Tales of the Wonder Club, Volume III

Name: Tales of the Wonder Club, Volume III
Author: M. Y. Halidom

by M. Y. Halidom

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Short Stories Novels Fantasy fiction Horror tales Ghost stories Storytelling Paranormal fiction

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The Gipsy Queen.--mr. Blackdeed's New Play

It was Monday morning. Our members assembled as usual at the breakfast table, after which the host entered with the newspaper, to show his guests an account of some political event of great importance. The appearance of a newspaper in the club was a thing of great rarity, as we have already hinted that politics were only permitted occasionally on sufferance. As Mr. Oldstone was commonly looked up to as the head of the club, if not altogether on account of his age, still as one who was most rigid against any infringement of discipline and decorum, each member glanced timidly towards this worthy, as if to ask his consent and absolution, which having given with a solemn nod of his head, the other members seized with eagerness the mystic folio, and having spread it out upon the table, huddled one behind the other to get the first look at its contents.

As for our artist, he had "metal more attractive," as Mr. Blackdeed might have observed. Nothing would satisfy him but a good long sitting from his enchantress, Helen. So stealing from the company, engrossed as they were with their politics, he retired to his chamber, where he set his palette; and, placing Helen's portrait on the easel, he called his model, who came without much pressing, and having placed her in the old carved high-backed chair, he commenced work. The portrait waxes apace. Our host's daughter is in her very best looks. The painter's hand is inspired not merely by the love of art--great, though that love undoubtedly is with all artists--but spurred on by another, perhaps more powerful feeling, which lends such temper to our artist's ordinary faculties, as to render the painter himself, a rare occurrence, utterly amazed at his own powers. The first hour passes away like five minutes. Scarce a word has been spoken on either side. To those who feel they love, few words are necessary, and in many cases, perhaps the fewer the better. This was a case in point. Our couple loved. Why should we deny it? How futile, indeed, for lovers themselves to deny it to the world? How utterly hopeless a task it is for lovers to attempt to conceal their love one for the other, even when they intend to do so! Murder will out sooner or later. In this, as in many other cases, love given vent to in words could be productive of no good to either party; and, therefore, as we said before, the fewer words spoken, the better.

But what do I say? Will nature be subdued by mere obstinate silence? Will not the trampled down heart rebel and burst its fetters, seeking an outlet in the powerful upheavings of the breast; the electric flashes of the impassioned eye that the strongest efforts of our feeble will in vain endeavour to render cold and indifferent; the involuntary blush, the haggard cheek, the pensive look; the smothered sigh--have they no language? Nay, your very silence speaks for itself. Oh, youth! if you would hide your passion, do so by flight, there is no other way.

This is what McGuilp felt. As for Helen, poor child, her virgin heart was a stranger to the tender passion. She had heard of love, but just heard of it vaguely as the world speaks of it, without being able to realise its power. She would have been incapable of analysing her own feelings, but a mysterious languishing softness welled forth from her large blue eyes, which whispered to the painter's heart things that it dare not acknowledge to her own. Strange, awful, mysterious passion; instilling thy subtle poison into the veins of thy willing victims. Merciless poisoned dart! Swift as thou art deep, inextricable as thou art unerring--who can escape thee?

But let us leave the enamoured couple to themselves for a while. Far be it from us to play the spy upon their actions, and let us return to the club-room, where the members, having exhausted their newspaper, are interrupted in the midst of a political discussion by an authorative thump on the table from Mr. Oldstone, who reminds the company that Mr. Blackdeed has not yet discharged his debt to the club--viz., the recital of his new play, that he had just finished preparing for the stage.

"Ay, ay, the play, the play!" shouted several voices.

"Now then. Blackdeed," said Parnassus, "the play is the thing, you know."

