Francis A. Durivage - The Three Brides, Love in a Cottage, and Other Tales

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THE

THREE BRIDES,

LOVE IN A COTTAGE,

AND

OTHER TALES

BY

FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.

BOSTON:
SANBORN, CARTER, BAZIN & CO.,
25 & 29 CORNHILL.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by

F.A. DURIVAGE,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.

TO

MY MOTHER,

THE FIRST TO ENCOURAGE MY EFFORTS,

AND THE MOST INDULGENT OF MY CRITICS,

THIS VOLUME

IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.

PREFACE.

The volume here submitted to the public is composed of selections from
my contributions to the columns of the American press. The stories and
sketches were written, most of them, in the intervals of relaxation
from more serious labor and the daily business of life; and they would
be suffered to disappear in the Lethe that awaits old magazines and
newspapers, had not their extensive circulation, and the partial
judgment of friends,--for I must not omit the stereotyped plea of
scribblers,--flattered me that their collection in a permanent form
would not prove wholly unacceptable. Some of these articles were
published anonymously, or under the signature of "The Old 'Un," and
have enjoyed the honor of adoption by persons having no claim to their
paternity; and it seems time to call home and assemble these vagabond
children under the paternal wing.

The materials for the tales were gathered from various sources: some
are purely imaginative, some authentic, not a few jotted down from
oral narrative, or derived from the vague remembrance of some old play
or adventure; but the form at least is my own, and that is about all
that a professional story-teller, gleaning his matter at random, can
generally lay claim to.

Some of these sketches were originally published in the Boston "Olive
Branch," and many in Mr. Gleason's popular papers, the "Flag of Our
Union," and the "Pictorial Drawing-Room Companion." Others have
appeared in the "New York Mirror," the "American Monthly Magazine,"
the New York "Spirit of the Times," the "Symbol," and other magazines
and papers.

Should their perusal serve to beguile some hours of weariness and
illness, as their composition has done, I shall feel that my labor has
not been altogether vain; while the moderate success of this venture
will stimulate me to attempt something more worthy the attention of
the public.

FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

THE GOLDSMITH'S DAUGHTER.

PHILETUS POTTS.

THE GONDOLIER.

THE SURRENDER OF CORNWALLIS.

THE THREE BRIDES.

CALIFORNIA SPECULATION.

THE FRENCH GUARDSMAN.

PERSONAL SATISFACTION.

THE CASTLE ON THE RHINE.

LOVE IN A COTTAGE.

THE CAREER OF AN ARTIST.

SOUVENIRS OF A RETIRED OYSTERMAN IN ILL HEALTH.

THE NEW YEAR'S STOCKINGS.

THE OBLIGING YOUNG MAN.

EULALIE LASALLE.

THE OLD CITY PUMP.

THE TWO PORTRAITS.

UNCLE OBED.

THE CASKET OF JEWELS.

ACTING CHARADES.

THE GREEN CHAMBER.

HE WASN'T A HORSE JOCKEY.

FUNERAL SHADOWS.

THE LATE ELIAS MUGGS.

THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.

A KISS ON DEMAND.

THE RIFLE SHOT.

THE WATER CURE.

THE COSSACK.

MARRIED FOR MONEY.

THE EMIGRANT SHIP.

THE LAST OF THE STAGE COACHES.

THE SEXTON OF ST. HUBERT'S.

JACK WITHERS.

THE SILVER HAMMER.

THE CHRIST CHURCH CHIMES.

THE POLISH SLAVE.

OBEYING ORDERS.

THE DEACON'S HORSE.

THE CONTRABANDISTA.

THE STAGE-STRUCK GENTLEMAN.

THE DIAMOND STAR.

THE GAME OF CHANCE.

THE SOLDIER'S SON.

TAKING CHARGE OF A LADY.

THE NEW YEAR'S BELLS.

THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.

THE GOLDSMITH'S DAUGHTER.

A LEGEND OF MADRID.

Many, many years ago, in those "good old times" so much bepraised by
antiquaries and the _laudatores temporis acti_,--the good old times,
that is to say, of the holy office, of those magnificent _autos_ when
the smell of roasted heretics was as sweet a savor in the nostrils of
the faithful, as that of Quakers done remarkably brown was to our
godly Puritan ancestors,--there dwelt in the royal city of Madrid a
wealthy goldsmith by the name of Antonio Perez, whose family--having
lost his wife--consisted of a lovely daughter, named Magdalena, and a
less beautiful but still charming niece, Juanita. The housekeeping and
the care of the girls were committed to a starched old duenna, Donna
Margarita, whose vinegar aspect and sharp tongue might well keep at a
distance the boldest gallants of the court and camp. For the rest,
some half dozen workmen and servitors, and a couple of stout Asturian
serving wenches made up the establishment of the wealthy artisan. As
the chief care of the latter was to accumulate treasure, his family,
while they were denied no comfort, were debarred from luxury, and,
perhaps, fared the better from this very frugality of the master. Yet
in the stable, which occupied a portion of the basement story of his
residence,--the other half being devoted to the _almacen_, or
store,--there were a couple of long-tailed Flemish mares, and a
heavy, lumbering chariot; and in the rear of the house a garden,
enclosed on three sides with a stone wall, and comprising arbors, a
fountain, and a choice variety of fruits and flowers.

