Chapter VII

He Comes.

“Your cousin, young Harry, now Sir Henry Lorraine, knight banneret, is coming to visit us, Isabel,” said Lord Deraine, one morning, as he entered the breakfast room, holding an open letter in his hand, “he has come over with despatches, and says that he shall have a few days of leisure. Here is his letter. It came by a special courier, to whom I gave a reply, inviting Lorraine down here at once. So you may expect the gallant boy to-morrow.”

“But pa, how know you he will come?” said Isabel, with ill-concealed agitation, for she had not yet forgotten their last parting.

“Come! why where else would he go, but to those who love him like we do? Ah! I wonder if glory has changed him. By the honor of my house but it will make me young again to see the gallant lad, who has made the name of a Lorraine to ring like a watch word through Europe.”

Isabel knew not scarcely how she felt. She dreaded, and yet wished to meet her cousin. Long did she think over it that night, and wonder if he had conquered his ill-fated passion. And when at length she fell asleep, it was after many a prayerful hope that Lorraine might have learned to look upon her only as a cousin, and have sought among fairer and loftier ones, to whom he might fearlessly aspire, a being more worthy of his fortunes.

Why had Lorraine, after tearing himself away from Isabel, determined to re-visit her? Alas! who can tell the workings of that master passion LOVE? How often do we resolve to see the face of some dear one no more, and how often do we return again and again to her presence, hoping even against hope, until we feel that the cup of bliss is too surely dashed from our lips forever.

It was a glorious afternoon when he arrived at the gates of the park, and at every step seeing something to remind him of the past, he gradually fell into a reverie, from which he was only aroused by coming in front of the hall, and finding himself welcomed by the noisy tenantry, as well as by a score of old familiar faces in the shape of trusty servitors. Their homely but joyous greetings went to Lorraine’s heart, and almost drew tears from his eyes, when he reflected how differently he had passed that threshold the last time. His uncle met him at the hall door, and falling into his arms, blessed him: while Isabel frankly extending her hand, greeted him as she would have done in their old and happy hours.

The dinner passed off, Isabel withdrew, and Lorraine was alone with his uncle.

“How you have altered, Henry,” said the old earl, “you left us a boy, and now your brow is that of a warrior. Ah! I always knew you would prove an honor to your house. Another glass of the Burgundy. But now we are alone, let us hear of your battles and sieges.”

It was almost evening when they rose from the table, and Lorraine signified his wish to seek the open air. His uncle pleaded his gout, and the young knight stepped out upon the lawn.

Soon, however, as if led by a mysterious influence, he sought the old terrace, where he had sat at Isabel’s feet the last day he had spent at the hall. His cousin was there. For a moment both were embarrassed. A woman on such occasions, is always the first to speak; and Isabel broke the spell by an allusion to their early days. Long then they conversed; for both their hearts were full. But neither spoke of love.

It was a golden evening, the very counterpart to the one he had last spent there, and when, for a few minutes both paused, it is not improbable that each reverted to that memorable occasion, and for awhile they gazed without speaking on the landscape. And mournful were Lorraine’s thoughts as he gazed. What was honor, or rank, or wealth to him, since they brought him not Isabel? But was her love then hopelessly lost to him? Alas! had not De Courtenay assured him of her continued affection; and would it not be even dishonorable to win that affection if he could? Yet might there not be hope? Such feelings, whirling through his mind, almost determined Lorraine, in the excitement of the moment, to fling himself at Isabel’s feet. Suddenly, however, two horsemen appeared in the distance, winding up the avenue of the park. Isabel and himself started simultaneously, and looked at each other. Could it be that both divined in the foremost of the riders the same individual?

A moment passed, when their ears were aroused by the rapid clattering of approaching hoofs, and looking down they beheld a couple of horsemen spring from their steeds. The eye of one of the riders happened to fall upon them, and he turned hastily in their direction. Surely it was not—yes! it was—De Courtenay. He dashed up the terrace with eager haste, and Isabel, forgetting, in her glad surprise, everything except that the lover she had not seen for years stood before her, rushed forward to meet him.

“Edward—Edward!” was all the agitated girl could utter, as she stooped to her half kneeling lover.

“Isabel—dearest Isabel, we meet at last,” passionately exclaimed De Courtenay, as he looked up, and clasped her in his arms.

Oh! who can tell the agony of Lorraine during that moment? Was it for this he had toiled; was it for this he had struggled; was it for this he had breasted the fierce assault? It was the last drop in his cup of bitterness. His heart was wrung with unutterable woe. He spoke no word, he breathed no sigh; but he gazed a moment sadly on the spectacle, and then noiselessly entered the apartment behind. When the lovers looked around he was gone.

That night a solitary traveller might be seen on the high road to London. He had just parted with another, who had pursued him hotly for several miles, and finally overtaken him. The two were Lorraine and De Courtenay. The latter, learning every thing from Isabel for the first time, had set out and overtaken his preserver, with the generous design to relinquish his mistress to the young knight. But Lorraine would not listen to him.

“No, no, you tempt me over much,” sadly said Lorraine, “for can you give me the love of Isabel? God bless you both. As for me, glory henceforth is my only mistress. Farewell!” and pressing his friend’s hand, he plunged his rowels into the flanks of his steed, and dashed on.

De Courtenay had followed Lorraine to England unexpectedly within twenty-four hours of the young knight’s departure, and, having hastily transacted his business in London, had hurried down to Deraine hall, and met Lorraine as we have described.

None of his house ever saw Lorraine again. He appeared in a few days in the camp, but within a week fell in an assault, the only man who had succeeded in mounting the breach. There he fought unsupported for several minutes, but finally sank pierced with a hundred wounds.

And long did Isabel and De Courtenay weep for the ill-fated page. And when the war was over, and they were married, often would they sit on that old terrace, and feel a melancholy pleasure in talking of Lorraine. Need we wonder that their eldest boy bore the name of Isabel’s unfortunate cousin? * * *