Our dramatist, with some show of modest reluctance, or, as Mr Parnassus observed, "with sweet reluctant amorous delay," produced his manuscript from his ample pocket, inwardly, nothing loath to declaim his late effusion before the august assembly, seated himself with an air of dignity, and having waited till the whole club was fairly settled, and all attention, he thus began:

THE GIPSY QUEEN.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

DON DIEGO. DON SILVIO. DON PASCUAL, son of Don Diego, in love with Inez. PEDRO, servant to Don Silvio. JUAN, servant to Don Diego. DON ALFONSO, friend to Don Pascual, and student of Salamanca. DONNA INEZ, only daughter of Don Silvio. DONNA RODRIGUEZ, nurse to Donna Inez. LADY ABBESS, sister to Don Silvio. GIPSY QUEEN, Pepa. MIGUEL, a Priest.

Another Priest, Gipsies, Soldiers, Guests, Attendants, and Populace.

The Scene is laid in Spain in the mountains of Grenada. In Scene III. of Act I., in Salamanca.

D. SIL. In vain the consolations of deep science, The chiding voice of grave philosophy, To wean us from our earthly fond affections, When once deep-rooted in our bosom's core. Paternal love, surviving youthful passion, As autumn's deep'ning tints the summer's green, Remains mature till the cold wintry blast Of death hath scattered its last quivering leaf, And driven us, whither? I have a daughter, Than whom no saint in heaven purer is. Fair and virtuous Inez! Sole object left Me now to love on earth of all my kin. An old man's pride, and only legacy Of my late spouse, the sainted Dorothea. Who, giving birth to this fair angel, left, After ten years of childless married life, This, my poor helpless babe, but in exchange For her own precious self. Long unconsoled For this, my doleful loss, I sought once more Relief from sorrow in those studies deep, Abandoned since my manhood's prime, when I In Salamanca's university, Did strive for honors, my child consigning To a certain faithful old retainer, The good Rodriguez, who in lieu of mother Did rear the tender babe until it grew To years maturer, when I thought it fit To rescue her from out the hands of one Who, whatsoe'er her care maternal be, Is yet too full of vanity to make A good instructress to my only child, Whom I designed to educate in mode Far different from that in which Rodriguez And all her worldly tribe would seek to do. With this my aim in view, I took the child Away from home whilst yet her mind was tender, And placing her under my sister's care, The Lady Abbess of Saint Ursula-- A convent distant thirty miles from hence-- I left her until she should reach such age As maidens having made due preparations Are deemed fit to marry. Scarce sixteen Is now my daughter Inez; far too young To face without a guide the many wiles And dire temptations of this giddy world; I fain would keep her longer there, but then, Then comes the thought that harasses my soul. Having in youth squandered my patrimony, Wasting my substance that I might procure Expensive books and likewise instruments I needed in the fond pursuits of science, In gratifiying literary tastes, And other fancies, thus I soon became Deeply indebted to my richer neighbour, The valiant Don Diego, who, much loath To see an old house ruined, hath full oft From time to time with liberal hand advanced Such sums as I could ne'er hope to repay. This knew he, too, full well, and having seen Once my little daughter at the castle, And fancying much her beauty, thereupon Did make what he then doubtless did consider An offer fair and not to be refused By me, a desperate man--his debtor, too-- An offer, namely, for my daughter's hand When she should have attained her sixteenth year; And this he gave me well to understand Would be the only way that he'd consent To counsel all my former debts to him; Refusing this, I knew th' alternative. Don Diego is a soldier fierce and proud As he is courageous, stern and merciless Towards those who thwart his will. What could I do? Unable to pay and in his power, Groaning 'neath a sense of obligation; Allured, too, perhaps, by prospects flattering In worldly sense to her, a poor man's daughter, I e'en consented. In an evil hour I gave my word to friend Diego, A man of my own years, whose castle stands Upon the opposite peak. Behold it. A man, I say, who might be her grandsire; Nor is it mere disparity of years That makes the gap to gape between the pair. Besides his age, and now decaying health, Don Diego all his youth has led a life The most licentious. Rumours strange and wild Are busy with his name, for it is known That he esteems the holy love of woman But as a flower to pluck and cast aside. He hath no reverence for religious rites, And thinks of matrimony but as a bond, Of all bonds easiest broke. With thoughts like these How shall it fare then with my poor