One evening, the goldsmith's daughter and her cousin sat in their
apartment, on the second story, peeping out through the closed
"jalousies," or blinds, into the twilight street, haply on the watch
for some gallant cavalier, whose horsemanship and costume they might
admire or criticize. Seeing nothing there, however, to attract their
attention, they turned to each other.

"Juanita," said the goldsmith's daughter, "I believe I have secured an
admirer."

"An admirer!" exclaimed the pretty cousin. "If your father and dame
Margarita didn't keep us cooped here like a pair of pigeons, we should
have, at least, twenty apiece. But what manner of man is this
phoenix of yours? Is he tall? Has he black eyes, or blue? Is he
courtier or soldier?"

"He is tall," replied Magdalena, smiling; "but for his favor, or the
color of his eyes, or quality, I cannot answer. His face and figure
shrouded in a cloak, his _sombrero_ pulled down over his eyes, he
takes up his station against a pillar of the church whenever I go to
San Ildefonso with my duenna, and watches me till mass is ended. I
have caught him following our footsteps. But be he gentle or simple,
fair or dark, I know not."

"A very mysterious character!" cried Juanita, laughing, "like unto the
bravo of some Italian tale. Jesu Maria!" she exclaimed, springing to
the window, "what goodly cavalier rides hither? His mantle is of
three-pile velvet, and he wears golden spurs upon his heels. And with
what a grace he sits and manages his fiery genet! Pray Heaven your
suitor be as goodly a cavalier."

Magdalena gazed forth upon the horseman, and her heart silently
confessed that the praises of her cousin were well bestowed. As the
cavalier approached the goldsmith's house, he checked the impatient
speed of his horse, and gazed upward earnestly at the window where the
young girls sat.

"Magdalena!" cried the mischievous Juanita, "old Margarita is not here
to document us, and I declare your beauty shall have one chance." As
she spoke she threw open the blind, and exposed her lovely and
blushing cousin to the gaze of the cavalier.

Ardently and admiringly he gazed upon her dark and faultless features,
and then raising his plumed hat, bowed to his very saddle bow, and
rode on, but turned, ever and anon, till he was lost in the distance
and gradual darkening of the street.

"Mutual admiration!" cried the gay Juanita, clapping her hands. "Thank
me for the stratagem. Yon cavalier is, without a doubt, the mysterious
admirer of San Ildefonso."

Don Julio Montero--for that was the name of the cavalier--returned
again beneath the casement, and again saw Magdalena. He also made some
purchases of the old goldsmith, and managed to speak a word with his
fair daughter in the shop; and in spite of the duenna, billets were
exchanged between the parties. The very secrecy with which this little
intrigue was managed, the mystery of it, influenced the imagination of
Magdalena and increased the violence of her attachment, and loving
with all the fervor of her meridian nature, she felt that any
disappointment would be her death.

One evening, as her secret suitor was passing along a narrow and
unfrequent street, a light touch was laid upon his shoulder, and
turning, he perceived a tall figure, muffled in a long, dark cloak.

"Senor Montero," said the stranger, "one word with you." And then,
observing that he hesitated, he threw open his cloak, and added, "Nay,
senor, suspect not that my purpose is unfriendly; you see I have no
arms, while you wear both rapier and dagger. I merely wish to say a
few words on a matter of deep import to yourself."

"Your name, senor," replied the other, "methinks should precede any
communication you have to make me, would you secure my confidence."

"My name, senor, I cannot disclose."

"Umph! a somewhat strange adventure!" muttered the young cavalier.
"However, friend, since such you purport to be, say your say, and that
right briefly, for I have affairs of urgency on my hands."

"Briefly, then, senor. You have cast your eyes on the daughter of
Antonio Perez, the rich goldsmith?"

"That is my affair, methinks," replied the cavalier, haughtily. "By
what right do you interfere with it? Are you brother or relative of
the fair Magdalena?"

