose, her strength must soon fail under its additional exactions.

A letter arrived from France; it was sealed with black. They opened it hastily and fearfully; and they had cause. Madame de Bourblanc was dead; she was suddenly cut off, to render an account before her Creator. The shock was too great for poor Amalie. Day by day she languished, pining in heart for sunny France. Three months after she had reached England, Amalie died. Her last words were, “My mother!”

Soon after, her old mother followed her. Oh, that the purified spirits of them all may meet in heaven! Jane is the sole survivor of this domestic tragedy. Even she may have departed to the haven of eternal rest, for she left my mother shortly after we were settled in London. We have never seen her since.

THE GAME OF CHESS. – A SCENE IN THE COURT OF PHILIP THE SECOND

THE ESCURIAL

King Philip the Second was playing at chess in the palace of the Escurial. Ruy Lopez, a priest of the ordinary rank, who was most expert at this game, was his majesty’s antagonist. The player was allowed to kneel, by special privilege, while the nobles stood round as spectators. There was something in their attitudes betokening an engagement of mind too anxious to be called forth by the mere interest of the game. It was a splendid morning, and the air was redolent with perfume not less sweet than that exhaled by the orange-groves of Granada. The violet-colored curtains of the magnificent saloon softened the powerful rays of the sun as they darted through the casements. The bright, cheerful light seemed at this moment but ill to accord with the mood of the king, whose gloomy brow seemed to grow darker and darker, like the tempest brooding on the lofty Alpuxares. He frowned as he frequently glanced toward the entrance of the saloon. The nobles remained silent, exchanging looks of mutual intelligence. The assembly was any thing but a cheerful one, and it was easy to perceive that some grave affair occupied the thoughts of all present. None appeared to pay attention to the chess save Ruy Lopez, who, with his eyes fixed on the board, was deliberating between a checkmate and the deference due to his most Catholic Majesty Philip the Second, Lord of the Territories of Spain and its Dependencies. Not a sound was heard but the slight noise made by the players as they moved their pieces, when the door was suddenly thrown open, and a man of rude and sinister aspect advanced toward the king, and in lowly reverence waited permission to address him. The appearance of this man was most forbidding; his entrance caused a general sensation. The nobles drew haughtily back, allowing their feelings of disgust for a moment to overpower their sense of etiquette. One would have supposed some fierce and loathsome beast had suddenly come among them; and certainly he was well calculated to excite such feelings. His figure was tall, bony, and of Herculean dimensions, clad in a black leather doublet. His coarse features, unlighted by a ray of intelligence, betrayed tastes and passions of the most degraded character, while a large, deep scar, reaching from the eyebrow to the chin, till lost in a thick black beard, added to the natural ferocity of his countenance.

Philip turned to address him, but his faltering voice gave evidence of some unusual emotion. An electric shock passed through the whole assembly. The fact was, that this new arrival, who seemed the very personification of physical force, was Fernando Calavarex, executioner in Spain.

“Is he dead?” demanded Philip, at last, in an imperious tone, while a shudder ran through the assembly.

“Not yet, sire,” replied Fernando Calavarex, as he bent before the monarch, who frowned angrily; “he claims his privilege as a grandee of Spain, and I can not proceed to do my office upon a man in whose veins flows the hidalgo-blood without having further orders from your majesty.”

And he again bent his head.

An answering murmur of approval broke from the assembled nobles, and the blood of Castille boiled in their veins, and rushed to their brows. The excitement became general. The young Alonzo d’Ossuna gave open expression to the general feeling by putting on his hat. His bold example was followed by the majority; and now many a white plume waved, as if in token that their wearers claimed their every other privilege by using that which the grandees of Spain have always had – of standing with covered heads before their sovereign.

The king fiercely struck the table, overturning the pieces on the chess-board with the violence of the blow.

“He has been condemned by our royal council, what more would the traitor have?”

“Sire,” replied the executioner, “he demands to die by the ax, as becomes a noble, and not by the cord, and also to be allowed to spend the three last hours of his life with a priest.”

“Ah! let it be so,” replied Philip, evidently relieved. “But is not our confessor already with him, according to our order?”

“Yes, sire,” said Fernando, “the holy man is with him; but the duke refuses to have St. Diaz de Silva. He will not receive absolution from any one under the rank of a bishop; such is the privilege of a noble condemned to death for high treason.”

“It is, indeed, our right,” said the fiery D’Ossuna, boldly, “and we demand from the king our cousin’s privilege.”

This demand seemed to be the signal for a general movement.

“Our rights and the king’s justice are inseparable,” said, in his turn, Don Diego de Tarrasez, Count of Valencia, an old man of gigantic height, encased in armor, bearing in his hand the bâton of High Constable of Spain, and leaning on his Toledo blade.

“Our rights and privileges?” cried the nobles.

These words were repeated like an echo, till the king started from his throne of ebony, exclaiming, “By the bones of Campeador, by the soul of St. Jago, I have sworn neither to eat nor drink till the bloody head of that traitor Don Guzman has been brought to me; and as I have said, so shall it be! But Don Tarrasez has well said, ‘The king’s justice is the security for the rights of his subjects.’ My lord constable, where is the nearest bishop to be found?”

“Sire, I have had more to do with the camp than with the church,” bluntly replied the constable; “your majesty’s almoner, Don Silva, who is present, can give you more information upon such points than I can.”

Don Silva y Mendez answered in some trepidation, “Sire, the Bishop of Segovia was attached to the royal household, but he died last week, and the nomination of his successor still lies on the council-table, and has yet to be submitted for the Pope’s veto. A meeting of all the princes of the Church is to be held at Valladolid – all the prelates have been summoned there; so that the Bishop of Madrid has already set out from this.”