daughter When once the knot is tied? His temper then Is stern and imperious, blunt and rude. Accustomed to command, he reigns alone Amidst a flattering troup of followers, Like petty tyrant, treating men as serfs. In boasting moods he vaunts of ancestry Who never thwarted were in lust or hate, And to this man shall I consign my daughter? No, no, it was an evil hour when I O'er hastily did consent to sacrifice My lovely Inez, purest of her sex, To this man's savage and rapacious lust. Repentance came too late, for he doth hold Me still to my promise, and all in vain Are pleadings of my daughter's tender age. The promise of her hand at some time hence, When she to riper womanhood hath grown, Excuse or promise unavailing both, For he, with military punctilio And lustful hot impatience, doth demand Her hand at once, and will brook no delay. He called on me of late, and from his mien I saw there was but little left to hope. A father's tears, as ever, failed to soften His all too stubborn nature, and at length He threatened me with ruin or with death And forcible abduction of my daughter If on a certain day ('tis now at hand) I gave not him my daughter for his wife. As yet my child knows nothing of this plan, But now the time draws near when she must know. How can I face my daughter? How can I With humble, piteous whine, say, "Inez, Thy father is ruined, an thou heed him not? Save him by the sacrifice of thyself." Or else, with imperious and austere brow, Say, "Inez, I command thee as a father To wed the man I've chosen thee--Don Diego. Obedience is a filial duty, and Thy father better knows what's for thy good Than thou thyself. At once prepare, obey!" Or should I, contrary to precepts taught Once by myself when she was yet a child, When I have preached 'gainst vanities and pomps, Empty frivolities and lust of greed, Can I now plead thus, and say, "Daughter mine, Behold what a grand thing it is to be One of the great ones of the earth, and move For ever midst the gay and high-born throng Of lords and ladies without care or pain, With means at hand to gratify each wish, To live the mistress of a noble castle, With serfs at thy command, with gold, with jewels, Dress at thy caprice, and hear around thee Ravishing strains of music in thy halls; Thy gardens, parks, and pleasure grounds rivalling Those of the noblest peers, exciting envy Of all thy neighbours, and this, yes, all this, Thou hast but to reach out thy hand to take; Accept the old Don Diego for thy spouse, His castle's thine, and all that therein is; Don't be a fool and throw this chance away Because, forsooth, he's old, somewhat infirm, Unfair to view, irascible and stern, And recklessly give up thy giddy heart To some young spendthrift, all because he's fair; Throw not such a glorious chance away, But make thy father's fortune and thine own?" Is this the strain that I could use to her After my virtuous lessons and wise saws? Could she not answer, "Father, is it thou-- Thou who dids't ever counsel me to shun The whispered words of gallants with the wiles And impious vanities of this base world, Dids't inculcate obedience, filial love, As primary virtues ever with the young? Was it that I might blindly, passively Submit my will to thine? Shunning fresh youth; That at thy bidding I might give my hand, Loathing, yet passively, unto a man Whose years do full quadruple mine, and all Because this man has wealth and I have none? Is this thy virtue, father? This the end Of all thy teachings, that I should become The minion, yes, the minion of a dotard?" And would she not be right? Could I look up Into her angel's face unblushingly, And with a base hypocrisy reply, "My child, 'tis for thy good. Such is the world." Would she believe me? Would she not despise Me and my words, see through my selfishness? Yet what to do I know not. I am lost. Would not the world itself proclaim me base? Would not the mockers say, "Behold the sage, The philosophic, wise Don Silvio, He who despises wealth and this world's pomp, Yet sells his daughter for Don Diego's gold?" Thus run I counter both to God and man, And mine own conscience. Crushing my child's heart That I might save my own grey head from ruin. Help me, ye saints! for I have need of guidance. [_Kneeling._ Soul of my blest departed Dorothea! Assist me with thy counsels, and send down From that high heaven where thou in peace doth dwell A blessing on thy daughter and her sire; It cannot, sure, be that our Inez shall Unwillingly and loathingly consent To wed a vicious dotard for his gold. [_Rising._ Time wanes, and with my part I must go through; Then, as to the rest, let heaven think on't. I know not if I meditate aright; Nay, I know I am wrong, but I've no choice. Hola! Rodriguez!--Rodriguez, I say!

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