"Neither, senor; but I take a deep interest in your affairs; and I
warn you, if your heart be not irretrievably involved, to withdraw
from the prosecution of your addresses. To my certain knowledge,
Magdalena is beloved by another."

"What of that, man? A fair field and no favor, is all I ask."

"But what if _she_ loves another?"

"Ha!" exclaimed the cavalier. "Can she be sporting with me?--playing
the coquette? But no! I will not believe it, at least upon the say so
of a stranger. I must have proofs."

"Pray, senor, have you never observed upon the lady's fair arm a
turquoise bracelet?"

"Yea, have I," replied the cavalier; "by the same token that she has
promised it to me as a _gage d'amour_."

"Do you recognize the bracelet?" cried the stranger, holding up, as he
spoke, the ornament in question. "Or, if that convince you not, do you
recognize this tress of raven hair--this bouquet that she wore upon
her bosom yesternight?"

"That I gave her myself!" cried the cavalier. "By Heaven! she has
proved false to me. But I must know," he added, fiercely, "who thou
art ere thou goest hence. I must have thy secret, if I force it from
thee at the dagger's point. Who art thou? speak!"

"Prithee, senor, press me not," said the stranger, drawing his cloak
yet closer about him, and retreating a pace or two.

"Who art thou?" cried the cavalier, menacingly, and striding forward
as the other receded.

"One whose name breathed in thine ear," replied the other, "would
curdle thy young blood with horror."

Julio laughed loud and scornfully.

"Now, by Saint Iago! thou art some juggling knave--some impish
charlatan, who seeks to conceal his imposture in the garb of mystery
and terror. Little knowest thou the mettle of a Castilian heart. Thy
name?"

The stranger stooped forward, and whispered a word or two in the ear
of his companion. The young man recoiled, while his cheek turned from
the glowing tinge of health and indignation to the hue of ashes; and,
as he stood, rooted to the spot in terror and dismay, the stranger
threw the hem of his cloak over his shoulder, and glided away like a
dark shadow.

Julio's heart was so far enlisted in favor of Magdalena, that it cost
him a severe struggle to throw her off as utterly unworthy of his
attachment, but pride came to his rescue, and he performed his task.
He wrote a letter, in which, assigning no cause for the procedure, he
calmly, coldly, contemptuously renounced her hand, and told her that
henceforth, should they meet, it must be as strangers.

This unexpected blow almost paralyzed Magdalena's reason. It was to be
expected of her temperament that her anguish should be in proportion
to her former rapture. At first stunned, she roused to the paroxysm of
wild despair. Henceforth, if she lived, her life, she felt, would be
an utter blank. Passion completely overmastering her reason, she
resolved to destroy herself. This fearful resolution adopted, her
excitement ceased. She became calm--calm as the senseless stone; no
tremors shook her soul, no remorse, no regret.

She was seated alone, one evening, at that very window whence she had
first beheld her false suitor, and bitter memories were crowding on
her brain, when the door of her apartment opened, and closed again
after admitting her old duenna, Margarita. The old woman approached
with a stealthy, cat-like step, and sitting down beside the maiden,
and gazing inquisitively into her dim eyes, said, in a whining voice,
intended to be very winning and persuasive,--

"What ails my pretty pet? Is she unwell?"

"I am not unwell," replied Magdalena, coldly, rousing herself to the
exertion of conversing, with an effort.

"Nay, my darling," said the old woman, in the same whining tone, "I am
sure that something is the matter with you. You look feverish."

"I am well, Margarita; let that suffice."

"And feel no regret for the false suitor, hey?"

Magdalena turned upon her quickly--almost fiercely.

"What do you know of him?"

"All! all!" cried the old woman, while her gray eyes flashed with
exultation.

"Then you know him for a false and perjured villain!" cried the
beautiful Spaniard.

"I know him for an honorable cavalier; true as the steel of his Toledo
blade!" retorted the duenna. "I speak riddles, Magdalena, but I will
explain myself. Do you think I can forget your insults, jeers, and
jokes? Do you think I knew not when you mocked me behind my back, or
sought to trick me before my face? You little knew, when you and your
gay-faced cousin were making merry at my expense, what wrath you were
storing up against the day of evil. But I come of a race that never
forgets or forgives; there is some of the blood of the wild Zingara
coursing in these shrivelled veins--a love of vengeance, that is
dearer than the love of life. I watched your love intrigue from the
very first. I saw that it bade fair to end in happiness. Don Julio was
wealthy and well born, and his intentions were honorable. After
indulging your romantic spirit by a secret wooing, he would have
openly claimed you of your father, and the old man would have been but
too proud to give his consent. Now came the moment for revenge. I
traduced you to your lover, making use of an agent who was wholly
mine. Trifles produce conviction when once the faith of jealous man is
shaken. A few toys--a turquoise bracelet, a lock of hair, a bunch of
faded flowers--sufficed to turn the scale; and now, were an angel of
heaven to pronounce you true, Don Julio would disbelieve the
testimony. Ha, ha! am I not avenged?"