At these words a smile played about the lips of D’Ossuna. His joy was most natural, for not only was he of the blood of the Guzmans, but the condemned noble had been his dearest friend.

But the smile did not escape the notice of the king, and an expression of impatience and determination passed over his face.

“Nevertheless, we are king,” said he, with a calmness which seemed assumed but to cover the storm beneath, “and we choose not that our royal person should be a butt for ridicule. This sceptre may seem light, gentlemen, but he who dares to mock it will be crushed by it as surely as though it were an iron block! But this matter is easily settled. Our holy father the Pope being in no slight degree indebted to us, we do not fear his disapproval of the step we are about to take; since the king of Spain can create a prince, he may surely make a bishop. Rise, then, Don Ruy Lopez, Bishop of Segovia. Rise, priest, I command it; take possession of your rank in the Church!”

The astonishment was general.

Don Ruy Lopez rose mechanically; he would have spoken, but his head reeled, his brain grew dizzy, and he paused. Then, with a violent effort, he began,

“May it please your majesty – ”

“Silence, my lord bishop!” replied the king. “Obey the command of your sovereign. The formalities of your installation may be deferred to a future occasion. Meanwhile, our subjects will not fail to recognize our lawful authority in this matter. You, Bishop of Segovia, go with Calavarez to the cell of the condemned man. Absolve his sinful soul, and deliver his body to be dealt with by our trusty minister here, according to our pleasure. And, Calavarez, see that you bring to us the head of this traitor to the saloon, where we shall await you – for Don Guzman, Prince of Calatrava, Duke of Medina Sidonia, is a traitor, and shall this day die a traitor’s death!”

And turning to Ruy Lopez, “Here is my signet-ring,” said he, “as a token to the duke.”

“And now, my lords, have you any thing to say why the justice of your monarch should not have its course?”

No one answered. Ruy Lopez followed the executioner, and the king resumed his seat, beckoning to one of his favorites to take his place at the chessboard. Don Ramirez, Count of Biscay, immediately came forward, and knelt on the velvet cushion before occupied by Don Lopez.

“With the help of the chess, gentlemen, and your company,” said the king, smiling, “I shall pass the time most pleasantly. Let none of you leave till the return of Calavarez; our good cheer would be diminished were we to lose one of you.”

With these ironical words, Philip began to play with Don Ramirez, and the tired nobles remained grouped around the august personages as at the beginning of our recital.

Every thing was restored to its usual order and quiet, while Calavarez conducted the impromptu bishop to the cell of the condemned nobleman.

Ruy Lopez walked along without raising his eyes. He resembled far more a criminal dragging to execution than a newly-made bishop. Was it a dream? but no – the dark, scowling Calavarez that preceded him was indeed a stern reality, and reminded him at once of his new dignity and of the fearful condition attached to it. And as the vaulted passage echoed to their steps, he devoutly prayed the ground might open, and swallow him up alive, rather than that he should take any part in the impending fate of Don Guzman. What was it bound him thus closely to Don Guzman? Was it that they had been old and intimate friends? Was it that in the veins of both flowed noble blood? No; it was simply that both were the best chessplayers in Spain. Fervent and sincere was his prayer; but it was not granted.

THE PRISON

The Prince of Calatrava was pacing his narrow cell with a step whose inequality betokened intense agitation. The whole furniture consisted of a massive table and two heavy wooden stools. The floor was covered with coarse, thick matting, which suffered not the sound of their footfalls to break the gloomy silence. In the embrasure of the one narrow and grated window was fixed a rudely-carved crucifix. With the exception of this emblem of mercy and self-sacrifice, the walls were bare, and as the damp chill of the cell struck to the heart of Ruy Lopez, he felt that it was indeed the ante-chamber of death.

The duke turned as they entered, and courteously saluted the new dignitary of the church. Glances of intelligence passed between them, and conveyed to each feelings, the audible expression of which the presence of Calavarez forbade. The duke understood how painful to Ruy Lopez was the office which the executioner on the instant announced that he had come to perform; and Ruy Lopez felt as fully convinced of the innocence of Don Guzman as was the duke himself, notwithstanding the apparently strong proofs of his guilt. One of these proofs was nothing less than a letter in his own handwriting, addressed to the court of France, entering into full detail of a plot to assassinate King Philip.

In the proud consciousness of innocence, Don Guzman had refused to offer any defense, and as no attempt was made to disprove the accusation, his silence was construed into an admission of guilt, and he was condemned to die the death of a traitor. In the same calm silence Don Guzman heard the sentence; the color faded not from his cheek, his eye quailed not, and with as firm a step as he entered that judgment-hall, he quitted it for the cell of the condemned. And if now his brow was contracted – his step unequal; if now his breath came short and thick – it was because the thought of his betrothed, the fair, the gentle Donna Estella, lay heavy at his heart. He pictured her, ignorant of his situation, waiting for him in her father’s stately halls on the banks of the Guadalquiver – and awaiting him in vain. What marvel that love should make him weak whom death could not appall!

Calavarez, imagining that he had been hitherto unheeded, again repeated the monarch’s commands, and announced that Don Ruy Lopez now held such rank in the church as qualified him to render the last offices to a grandee of Spain.

The young nobleman on the instant bent his knee to the new bishop, and craved his blessing. Then, turning to Calavarez, he haughtily pointed to the door. “We need not your presence, sir; begone. In three hours I shall be ready.”