"And was it," said Magdalena, in a low, pathetic voice,--"was it for
a few jests,--a little childish chafing against restraint, that you
wrecked the happiness of a poor young girl,--blighted her hopes, and
broke her heart? Woman--fiend! dare you tell me this?" she cried,
kindling into passion with a sudden transition. "Avaunt! begone! Leave
my sight, you hideous and evil thing! But take with you my bitter
curse--no empty anathema! but one that will cling to you like the
garment of flame that wraps the doomed heretic! Begone! accursed
wretch--hideous in soul as you are abhorrent and repulsive in person."

Cowed, but muttering wrathful words, the stricken wretch hurried out
of the apartment, into which Juanita instantly rushed.

"Magdalena, what means this?" she cried. "I heard you uttering fearful
threats against old Margarita. Calm yourself; you are strangely
excited."

"O Juanita, Juanita!" cried Magdalena, the tears starting from her
eyes, and wringing her fair hands. "If you knew all--if you knew the
wrong that woman has done me; but not now--not now; leave me, good
cousin,--leave me!"

"You are not well, dearest," said Juanita; "take my advice, go to bed
and repose. To-morrow you will be calm, and to-morrow you shall tell
me all."

"To-morrow! to-morrow!" muttered Magdalena. "Well, well; to-morrow you
will find me!"

"Yes; I will waken you, and sit at your bedside, and laugh your griefs
away. Good night, Magdalena!"

"Farewell, dearest!" said the heart-stricken girl; and Juanita left
the chamber.

Before a silver crucifix, Magdalena knelt in prayer.

"Father of mercies, blessed Virgin, absolve me of the sin--if sin it
be to rush unbidden to the presence of my Judge! My burden is too
great to bear!"

She rose from her knees, took from a cupboard a goblet of Venetian
glass, and a flask of Xeres wine. Into the goblet she first dropped
the contents of a paper she took from her bosom, and then filled it to
the brim with wine. She had already stretched forth her hand to the
fatal glass, when she heard her name called by her father.

"He would give me a good-night kiss," said the wretched girl. "I must
receive it with pure lips. I come, dear father,--I come."

Scarcely had she left her chamber when the old duenna again stole into
the room.

"If I could only find one of the gallant's letters," she muttered to
herself, "I could arm her father's mind against her; and then if madam
tried to get me turned away, she would have her labor for her pains.
What have we here? A flask of Xeres, as I live! So ho, senorita! Is
this the source of your inspiration when you berate your betters? I
declare it smells good; the jade is no bad judge of wine!"

As she spoke, the old woman, who had no particular aversion to the
juice of the grape, hurriedly drank off the contents of the goblet,
and immediately filled it up again from the flask.

"There! she'll be no wiser," said she, with a cunning leer. "And now I
must hurry off. I would not have the young baggage find me here for a
month's wages!"

Margarita effected her retreat just in time. Magdalena returned, after
having, as she supposed, seen her poor father for the last time.

Had not despair completely overmastered the reason of the poor girl,
she would have shrunk from the idea of committing suicide. But misery
had completely, though temporarily, wrecked her intellect. She felt no
horror, no remorse at the deed she was about to commit. With a steady
hand she raised the goblet to her lips, and then drank the fatal
draught, as she supposed it, to the last dregs.

"I must sleep now," she said, with a deep sigh. "I shall never wake
again." And throwing herself, dressed as she was, upon her couch, she
soon fell into a deep slumber.

How long her senses were steeped in oblivion, she could not tell. But
she was awakened by shrill screams, and started to her feet in terror.

"Where am I?" she exclaimed. "Are those the cries of the condemned? Am
I indeed in another world?"

"But louder and louder came the shrieks, and now she recognized the
tones as those of the old duenna. Deeply as the woman had wronged her,
Magdalena's feminine nature could not be insensible to her distress.
She sprang down the stairway, and now stood by the bedside of the
duenna, over which Juanita was already bending.

"What _is_ the matter?" she exclaimed.

"The wine! the wine! the flask of Xeres! the Venetian goblet! I am
poisoned!" cried the old woman, as she writhed in agony.

The truth instantly flashed on the preternaturally-sharpened intellect
of Magdalena. Her own immunity from pain confirmed the fatal
supposition.

"Good God!" she cried, in tones of unutterable anguish, "I have killed
her!"

The exclamation caught the keen ear of the malignant hag, suffering as
she was. She raised herself up on her elbow, and pointing with her
skinny finger to the horror-stricken girl, she screamed,--

"Yes, yes; you have murdered me! Send for a leech, a priest, an
officer of justice! Do not let that wretch escape! She gave me a
poisoned draught! she knew it--she confesses it! Ha, ha! I shall not
die unavenged!"

These fearful words caught the ear of Don Antonio, as, having hastily
dressed himself, he rushed into the room. They caught the ear, too, of
a curious servitor, who flew to the alguazil before he summoned priest
and chirurgeon.

In less than an hour afterwards, the old beldam had breathed her last,
but not before she had made her false deposition to the officer of
justice; not before she had learned that a paper containing evidence
of poison had been found in Magdalena's room; not before she had seen
the hapless girl arrested; and then she died with a lie and a smile of
hideous triumph on her lips.

We cannot attempt to describe the anguish of the old goldsmith, and
the despair of Juanita, as they beheld Magdalena torn from their arms
to be carried before a judge for examination, and thence to be cast
into prison. Believing in her innocence, and confident that it would
be established in the eyes of the world, they longed for the dread
ordeal of the trial. The hour came, but only to crush their hearts
within them. The guilt was fixed by circumstantial evidence on the
unfortunate Magdalena. Poor Juanita was forced to testify to the facts
of a quarrel between her cousin and the hapless duenna, and to violent
language used by the former to the latter. A paper which had contained
poison had been found in the apartment of the accused. Her own hasty
confession of guilt, the dying declaration of the victim added

"--confirmation strong
As proofs of Holy Writ."

Magdalena was condemned to die. In that supreme hour, when her
protestations of innocence had proved of no avail, the film fell from
the organs of her mental vision. Knowing herself guilty of
premeditated suicide, she saw in the established charge of murder a
dreadful retribution. To make her peace with Heaven in the solitude of
the prison cell, was now all that she desired. She had proved the
worthlessness of life, and now she prepared herself to die. But her
tortures were not ended. Julio, her lost lover, demanded an interview
with her, and when, after listening to her sad tale, he renewed his
vows of love, and expressed his firm belief in her innocence, earth
once more bloomed attractive to her eyes; life became again dear to
her at the very moment she was condemned to surrender it. Her
execution was fixed for the next day, at the hour of noon. At that
hour, she was to take her last look of her father, her cousin, her
lover--the last look of God's blessed earth.

The morning came. She had passed the night in prayer, and it found her
firm and resigned. In the heart of a true woman there lies a reserve
of courage that shames the prouder boast of man. She may not face
death on the battle-field with the same defying front; but when it
comes in a more appalling form and scene, she shrinks not from the
dread ordeal. When man's foot trembles on the scaffold, woman stands
there serene, unwavering, and self-sustained.

One hour before the appointed time, the door of Magdalena's cell
opened, and a tall figure, wrapped in a dark cloak, with a slouched
hat and sable plume, stood before her. It was the same who had gazed
on her so often in the church of San Ildefonso, the same who had
encountered Julio in the narrow street with proofs of her alleged
falsity.

"Is the hour arrived?" asked Magdalena, calmly.

"Nay," replied the stranger, in a deep tone. "Can you not see the
prison clock through the bars of your cell door? Look; it lacks yet an
hour of noon."

"Then, sir, you come to announce the arrival of the holy father,--of
my friends."

"They will be here anon," said the stranger.

"I do not," said Magdalena, in the same calm tone she had before
employed, "see you now for the first time."

"Beautiful girl!" cried the stranger; "no! I have for months haunted
you like your shadow. Your fair face threw the first gleams of
sunshine into my heart that have visited it from early manhood. I love
you, Magdalena!"

"This is no hour and no place for words like these," replied the
captive, coldly.

"Nay!" cried the stranger, with sudden energy. "Beautiful girl, I come
to save you!"

"To save me!" cried Magdalena, a sudden, wild hope springing in her
breast,"--to save me! It is well done. Believe me, I am innocent. You
have bribed the jailer to open my prison doors; you have contrived
some means of evasion. I know not--I care not what. I shall be freed!
I shall clasp my father's knees once more. I shall go forth into the
blessed air and light of heaven. God bless you, whoever you are, for
your words of hope!"

"You shall go forth, if you will," replied the stranger; "but openly,
in the face and eyes of man. At my word the prison bars will fall, the
keys will turn, the gates will be unbarred. I have a royal pardon!"

"Give it me! give it me!" almost shrieked Magdalena.

"It is bestowed on one condition: that you become my wife."

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